tales from different lives

// @elen-alambil is my main blog // 30yo // MDNI // This is just my sideblog for really good fanfiction that I enjoy. Don't mind me :)))

[ottoillustrates]

today i just (remembers to maintain privacy online) did something really cool. you have to trust me

[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 | 𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐭𝐨𝐧

You want to see the floating lights. Steve wants his satchel back. You come to an arrangement that is mutually beneficial… sorta. tangled!au

10k words, reader insert, fem!reader, medieval times (ish!), begrudging allies, fake dating/marriage, lots of changes from tangled movie but it’s got the spirit, I tried to be inclusive of all hair types but it is magical and floor length nonetheless, magical realism, TW for abusive mother + narcissism, mother is awful, steve is gonna show her the world is a good place!! allies to friends to lovers, pining

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

Steve's hands are bleeding by the time he works his way into the tower, raw from the rough grit of old hewn stone. He hisses with every handhold he finds, adrenaline staving off the worst of the pain as his eyes scrabble for the next ledge. 

Five feet, three. His hand slaps into the dark wood of a window ledge and he heaves himself up, the joints of his arms screaming in protest. Were it not for the rumbling of horse hooves like an earthquake outside of the grotto he might've given up, hoped for a soft landing. 

The threat of being caught propels him forward. 

He lands on the tiled flooring of the main atrium of the tower with an audible plop of fabric, his satchel clunking hard by his hip. 

"Stars," he says. He breathes hard, trying and failing to slow his heart now he's found sanctuary. 

He lifts his cheek from the mosaic beneath and peers around the room. He gawps. 

It's mostly dark, and still he can make out the intricate, masterful artwork decorating the curved wall. Flowers made up of a thousand colours, petals dripping with dew, their anthers heavy with pollen. A field of every flower he's ever seen and a hundred others he's not familiar with. He has really, truly, never seen anything like it. Not even the spectacle of the Palace could hold a candle to what he sees before him. No books he'd read growing up had ever conjured an image as sharply magical as this.

He pushes up onto his elbows. Sunlight drips into the room from the wooden shutters he’d crawled through, illuminating the feet of each cabinet, a washing basin, and the brick oven under a staircase that ascends into the tower. He sniffs and finds the stick of coal dust heavy in the air; somebody lives here. 

Steve's quickly proven right when you swing from behind an alcove near the kitchenette. 

He startles backward and away from you as you advance, a cast iron pan held aloft in delicate hands and wielded with an intimidating confidence. 

"Holy- Wait! Wait, please," he cries, holding his hands palm out in surrender. 

Steve doesn't suppose you'd been expecting such a feeble intruder. He'd feel a strike against his dignity if it hadn't worked — you slow in the centre of the room, your breath coming in quick pants as the iron pan in your grip shakes. 

You're scared.

You're beautiful. 

"What do you want?" you ask, a pleading sort of twist to your question. "I don't have anything. I don't have anything worth taking." 

"Please," he says loudly. "I don't want anything. Sanctuary for the night, nothing else." 

Your chest rises. Steve feels smarmy, but he finds his eyes drawn to the valley of your chest, the bodice of your dress. A soft and buttery orange sewn with the palest pink and lilac embroidery. It's a gorgeous piece of craftsmanship, lovely enough that he wonders briefly if you're of royal descent, but the dress itself is a peasant's gown. 

His eyes rise back to your unhappy face. Your brows are pulled up at the starts, a delicate display that betrays your fear. 

You glare at him. 

"You can't stay here," you assert.

"One night." Steve pulls his satchel into his lap to procure a small coin purse. He'd love to say it was his coin purse. He cannot. "I have silvers. I can pay you." 

He will not be paying you anything. He won't rob you, though. He's not a total miscreant. 

"You can't stay," you say again, raising your iron pan higher above your shoulder. He sees a flash of something at your hip. "My mother–" 

"Holy stars, is that your hair?" 

You seize up, making an almost inaudible sound of dejection. "No." 

"Are you sure? It looks very much like hair."

Steve anchors his hand to the floor and leans downward to get a better look. You turn with him, attempting to shield your long hair from view and only helping him along. It sways with your movements, the ends near long enough to dance over the floor. 

"You have to leave. Leave!" 

Steve bites the inside of his lip. A rainbow of light arcs through the air and caresses your cheek, and the wind chime hanging in the window tinkles softly with a warm summer breeze. The tower echoes with your huffing breath. The pan is too heavy for you to hold any longer and you let it drop with a wrist-tugging defeat. 

"I'm not trying to scare you. But I really can't leave. I won't harm a hair on your head," he adds with a smile, eyebrows slightly raised in wait of your laughter. 

You don't laugh, nor do you smile. 

"My mother, she'll come home any minute now," you say unconvincingly. 

He tips his head to one side. "Then I'll speak with your mother and get her permission to stay." 

"She won't give it." 

You're really too handsome to be frowning as you are. Steve wants to do as he does with all pretty people and make you smile, but the task feels insurmountable. You want him to leave. He can't. 

"If I leave, I'll be killed," he says. While it's not a lie in its entirety, neither is it a truth.

Your grip tightens around the handle of your pan. "What?" you ask worriedly. 

He feels guilty for garnering your concern though it's exactly what he'd been aiming for, nodding his head gravely. 

"I'm being pursued by ruffians. For days now. I only need to hide here for the night while they clear the forest. They'll look for me elsewhere, after." 

His storytelling voice is clear. Admittedly much too dramatic and yet you eat it up like a child devours spun sugar. Your hands press to your chest, frying pan held in your palm like the pommel of a sword. 

"Ruffians?" you repeat.

He swoops in. "Not to worry. They didn't see me scale the tower, or even enter the valley." He gives you a commending smile. "You're very well hidden."

"Not well enough, clearly." 

"I got lucky."

You back away from him. You don't turn your back to him, smart girl, only widen the gap between your two bodies with a fluttering unease. 

"I wish I could help you," you whisper urgently, "I wish I could. But my mother, if she finds you here, I- I'm not sure what she'll do." 

Steve blinks dazedly. "She would kill me?" 

"No! Of course not." 

"Then whatever it is will be a kinder fate." 

That shatters the very last of your resolve. You visually err on what to do next, how to handle his being here. Steve’s head races with thoughts of the palace guards, of Thomas and Carol, and of you — your skin lit by the sun, and your long, long hair. 

"Do you want some water?" you ask quietly. 

The relief he conjures is as authentic as it comes. "Yes. More than anything." 

—

Your mysterious stranger sits at one end of the table in Mother's seat while you sit across from him, a small clay drinking cup encapsulated by his large hand. You're making no effort to hide how closely you're watching him, though if he's under the impression it's for safety's sake then that's best. 

He's very, very fine. 

You haven't seen a man in person before, and if they all look like this you might wish you'd ventured out of the tower sooner. He wears a worn brown tunic that shows evidence of numerous careful darnings, its top button popped open to reveal a tiniest hint of curled hair disappearing downward. 

The hair on his head and tucked behind his ears is comely as corn silk but much darker. It shines in the descending sunlight now flooding the room. There's a golden tinge to everything at this time that leaves no inch of his person unscathed; his eyes glow with it, his irises a melting brown that reminds you of rare, thick honey. 

"The flowers," he says after an aching pause. "Are they painted? They must have been a huge expense." 

You follow his gaze, surprised at his question in two ways. That he would ask, and that he would think somebody else did them. 

"They're how I spend my summers." 

"Looking at them?" 

You laugh from the pure joy of the complement he's implying, unused to his awed reaction. Mother usually nods or hums at a new unveiling, and one time you'd earned a, "That's wonderful, darling." 

You're not sure she'd actually been looking at the time. 

"I painted them myself." 

The stranger's jaw drops. "A little thing like you?" he asks. 

"I'm hardly little," you deny, neither of stature nor burden. 

"You're young, aren't you? You can't be more than twenty summers."

"What a funny way of speaking," you murmur, more to yourself than him. "I'm twenty. I'll be one and twenty, in a few days." 

His eyes narrow. "Well, what's wrong with you?" 

"What's wrong with me?" 

"You aren't married?" 

You try not to be offended and fail spectacularly. "Most don't get married until they're nearing five and twenty!" 

"Most," he agrees. "But a girl as pretty as you? Who can paint like this? Don't tell me you've been hiding from every man in the kingdom."

You turn your face from him in case he can tell how flustered you are. Two complements in one day is unprecedented. Your heart bump-bump-bumps. 

"Are you married?" you ask swiftly, hoping to redirect this line of conversation away from something as treacherous as your own isolation. Any answer would expose you.

"I am, actually. She has the most gorgeous shine to her face, and her laugh is melodic and sweet as anything, a tinkling sound. She's bronze-skinned, a slight thing, but she's worth her weight in gold." 

He grins. You can't help but smile in response, infected by his endearing affection.

"What's her name?" you ask, voice near a coo. 

"Argento." 

You stare at him. His smile gets so big it looks like it could bruise his cheeks. 

"You're talking about money." 

"She's a brilliant bedfellow, isn't she? She keeps me warm and fed every night. She's a good girl." He sighs and crosses his arms behind his head. His attempt at nonchalance is ruined when he cringes in pain and drops them gracelessly back into his lap.

You cover your mouth and laugh. He's funny. Mother doesn't make half as many jokes. 

Mother. As if the mere thought of her is enough to summon her presence, a shrill call echoes from the bottom of the tower. 

"Y/N, darling, throw down the rope for your mother!" 

You jump to your feet, slippers sliding against the mosaic floor in a hurried scratch. "You have to hide," you whisper harshly.

The stranger pouts at you. "Seriously, let me talk to her, I–" 

You shake your head voraciously at his loud volume and press your finger to your lips, eyes begging with him to be quiet. 

"Please," you whisper, "hide. I'll hide you 'til tomorrow, when she leaves in the morning." 

He doesn't move. 

"Y/N? I don't have all day!" The irritation in her voice is obvious. 

"Please," you whisper again. 

He gets up with a mild eye roll. You rush to the window and look down at your mother where she stands at the bottom, looking impossibly small. 

"There you are! What are you waiting for? I'm not very happy with you, darling." 

You lick your lips. "Sorry!" you call, turning to the rope spooled to the right of the window. You throw the rope over the hook at the top of the frame, pausing when you see the stranger lingering in your peripheral vision at the top of the stairs. 

"What are you doing? Go!" you whisper. 

He nods toward your hands. "Couldn't have thrown that down to me, could you?" 

You shoo him away, his easy laughter doing nothing to assuage your racing heart as you drop the length of looped rope down to your mother. You wait until she's secured her foot in the loop before you start to walk backwards, lifting her weight. 

It doesn't get any less laborious as you grow up. By the time she's reached the top of the tower you can hardly breathe. You cough so hard you feel nauseous. 

"Holy stars, you sound ghastly. And it's completely unbecoming to cough like that without covering your mouth. You know that." 

"Sorry, mother." 

She hums. You can't decipher what it means, but it likely isn't something forgiving. 

"I hope you had some time to think about our argument." 

You hold your clasped hands behind your back, hair tickling your knuckles. "I did… I'm sorry, mother." 

She stares at you for a moment from under dark eyebrows before her face lifts, the wrinkles in her soft forehead appearing more prominently as she says, "Darling, why do you do this? Why do you insist on making me angry?" She raises her hands to your neck, long fingernails weaving seamlessly into the mass of hair she finds there. "You know I'm only trying to protect you." 

"I know," you say, tears burning hot behind your eyes. You will them away. Crying will make it worse, it always does. 

She toys with your hair, eyes on your shoulder. You have the peculiar feeling that though she's looking at you she isn't truly looking at you, but through you. Her eyes are distant, unfocused. 

Her finger wraps into your hair, twisting a strand behind your ear over, and over, and over. You shift uncomfortably at the tugging feeling at the back of your scalp but don't protest to her touches — any touch at all feels like a gift. Mother isn't generous with her affections. 

"Maybe I've been too hard on you," she murmurs. 

You loose a pained breath as she takes her hand from your hair and brings it to your face instead. She draws a line from the corner of your eye outwards, a kind, soft petting that gives you goosebumps. 

"No, mother. I'm grateful for everything I have. I was being unreasonable, I don't need anything else. I… shouldn't have asked about the stars." 

"No, you shouldn't have." 

She moves from you to hang her robe up on the hanger. You tamp down your frowning because mother hates when you make her feel guilty and try to decide how it is you're going to escape to your bedroom for the night. You have lots of questions you want to ask the stranger. 

You spot something out of the corner of your eye as your mother flits to the kitchen. There, on the table, sits two clay cups half empty and at opposite ends. You side eye your mother and find she's distracted herself with putting a wooden log into the oven's belly, grumbling about how you've neglected your afternoon chores. 

You throw yourself in front of the table with a thud. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, disgruntled. 

"Nothing! I mean, I'm cleaning up. I forgot to empty these cups of paint after I finished." 

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" 

The thing about mother is that most of the things she says are neutral. Anybody else might think she was being light-hearted or blasé. She phrases everything so meticulously. 

But she is not kind. 

You laugh breathily and turn to the cups. Your heart leaps into your throat when you find the cup isn't the worst of what might give you away. Hooked over the back of the chair is the stranger's leather satchel, a ratty old thing sagging with the weight of its contents. 

You take it. The zipper snags and the cause of the weight reveals itself in a clinking upheaval, a flash of light across the floor. You throw yourself over the chair to grab for it, a mindless scrambling, silver and gems cool and sharp under your hand. You shove it back in the satchel, no clue what it is. You've never seen anything like it. 

"What are you doing?" Mother asks, her voice occluded by the soft bubbling of the cooking pot. 

"It's dusty down here!" you call. 

"Yes, well… it's to be expected when all you do is paint all day, darling." 

"You're right," you say quietly. "Of course you are, mother." 

-

Steve hadn't suspected your room would look as plain as it does. You've a simple bed with a modest quilt and one tired looking pillow, though it's been made with neat folded corners. A stuffed rabbit sits at the bottom, lavender velveteen with a pink button nose. He doesn't touch it, though he'd like to. He's not sure he's ever touched a stuffed animal before. 

He can hear you talking to your mother, or rather your mother talking at you. He must say, she doesn't sound like the easiest woman to get along with. But Steve's never had a mother, so maybe that's just what they're like. 

You have a small table to one corner covered in small trinkets. Shells, stones, papers loose and bound. He flips open the soft cover of a book and finds it filled with pencil sketches, corner to corner of every page. 

You've drawn the most mundane things in remarkable colour and detail. The cooking pot over the stove top, the washing basin, the wooden table. Your slippers, your hair brush. Ordinary things in extraordinary detail, and extraordinary colour. 

He pauses at a loose leaf of brown paper tucked toward the end of the book. It's a bird on the window ledge, a fruit dove. The face and beak are in great detail, white feathers made corporeal by the smudge of hard pastel. The wings are rough, white and pale pinks and greens unrendered. 

Footsteps sound up the stairs. 

Shit, Steve thinks. They're a hurried sound. He's been sussed. He turns on his heel to find a place to hide. 

"Shit," he says, climbing the circular platform that holds your bed and collapsing to the floor, wriggling on his back until he's hidden underneath the bed and sheets completely. 

He holds his breath as the door creaks open. 

"Um… mister… uh, stranger man?" 

He waves his hand from under the bed. 

"Oh, right. Move over," you say, and then you're getting under the bed to join him. 

Steve moves over and suddenly you're there beside him, the two of you pressed arm to arm under your bed. Your smell is impossible to ignore, the fruity fragrance of jasmine and milk-soap. He stares at your face as you settle, your eyelashes fluttering, your subtle smile. 

You turn your head to his. The two of you flinch in tandem, eyes flying away from each other to the underside of the bed. 

Oh, Steve thinks. Holy stars. 

You've painted lanterns on every slat. Purple paper lanterns that glow orange and yellow in their centres, tens of them in different sizes. It's as breathtaking as your field of flowers downstairs despite the major decrease in scale.

"Wow," he says, on impulse, "these are amazing." 

You inhale happily. "Thank you. The floating lights are my favourite thing. They always come out-" You cut yourself off with a cough. "Well. I love them." 

"'Floating lights,'" he quotes. You're strange. 

"I wanted to go see them, but…"

"But mother said no?" 

"No," you murmur weakly. He takes it for yes. "She doesn't believe they're not stars." 

He can hear each individual breath you take this close and suspects that you can hear his own. It's a funny thing to be this close to you when he doesn't know you beyond your painting and your too-long hair. He can see a lot more of your details, your tiny bumps and fine hairs.

"What's your name?" he asks quietly. 

"I'm Y/N." You lay your ear against the wooden floor to look at him. "What's your name?" 

"Steven. Steve will do just fine."

"Steve," you say, like you're testing it out. "Steve, you lied to me." 

His eyes widen. 

"Did I?" he asks, trying to disarm you with a smile and failing yet again. 

"You lied," you whisper. "What's in the satchel, Steve?" 

"It's not what you think." 

"I think it's exactly what I think." 

You're giving him a hard stare. He smiles and smiles and smiles, his facade cracking the longer you look at him. His breath all falls out in a rush, blowing the hair from his eyes as he sighs. "Alright, fine. I lied about the ruffians. In my defence, there isn't a big difference between those fools from the palace and true ruffians." 

You sit up and wack your head on the bed slats above. Steve reaches out to help though there's nothing to do. 

You push his hand away. "Palace guards?" you ask in an urgent whisper, hand held to the top of your head. 

"Obviously. They don't just let you walk out of there without a fight… Wait, why are you surprised?" He measures your sheepish face. "You conniving, deceitful gir!" 

"I might not know what it is, but I can tell it's not the kind of thing someone like you would have on his person," you say, grumbling at his insults. 

His injustice at having been tricked drops away. "You don't know what it is? You've never seen a tiara?”

Your embarrassment is adorable. You change the subject deftly. “You lied to me, let’s not forget. You’re in danger because of the consequences of your own actions. Can’t believe I fell for your sob story. I should tell my mother exactly what kind of man I have hiding under my bed.”

“Who you’re hiding under your bed with.”

You climb out from under the bed with an irritated harrumph. Steve untangles a length of your hair that’s gotten wrapped around one of the beds feet before you can yank your own head back and follows you out. 

“Don’t be mad,” he says.

“You’re a criminal,” you say angrily. 

“Nobody’s perfect.”

Your furious whispers pause when your mother starts to sing downstairs. Steve can see the debate on your face. Yes, he’s a liar, yes, he’s a criminal, and yes, you should churn him back out into the valley. Send his untrustworthy self on his sorry way and wipe your hands of him entirely. 

To do so would mean admitting to your mother that he’s here. 

“Just… don’t talk to me. And don’t steal anything.”

He grins. “As you wish, my lady.”

—

“Y/N?” a voice asks in the dark. 

It’s impossible to relax with him here. You’re worried he’s going to slit your throat while you sleep. You’re doubly worried he’ll see your unattractive resting face. Warped priorities aside, you can’t make yourself sleep. 

“Yeah?” you whisper. 

“The floating lights?”

Your eyes fly open. You get the disorienting feeling of blindness and blink in the dark until you can make out the faintest glow of moonlight under the door. “Yeah?”

“Those are called lanterns.”

You swallow a rough breath. “Lanterns.”

“Mm-hm. They’re made of paper. You light them and send them up with the breeze. The ones you’ve been seeing, they’re probably for the lost princess.”

“The lost princess?”

“Yeah. The entire kingdom floods into the town and each person lights a lantern for her. It’s more of a festival these days, but… They're supposed to help her find her way home. If she’s really lost, that is.”

You hum something, an attempt to reply, but you're too distracted to say anything else. Floating paper. A lost princess. You close your eyes and clouds of purple, pink and orange burn against your eyelids. 

— 

"You want me to what?" 

"I want you to take me to see the lanterns." 

Steve's back aches from sleeping flat on the floor all night long, and his shoulders scream every time he moves from climbing, and his hands are gross and sore with scabs, and he truthfully doesn't have the patience for this conversation. 

"No." 

"Fine. Don't take me, and I will keep the tiara as an innkeeper's fee." 

"There's usually breakfast at an inn," he says. 

You slap a steaming hot bowl of porridge in front of him. You've drizzled the surface with honey and placed red berries over the top to form a smiling face. The heat of the porridge has melted the berries into blobs that break from their skin when he pokes them with a spoon. 

"Oh," he says. Nice.

He looks up to find you dressed in a different gown than yesterday, this one made up of a green bodice with white sleeves and a white skirt. The bottom hem is sewn with dainty yellow flowers, the bodice with vines in a darker shade of green. It's a very sweet dress on an otherwise sweet looking girl, if you ignore the formidable twist of your brow. 

Fine, he'll bite. Your frown is sweet too. 

"I'm not taking you anywhere," he says, about to scoop up a bite of porridge. He's starving. 

You pull the bowl away from him, his spoon diving straight into the gnarled wooden table. 

"You'll take me, or I'll tell the first palacemen that I find who you are and where you were." 

"This isn't how you negotiate." 

"Good thing I'm not negotiating." 

He tries to intimidate you. Steve is not very intimidating. He frowns and he looks unhappy rather than angry, the worst he dips into is a pestered annoyance. His stomach gurgles in the ensuing silence. 

"Why do you need someone to take you? Your mother left just this morning by herself."

You raise your eyebrows. 

Steve sighs. "And if I did take you… then what? I suppose you'll want safe passage home, as well?" 

You slide his porridge a little bit closer to his outstretched hand.

"You'll be coming back this way anyhow." 

Well, yeah. He didn't know you knew that. Steve sighs, the most pained and inconvenienced groan he can muster because everything is awful and he's hurting in six different places. You don’t budge. 

"Fine. Fine! I'll take you into the city to see the lanterns, and I'll bring you home. And you will give me back my satchel and my- uh, findings." 

You push the porridge toward him. "That was easier than I expected."

Steve wishes he could pretend your smugness wasn't sweet, either. Because he isn't going to make this easy for you, not one bit. 

He watches you pack your bag from the table and feels very, very sorry for you. For starters, you don't really have a bag, only a sack for potatoes now emptied. You take two clean dresses down from the clothesline they'd been hanging on and fold them before putting them at the bottom of the sack carefully, and then you're clueless. 

"It'll be five or six days," he says, "now I've lost my horse." 

Lost isn't the right word. His stolen horse had sprinted off into the forest and left him stranded. Another ailment to add to his list — thrown bodily off of a stallion. 

"Do you have any better shoes?" 

You look down at your pretty slippers and grimace. "No." 

"You don't get out much, do you?" 

You ignore him and pull a case of things out from under the small counter in the alcove of your kitchen. You drop a roll of linen bandages into the sack and shove the case back under the counter with your foot as you bring out a block of cheese and a box of matches. 

Poor girl, he thinks. 

"Don't worry too much about it." 

"I'm not worried," you say, topping your provisions off with a punnet of fruit and the last of your fresh flatbread covered in a beeswax wrapping. "This will be fun." 

—

You're scared enough to feel tears welling in your eyes. 

Steve walks ahead of you, shoes hidden by lush green grass as he makes his way toward the valley's exit. You're not sure he's realised you're not behind him, or maybe he has and he refuses to wait. You've finished bricking the secondary entrance to the tower closed again, and while it seems obviously disturbed you have no choice but to hope mother doesn't steer around the back anytime soon. 

Your adrenaline has been pumping ever since you jimmied the tile and unlocked the trap door. Your chest physically aches with anxiety, and your breath has begun to feel short and shallow. 

"Are you coming?" Steve calls. 

You heave the potato sack over your shoulder and take a step forward. 

The earth is soft and hard underfoot, an impossible sensation. You rock your heel back and forth and test the uneven ground for purchase. The temptation to reach down and touch it for the first time is high but Steve's still watching you, so you hurry toward him and try not to fall over. You take a huge, calming breath. 

It smells gorgeous out here. Despite keeping the window cracked and the tower clean, there's a lived-in smell that can't be escaped. Out here, you can practically taste the earth. The crisp air burns your nose. 

Steve keeps a fast pace and neither of you talk. Your companion isn't happy about his predicament and you can't blame him, you've practically taken him hostage. He isn't a poor sport either, and he hasn't been cruel. Quiet, he parts the ivy covering the valley exit and lets you pass. 

The world is even bigger from there. 

"Stay close, okay? I don't know what kind of vagrants we'll come across this far from town." 

You swallow a lump in your throat. "Uh-huh." 

You stay likely too close, your arm gracing his own every now and then. Each time you pull away and each time you end up drifting back toward him. The quiet is impenetrable. You don't know what to say to a man. To anybody. Mother's usually the guiding force of every conversation, and her insistence has left you poorly equipped. 

Steve seems content to languish in silence. 

You walk. You watch the sun move, heat burning your skin by midday. You're not used to walking such long distances or being so exposed to the elements, and by evening you hurt everywhere. Your face shines with perspiration and your shoes chafe your ankles raw, each step a barb. 

As if things couldn't get worse, guilt grabs and holds you. Guilt and fear. What will mother think if she finds out you've left? What would she say? How ridiculously naive, darling. I told you, you aren't to leave the tower. Do you seriously think you know better than I do? Do you think I'm stupid? I'm hurt. I'm hurting that you'd think so low of me. 

You try to shake the thoughts away. A shiver rushes down your spine. 

Steve holds a hand over his eyes, turning his head to the West where the sun approaches the horizon. 

"It'll be dark in a few hours,” he says. 

You nibble the inside of your cheek, voice hoarse and throat dry from your lack of conversation. "Will we camp for the night?" 

He shakes his head, the sun climbing up his neck to paint his brown hair blonde. "If memory serves, there's an inn not far from here." He smiles. "You'll like it." 

"Oh. That's good." 

"Yeah." 

You kick a small stone. "How do you know where we're going?" You'd been on a dirt path now for an hour or two, or rather two dirt paths, worn by carriage wheels. "Everything looks the same." 

"I'm an excellent navigator." 

Sure enough, he navigates the two of you toward a pretty little inn snugly hidden between a crop of towering, leafy trees, a shock of beige and brown in an overwhelmingly green landscape. 

"Le Vilain Caneton," you read off of the sign, giving him a bright smile. "That sounds nice." 

"What did I tell you? You're gonna love this." 

—

Steve doesn't feel bad, at first. 

He throws open the door. The handle slams hard enough into the wood behind it that he's surprised there isn't a cracking sound. He ushers you inside, finding that the handle hasn't broken a hole in the wall because there's already one there. 

It's sleazy, all things considered. Steve has avoided this place pretty much his entire adult life after a trade gone wrong, and while he feels his appearance has changed enough to spare him a skirmish he affects the Steven Harrington manner. Two-timing baby Stevie is nowhere to be seen. 

He's still a two-timer. Case in point. 

"Isn't it charming?" he murmurs to you, hand held aloft behind your back. Not touching but ready to if you step back. 

"Yeah," you say weakly. "Really cute." 

Adorable. 

Steve takes a step that encourages you forward into the main area of the room. The smell of cheap ale blooms and the floor is sticky with it. He regrets how it will likely ruin your pretty slippers but he isn't a coward, walking you right up to the bar where a scary looking guy stands wiping glasses with a dirty rag. 

"Are you the innkeeper?" he asks jovially. "We'd like a room." 

Scary guy squints, looks between you and Steve with apprehension. 

Steve's trying to scare you, not get caught. He throws his arm over your shoulders. You shrink under his touch. It's too late for him to pull away, guilt softening the grasp he has on your shoulder as he lays down a thick facade. 

"My wife's tired as a lamb from walking all day, could we get a hot bath drawn with that?" 

Scary guy spits into the cup with a scoff. "Judy?" he calls out gruffly. 

Steve beams. You curl into him slowly, a flower turning to the sun, hiding from the cold. You still smell of jasmine milk soap after all these hours of walking, but he doesn't miss how the lengths of your hair have grown dishevelled with sweat and wind. He wonders how long it might take you to brush free the knots and tangles. He wonders if you do it in the bath. 

You turn to him with your face shining with a trust he doesn't deserve, like you're seeking his protection. 

"Steve, I don't have any money," you whisper. 

His hand rests in the nook of your neck. "That's alright. Consider it part of your innkeeper's fee." 

"Does this come with breakfast, too?" you ask genuinely. 

Judy, a tall, lithely woman who can't be more than thirty takes her station behind the bar and smiles at you before her eyes follow Steve's arm to his body. He freezes at the calculating tilt of her head, the subtle but not invisible squint. 

"Breakfast is an additional two silvers."

"And for the room and bath?" 

"Ten for the room, five for the bath, two for breakfast." Judy grins. Her hair is like copper, shifting around sharp cheekbones. "Seventeen silvers all together." 

Steve frowns but hands over the money. 

Judy takes you up the first flight of rickety stairs to your room, and nods toward the bathing room as you pass it. She shows you where you'll be spending the night, a ramshackle room with a bed made of what Steve suspects to be more straw than padding. He's relieved at the thick quilt set and folded at the bottom. It looks clean enough. 

"I'll knock when the bath is drawn. Will that be for both of you?" 

And so. Steve had feared this, feared the bath in general, and had forgotten to explain this fear to you. 

"Both of us," he says, nodding. 

You're thankfully smart enough to keep any grievances you have at that to yourself. At least, until the door closes, and you pin him with a look that's a mixture of betrayed and furious. Your eyebrows pinch together. 

"Why did you say that?" 

"It's what's expected of us." 

"By who?" you ask, near belligerent. 

He shushes you, a frown of his own taking form. "By everybody. It's what married couples do, they share the water when travelling. And it wouldn't be proper for you to be in the bathing room by yourself, how could your husband protect your honour?" 

"You're not my husband." 

He shushes you again, this time with a severe expression that finally has you giving pause. Your eyes flash with fear and quickly clear. You take a step back. 

He holds a hand out toward you amicably. "Sorry. But it will be much safer for both of us if we can keep our ruse alive. Someone as handsome as you, it isn't right for your reputation to be travelling with me while you're still unmarried, you know? And for me…" He doesn't want to explain the horrible truth to you. If Steve refuses to leave you, to share you, to let men do what men would like to do to you, that might invite a riot.

"I don't have a reputation," you say. 

He shrugs. "It is safer for us to be married."  He hesitates, remembering why he'd brought you here in the first place. The horrible truth may be unseemly, but it could be enough to get you to bow out. "If we aren't married… Well, it doesn't bear saying." 

"What?" you ask, a curious thing. He loves it, and not only because it works to his advantage. 

"Men will take anything they find beautiful. And without care." 

Your fingers tighten around the mouth of your potato sack bag. 

"I see," you say. "Of course. I knew that, mother always says, but." 

He winces at the reminder of your cruel mother. He feels cruel himself, suddenly, for scaring you on purpose as your mother likely does, for being another member of the opposition in your life. All you want is to see the Princess' lanterns, so much so you've hidden under your bed and painted their colours painstakingly onto each slat of supporting wood. A hidden wish, and one you'd deigned to share with him. He starts to think, Maybe I should just take her. How much could it possibly cost me? 

But Steve's from nothing. He was born from nothing, he grew up with nothing. He is, in the grand scheme of the universe and its many, many stars, nothing. Another orphaned boy destined to waste his life stealing coppers from coin purses and sleeping in doorways. 

The sooner he gets that tiara, the better. No more sleeping outside. No more staring up at the wine dark sky and wondering if any of those blistering stars can hear him. 

If they can, they aren't listening. 

You put your bag down on the floor. It thunks. 

"What have you piled in there, sweetness? A mountain?" he asks, momentarily distracted. 

"Nothing!" you rush to say, standing in front of your bag like it might hide it from his view. 

The door knocks before he can question you further. "The bath!" comes Judy's solid tone. 

"Thank you," Steve says, "we'll be right out." He nods at you. "Your change of clothes?" 

You search through your bag with your shoulders to him, hunched to shield the mystery. 

"You can keep your secrets," he teases lightly. The stars know he keeps his own. 

Through the hallway to the bathing room, Judy kicks open the door, points to the bath as though he might not see it otherwise, and then the small weight by the doorway to keep the door closed. There's no steam to the water. 

"How conning," Steve mutters, closing the door after Judy's departure. 

"What?" you ask, your voice curiously strung. 

"The water’s barely hot." 

"I've never had a hot bath before." 

He looks at you through the corner of his eye. "Never?" 

"Sometimes mother would pour warm water through my hair, but no. Does it hurt, when it's too hot?" 

He can't help grinning at you. "Some of the time," he concedes. "It's a nice kind of hurting, though, do you know what I mean? You'll feel much better after." He chuckles, sticking his finger into the water. It isn't not hot, but it could be better considering its cost. "Not that this could ever hurt you." 

"A nice kind of hurting," you mumble. 

"Mm. You should try to be quick, they might want the bath for someone else soon." 

You nod, eyes darkening with your remembered predicament. You hug your clean dress to your chest. He thinks, suddenly, that your hair looks very heavy, and that it must hurt your neck. 

"I won't look," he says, voice soft with sincerity. 

Your shoulders relax. 

He sits with his legs stretched out and shoes pressed to the door to stop a potential intruder, listening, trying not to listen, as you peel out of your clothes. Your bare feet sound strange over the wooden floor, a shushing sound. Your dress and corset fall in rustling waves. 

You gasp as you step into the water. "Oh," you say, the small sound imbued with a simple, common pleasure. 

He feels the tension like fog over the kingdom waters in summer, when the heat is tangible and the nights are short. You look so soft in your clothes. Outside of them, Steve can only imagine. 

He tries very hard to push it from his mind, feeling an unwelcome heat rise anyhow. He blames it on the humidity of the room. 

You pitter for a moment, in awe of the heat. 

"How–" His voice gets caught. He clears his throat, tries a second time, "How do you wash your hair?" 

"I lather the soap in my hands and–" You seem to be victim of the same affliction as he is. "Steve, could you pass me my soap? I'm sorry, I've left it on the vanity with my dress." 

"If you want me to help you, you need only ask. I've been said to have very hard-working hands."

"I thought you were a thief?"

Steve stands up grudgingly. He usually has much better luck with the ladies, yet all his joking flirtation soars straight over your head. Not that he actually wants it to land, nor does he think he could handle your attention. 

He doesn't look at you as he grabs your bar of soap. He unwraps its beeswax covering and hands it to you, looking decidedly at the damp wall opposite. He feels your wet hand touch his. Your skin is so hot it startles him, and the bar of soap slips between your outstretched fingers, slamming and sliding somewhere unknown. 

"Shit," he says. "Alright, best cover yourself." 

He hears quick movements in the water as he turns to you, throwing his gaze to the floor, only a split flash of your naked skin to be seen. Your soap has rounded the corner of the wooden tub, lying behind your straight back. He kneels to pick it up, scowling at the scum sticking to its underside, and nearly headbutts your forehead as he stands. 

He springs back, and he stares. You have water running in rivers down your face, your wet hair framing your shining cheeks, pooling down. It covers the swell of your chest so precisely that Steve bites his tongue, forcing his eyeline back to your waiting face. You have water in your eyes like tears, their lashes turned to triangles, clinging to one another. 

You look like one of the women from his storybook. A water nymph. A siren. The room is warm with steam, and his cheeks, hot to begin with, emanate enough heat to warm your tub again as he makes the comparison. Your looks alone might draw him to drowning. 

"Steve?" you ask, holding out your hand. 

Hair shifts over your body like a dancing shadow, or a beaming light. He isn't sure. There's something about it that feels extraordinary, not just in the length of it. 

He passes you your soap. Ridiculous, he thinks. Imbecilic. Your hair is hair and nothing more. While you're achingly pretty and you have a fine hand, that is where your remarkability ends. 

"Could you turn around again?" you ask, flustered.

He turns around. 

—

"You brought your pan?" Steve asks you, bewildered. He's standing by the small, thin window, metal-wrought panes that filter the last of the sun's rays. 

You stand shivering by your potato sack and frown at him, setting the pan on the sheets. "I think we might have a more pressing issue." 

"We don't have anything." He seems to appraise your condition. "How do you usually dry your hair?" 

"You wouldn't believe me." 

"How cryptic! I'm afraid you're destined to freeze here, my heart. Or we could take you home, where you may comfortably perform whatever ritual it is that you perform and dry your hair." 

"Wasn't there a fireplace downstairs?" 

"We aren't going back down there." 

"We aren't," you say in agreement, turning his distaste of the collective pronoun back on him. "I'll go by myself." 

"That is a horrible, terrible, awful idea." 

"I'm not going home. I want to– I’m going to see the paper lanterns." 

Steve sighs. After your bath, he'd taken the smaller basin of clean water and washed up, now standing in front of you in his only change of clothes, a darker, navy tunic buttoned to the throat and simple slacks. His shoes are tightly laced even at this hour. You look down at your bare feet and feel majorly abashed by their new blisters and haphazard bandaging. You can't make yourself put your slippers back on. 

He continues his sighing as he crosses the room. He's still grumbling when he opens the door. 

"Well?" he asks, holding it open. 

You pat his arm gently as you pass. "Thank you." 

You trek down the stairs, careful with each footstep that you aren't trodding on a misplaced nail or scary splinter. Wood changes to stone flooring, tiles of a terracotta colour that are large and misshapen. You keep your eyes on them as you cross the room to its only source of heat, a blistering hearth just shy of the room's stage and piano. Somebody sits behind it on the piano bench, though they aren't playing the piano at all, but a great wooden instrument you've never seen. 

"What is that?" you ask Steve. 

He doesn't bend under your attention. He frowns ever so slightly. "What?" 

You point to the instrument as conspicuously as you can. 

Steve takes your shoulder into his hand and guides you toward the fireplace without malice. He's prompting you along, as you've stopped in the middle of the room. 

"You've never seen one of those?" he asks. 

"Not in any of my books." 

"I guess they're still new. That's a vihuela. It's a… it's a nice sound." 

You nod appreciatively, and feel much happier as Steve pulls a nearby chair as close to the hearth as he can without garnering any disgruntled looks from the other patrons. You sneak a peek at their faces. Most are naturally intimidating; there are men with weathered, unkind faces lining the walls with tankards of ale in hand; there are travellers such as yourselves, though they look hardened, sharper than you ever could, coin purses on tables as if daring you to try lifting them; there are women, sparsely, who are sharper in a different way. They remind you of a summer rose, darkly red, a gorgeous head of petals distracting from a thorny stem. 

You sit down in your chair and feel the heat of the fireplace greet your chilled skin, and your soaked back. Your dress has soaked up much of your hairs dripping, the kind of unfortunate happenstance that might spiral into your hypothermic death. Steve puts his chair beside yours and turns his entire body toward yours. You like it. It's like he's hiding you from everybody else, replacing their sneering gazes with his fed-up acceptance. You find extreme comfort in this feeling, as though Steve is the only person in the room with you. 

"Turn to me." 

"What if my hair catches?" 

"You aren't close enough for that." 

You turn to Steve completely. You look like lovers, you must, worse when he takes your slippers and holds them on top of one of his thighs. He has wide thighs, and they make you feel a feeling you don't understand. Everything you know about men has come from Mother or books. Mother claims them to be evil in their entirety. Of the few books you have, and fewer that talk of men beyond the factual, none have ever mentioned why their legs look like that, and why it will make you feel like you've swallowed something much too hot. 

"I'll make sure your hair doesn't go up in flames," he promises grandly, unnecessarily, "consider it one of my guidely duties." 

A shy, pleased smile takes your lips. "Thank you." 

"Yeah, you're welcome." He closes his eyes and tips his head back. "Stars, I'm hungry." 

"I have–" 

"We'll buy dinner. They have hunter's stew here, have you ever tried that?" 

"No." 

He laughs, crossing his arms across his chest. "Of course not. Alright, this will sound gross, but it's really old stew. Years old, maybe decades. They keep adding and adding to the pot with whatever’s in season." 

You don't know everything, or anything, really, but you know that sounds like food poisoning in a bowl. "How doesn't it kill you?" 

"They keep it really, really hot, all day long." 

You like the way he says it, even if he's maybe making fun. He almost sings each word, a melodic cadence to his pronunciation that endears you further. 

"And you've had it? What does it taste like?" 

"See, you'd think it tastes a bit muddled, right? But it's good. You'll like it." 

He makes no move to get up and get the aforementioned soup. You aren't particularly hungry, leaning back just a little so the brutal heat of the flames can warm your damp shoulder. The wetness of your dress is fading, warmed but still undeniably wet, and you wonder if the heat is hurting your hair. Mother always says to keep your hair as far from the hearth as you can at all times, and gets angry when you sit too close. 

The soot, darling. The soot will cling to your hair and ruin it. It is, in Mother's opinion, the most beautiful thing about you. 

Mother. She shouldn't be back home for days now, and still you're worrying. Mostly about being caught. But if you're caught, and she knows you left… 

You have a strange love for your mother. The kind that makes you feel sick in intensity. You want, at all times, to please her. And you know this isn't something she would approve of, Stars, she'd be so disappointed in you for taking this risk. 

You stare up at a wooden beam past Steve's head and try not to tear up. Anxiety eats at you until there's nothing left but your skin, your insides a tangled dark whorl of misery. She must know you've left home. She must know how terribly ungrateful you are for everything she's sacrificed. She must know–

"Are you okay?" 

You blink hurriedly and face Steve, hoping this will dispel the quick-welling tears clouding your vision. It doesn't work: blinking can’t erase years of pent up worry. You wipe your eyes before they can roll down your cheeks and humiliate you further. 

"I'm okay," you say. 

Steve frowns again. He's a frowny guy. 

"What's wrong?" He takes your elbow into his hand.

"Nothing. Uh…" You smile through your embarrassment. "We don't light the hearth at home, often, and uh, I think the smoke is irritating my eyes." You nod for emphasis. 

Steve does not believe you, clearly, but he squeezes your elbow and nods back. 

He looks at your face until you're uneasy. 

"I'll go get that stew,” he says, patting your arm. 

You feel strange once he’s gone. It's nice to be by yourself for a moment. You've spent the majority of your adult life alone while mother goes here, there, and everywhere. You're never allowed to go with her, too stupid for the outside world and all its challenges. 

You look around the room now and wonder if this is really the world she means. Sure, it's foreign, and it's unsettling, and without Steve by your side you might not be left alone as you have been, but you'd expected more. Where are all the insects that make you sick, and the men with cutlasses and shackles? 

Your eyes drift to the vihuela player. He's moved to sit at the opposite side of the fire. He strums lackadaisically at his instrument, his shoulders against the wall and a cup of mead at his feet. It's obvious nobody's given him any coin in a while. 

Behind him sits the piano, glimmering with the flickering firelight. You've read about them, you've even seen drawings of harpsichords, but never heard one played. You wonder what it sounds like. Any music at all is amazing to you. All you've ever heard is singing. One song. 

Steve returns with two bowls of hunter's stew. You're scared to try it but horrified that you might look like a coward in front of him. Again. Your tears had been bad enough. 

You swallow a spoonful and your eyes water unbidden. "Oh, wow." 

"Good, huh?" 

You try not to cough. "It's rich." 

"I guess you haven't had stuff like this before, huh?" He forks through his bowl and pulls out a big pale vegetable roughly cubed. "You like potato?" 

"Yeah," you say, and before you've finished he's pushing the potato against the lip of your bowl and pulling the tines of his fork free. It falls into your stew with a small splash. "Oh. Thank you." 

You try to eat as much of it as you can but start to feel sick somewhere in the middle. You set your bowl aside and Steve, bowl emptied, drops his next to it, wiping his hands together and standing. 

You look up, puzzled. 

"Come on." 

Your hair isn't quite dry, a tugging weight for your neck as Steve slides his hand over your warm shoulder. You worry it might never full dry again, not without a helping hand. 

He leads you up the small platform to the piano. 

You look to him inquisitively. 

"It's alright. I asked them if you could try it. Just try not to play too loudly and disrupt the bard." 

"How do you adjust how loud it is?" 

He pushes down on your shoulders until you're sitting on the bench. "You play softly. It's going to be a little loud no matter what. Don't smash the keys." 

"Are they fragile?" you ask worriedly, holding your tensed fingertips above the white and pitch keys. 

"No," he says, laughing without any judgement, "move over, I'll show you." 

He sits on the bench beside you. There's not a whole lot of room, and his arm presses hot to yours. He places his hand above the keys like he knows what he's doing, and presses down. He plays a line of notes, the sounds a plinking rising melody that has you gasping in awe. 

"Don't," —he presses down a huge chunk of keys, and the sound is awful— "do this." 

You look up to see if anybody's glaring. Then you burst into giggles, face pressed to his shoulder on automatic as you try to smother the sound. He laughs warmly near your ear.

You probe curiously at the keys and try to make a song. You don't know how, don't know one note from another, you can't fathom how someone might make this into anything more than the bard's lazy fingerings. 

"Do you know anything?" Steve asks. 

Do you know anything? Mother demands. Darling, I've told you a million times…

"No. Sorry," you say. 

His voice is sincerely sweet, like he's confused you'd ever be sorry, "For what? I can play you something. Choose a song." 

"I only know the one." 

He blinks at you. You shrink into yourself as he averts his gaze, knowing what he's thinking. How useless you are. 

The song starts slowly. Steve taps one key, and then another. It lends and lists into music suddenly, the repetition of a simple melody. He doesn't sing, just speaks the words as he plays. 

"She sends me a flower to hold me," he says, an echo of song in his tone. "She sends me a flower to– night." He moves his hands up to a higher sound. "She loves me too much, so she's told me. But if she loved me, oh loved me, she might… Come to see me, oh sweetheart, come to see me, oh lover, come to see me, oh darling." He smiles at you. "Come to see me to– night." He clears his throat, hand stilling. "You'd sing the bridge again, but I think I'll spare your ears." 

"Is that yours?" you ask him. 

He drops his hand into his lap. "No. Steve Harrington doesn't pen love poems, I'm afraid." 

"Only plays them." 

His smile turns to a smirk, so sticky it's catching. 

"You're not the mouse I'd thought you were," he says.

"Was this realisation before or after I tried to maim you with a cast iron pan?" 

He's about to answer, a spark behind his eyes, when the door opens wide enough to split its hinges. The origin of the hole in the wall is clear, and he waltzes in with a band of men behind him, grinning. 

"Oh, for Stars’ sake," Steve mutters. 

"What?" you ask. 

The man at the front of the group of men — or, as they step into the light and reveal themselves, boys — sets his one un-patched eye on you and Steve, smiles like the devil, and croons, "Stevie!" 

Steve's smile is gone. 

"Eddie," he says tiredly. 

"You're back!" Eddie looks you up and down, and his expression turns to one of complete surprise. "With a wife? My, my, we have been busy." 

Steve stands, and Eddie, in all his darkness, dark hair and eyes and tunic, his grin turns mean. You hide behind one of Steve's thighs, hesitant. He drops his hand against the top of your head. 

"Why's it matter?" Steve asks. 

"It doesn't." This Eddie sounds all too cheerful. "What does matter, I'm afraid, is the debt between us." 

"I don't owe you anything." 

You watch with widened eyes as Eddie unsheathes his sword. The scabbard has a mottling of shiny reds and blacks, and the blade glows silver to white in the light. It's sharp.

Steve pulls a small knife from his hip. You hadn't realised he was carrying a weapon. 

Eddie takes a step forward, his shoes like a thunderclap across the wooden floor. 

"I'm afraid my Sweetheart here doesn't agree." 

˗ˋˏ ☆ ˎˊ˗

eddie isn’t a bad guy he’s just confrontational <3 thank you so much for reading! i hope you enjoyed, and if you did, please consider reblogging i promise it makes a huge difference <3

[luveline]

throwback to a forgotten relic

[snoopyharrington]

fool

summary: when steve gets hurt in the upside down, the party doesn't know who to call — thankfully, he remembers someone he always had a crush on in high school with larger than life aspirations to become a nurse. pairing: nursing student!reader x season four steve content/warnings: mentions of wound care and cuts, scars, bruising, etc, all of steve's injuries are in reference to when he gets attacked by demobats in s4, eddie is alive bc i fucking said so, no nancy slander on my watch, i know absolutely nothing about medical care so i probably got some stuff wrong, slight references to steve's trauma (shitty parents, his king steve era, feeling unloved), major hurt comfort, happy ending!! word count: 4k

The day Nancy Wheeler calls your apartment to tell you about demogorgons and the Upside Down, you think she's playing a cruel, uncharacteristic prank on you.

You're not sure why she'd do that — you graduated high school a year and a half ago and were currently gearing up to return to Hawkins for Spring Break, because where else would you want to spend it? At first, your initial response is to sputter, and then laugh uncomfortably into the receiver of your plastic phone.

You're not even sure how she got your landline number; you live in a shitty off-campus loft and Nancy would probably only know to reach you via your parents' house, where they — and you, up until graduation — have lived their entire lives.

When you ask her that, she pauses, then avoids the question. This clearly isn't the goody two-shoes Nancy Wheeler you remember from high school.

What you do remember, however, is that she got into some hot water when she started dating Steve "The Hair" Harrington — god, what a douche he was — but last you heard, they'd broken up over some stupid misogynistic shit he pulled and she'd moved onto Jonathan Byers. You thought it was an odd pairing, but it wasn't much of your business.

"Anyway, you're in school for nursing, right?" Nancy steers the conversation effortlessly away from your questioning, and you swallow, bumping your hip against the ugly floral wallpaper that decorates the kitchen walls.

Again, you have no clue how she remembers that. You and Nancy were a year apart in school, and you were friends when you were younger, but you'd drifted apart in middle school.

"You there?" she asks.

You clear your throat. "Yeah, I'm a sophomore. Why does any of this matter, Nancy? You're not answering any of my questions, and honestly, you sound like you're on drugs or like you're having some kind of psychotic break—"

Suddenly, you're cut off by some shuffling on the other end, and you think you hear some yelling — a mix of older teenagers and prepubescent ones, then painful groaning. Your eyebrows furrow in concern.

"Nancy? Nancy, are you alright?"

"This isn't Nancy," a male voice croons on the other end. Your eyes widen. "Hi sweetheart, my name's Eddie. You might remember me, I've been a senior for like, four years. Anyway, good ol' Wheeler isn't on drugs and she isn't having a psychotic break, that I can promise. What she's telling you sounds totally bonkers, I know, because I was you a few weeks ago, but she's telling the truth. I promise."

The image in your brain only gets foggier. Was Eddie Munson on the other line? In what weird, fucked up world is Nancy Wheeler hanging out with Eddie Munson?

"So, all that aside, the reason why we're calling is because we need someone trustworthy with medical skills. Is that you? It kinda has to be, because you already know all the nitty gritty details, and we'll have to kill you if you say no."

You fumble. "Um. I- I don't know. I'm only a sophomore."

"Do you know how to take care of wounds?"

"It, um, depends on how bad they are."

"Let's say they're... moderately bad. From an animal. Hypothetically supernatural. Of the bat kind."

"What?"

"How about stitches?" Eddie continues, "Because, listen, I'm no doc, but I'm pre-tty sure Harrington could use a few."

"Harrington?" you echo, "Wait, this is about Steve Harrington?"

In the background, you hear a child's loud voice: "You said you wouldn't tell her!"

"Eddie," you say slowly, "Are there... kids there?"

"Listen, don't worry about that," he says, and it's far too nonchalant for your worrisome nature to take, "Are you able to help or not?"

You glance at your packed dufflebag on the bed. The one that was ready to spend the week at your parents' house before Nancy Wheeler called 30 minutes ago.

"Yeah," you say, grabbing your keys from the hook next to the front door. "Give me a second to grab a pen and paper, I just need the address."

Up until today, you've never been to the Harrington's house before.

In high school, you were never invited to Steve's infamous parties, but you always heard about them at school on Monday — about someone doing keg stands, about some couple, together or not, having sex, about someone jumping in the pool naked... teenage debauchery you were never part of, yet, for some reason, you yearned to experience.

The house is dark from the outside, and somehow, it feels even colder on the inside. A girl with short hair answers the door — someone you faintly recognize — and she immediately seems more down to earth, but more high-strung than Nancy.

"Hey," she greets in a tone that feels kind and familiar, and a part of you wishes you had that effect on people, "Steve's laying down in the living room. Nancy and Eddie took the kids home."

You nod as you follow her through the expansive house, all marble and tacky and wealth expressed in ways that feel frigid.

"I'm Robin, by the way," she says, "Nance said you were someone we could trust?"

You shrug. "To be honest, I'm not sure why. We were friends growing up but we grew apart... I don't even know how she got my number."

Robin waves her off, "That was all Eddie and Dustin. Don't be surprised if they hack your stuff one day."

You can't tell if she's joking or not.

In the living room, Steve Harrington — who you think you may have spoken to once when you were both juniors, and that's it — is laying shirtless on the couch, his eyes lazily half-closed while The Golden Girls play on TV. You want to snort at that, but you're more concerned about the red, bloody lashings and cuts that cover his side and throat. You swallow at the sight.

"I know Nancy kind of gave you a rundown about the whole monster thing but it's probably a little more gnarly in person," Robin says softly. She kneels down by Steve's head and presses a hand to his shoulder, shaking him gently. "Hey dingus, we brought someone to help clean you up since we're all no help."

"What did you guys do for him?" you ask, willing your nerves to fade. There's something different about working on someone you knew in high school — the attractive jock all-star everyone had a crush on, that is — instead of some random person you're practicing on.

"Um, Nance made him a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. And we're not sure if he's concussed or anything, but we've been keeping him awake... gave him water and something to eat and some ibuprofen for the pain. That's it, really... we didn't know what else, and we couldn't bring him to the hospital. He looks like he got mauled by a bear."

"Yeah," you agree humorlessly, opening your first aid kit on the floor. You pull your pen light out and bite your lip. "Do you think we can get him to sit up?"

"Sure, if you help me."

You nod, each of you taking one of Steve's arms.

"Hey Steve, we're gonna help you up a little, alright?" you say gently, tactfully pulling him up into a seating position against the couch cushions. You're surprised that he goes easily, his head flopping back as he groans. "Can you hold your head up for me? I remember you had really bitchin' hair in high school. Do you still have it?"

"'f course I do," Steve mutters, his hazel eyes languidly glazing over you. You flick your pen light on to look at his pupils. "Hey, 'member you."

"Hm?" you ask, distracted by the task at hand. He's clearly exhausted and might have been injected by some... supernatural venom, but he's not concussed, which is a win in your book. You decide to move on to cleaning the cuts on his face.

"I said I 'member you," he repeats, hissing when the alcohol cloth makes contact with the bloodied slices on his skin. "We went to school together."

"We did," you murmur, smiling softly. "We were in the same class."

"Uh-huh. Class of '85, baby!" Steve attempts to pump his fist in the air but quickly retracts in, a zip of pain ripping through his shoulder. This time, you do snort with laugher. "You're pretty when you laugh."

"Looks like you haven't changed a bit, Harrington," you say as you finish tending to the wounds on his face. "Let's take care of this thing on your neck, huh? What happened here?"

Steve shrugs nonchalantly. "Demobat tried to strangle me."

"Right," you mutter, assessing the damage. "Looks like you might have some scarring. You'll need to keep an eye on this and make sure it doesn't get infected. Do you trust anyone enough to stay here and do that?"

You look to where you thought Robin was sitting behind you, but it seems as if she's long gone.

"Don' really wanna bother anyone with it," he replies. "I can do it. 'm a big boy."

You furrow your eyebrows. "Steve, you're in seriously rough shape. Someone should be taking care of you."

He pouts. You hate to admit that it's adorable.

"Don' like asking for help."

You sigh. "It doesn't look like you need stitches or anything crazy, but let me stay the night to keep an eye on you, alright? I don't think you should be alone right now."

Steve, wide-eyed and boyish, looks to you like you just hung the moon for him.

He doesn't fight you as you continue to clean and check his wounds.

Steve sleeps for the next day.

You don't bother trying to move him to his bedroom. He's clearly comfortable, snoring away on the couch, and it sounds like he hasn't gotten enough sleep in the past month. So, you let him.

In the meantime, you don't do much. Robin left her phone number behind, so you call her periodically with updates, not that there are many. You don't know where Steve's parents are, but you remember them being quite sparse in high school, so you're unsurprised that the pattern's unbroken almost two years later.

You live out of your duffelbag and call your own parents to let them know that you got caught up with something at school and you'll hopefully be home in a few days. In the meantime, you occupy yourself with reading books that you brought along from your apartment, and when that gets boring, you watch TV and wait for Steve to wake up.

Eventually, that evening, he does.

You brace yourself. You're not sure what for — in the few hours you've spent watching doctors and nurses treat patients, you've seen some people wake up distraught, some angry, others confused and upset, but Steve does... none of those things.

His eyes blink at you blearily, craning his neck and stretching it against the arm of the couch. He lets out a low groan, one that makes your stomach flip, and you swallow, taking slow steps towards him with your first aid kit in hand.

"Hey," you greet delicately, "How are you feeling?"

Steve looks at you as you scan over the angry red marks on his throat. He has on a shirt on, but you'll need to peel back the fabric to assess the wounds on his stomach, too.

"Shitty," he croaks, his eyes widening some at the crack in his voice, "Went through puberty again, too, I guess."

You smile bemusedly before lowering to your knees and sitting back on your ankles. At eye level, Steve looks far less exhausted than he did 24 hours ago.

"You look better," you say, eyeing the cuts on his cheek. "You should eat something and drink some water. Shower, maybe."

"You saying I smell?"

"Well, if you and all your friends really aren't fucking around about all this demoshit, I would assume they can't smell great."

Steve attempts to shrug. "I've smelled worse. Like Dustin Henderson after demolishing multiple roast beef sandwiches."

You wrinkle your nose, popping open your kit to begin the process of cleaning his cuts and replacing the bandaids.

"Is there a reason why you all hang out with freshmen? Or is Nancy's brother just, like, really attached to her?"

Steve winces when the cold alcohol cloth touches his skin. You murmur out a halfhearted apology.

"'s a long story," he mutters. "I kinda... accidentally got myself involved in this and... now I'm here."

"And now you're here," you echo softly. "Barely walking with a random nurse-in-training tending to your supernatural bat wounds."

"Psshhhh," Steve turns his neck to face you, cocking his eyebrows. "'Random'? I told Nance to call you."

You pause, a mess of used, bloodied alcohol swabs on the ground beside you.

"How on earth did you know I was a nursing student?" you ask, reaching for the stack of bandaids. "We barely talked in high school. I don't even think we signed each other's yearbooks at graduation."

"Um, yes, we did," Steve says pointedly. You arch an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Go upstairs to my room. Hawkins Class of '85, the yearbook is on my shelf."

"I'll pass for now," you smirk.

"Anyway," he huffs dramatically. "We were lab partners spring semester junior year. You were always really good at science and I vividly remember asking you why you liked that stuff so much — you're the only reason why I even passed anatomy, and you said you wanted to be a nurse."

"You remember that?"

He shrugs. Like it's insignificant. Like you're surprised anyone can even recall your name instead of just passing over your face like a mushy blob.

"I just thought it was cool," Steve continues. "No one I knew at the time had any idea what they wanted to do, and you were so set already. Even when I was a senior, I had no clue. I was just gonna hang around Hawkins and work for my dad and... I just thought, maybe I could be like you, y'know?"

Your face warms, so you busy yourself with tidying the mess you've made on the ground. It feels silly to be so awestruck by Steve Harrington and yet... how couldn't you be?

"That's really nice, Steve. Thank you." you say softly. His face melts, matching the sweet smile on your face, and he almost looks relieved.

"Thank you for coming here," he mumbles. "I know it's not, like... your typical situation."

"I'm happy to help," you reach out hesitantly and place your hand against his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Let me make you something to eat, alright?"

You don't anticipate staying another night at Steve's, but it just... happens.

You make dinner for the two of you while the local news plays lowly in the living room, the TV flashing against Steve's tired face. Together, you eat grilled cheese sandwiches in silence. You hand him a glass of water between bites and then offer him a Gatorade.

After dinner, you run a shower for him in the ensuite bathroom of his bedroom. You lay towels out for him and slowly help him up the stairs, just like he's any other patient, and not the boy who could make any girl, teenager, or woman in Hawkins fall to their knees just with a flick of his eyes. You tell him to shout if he needs you, but you secretly hope he doesn't. You're not sure if you could spare yourself the embarrassment of helped a naked, wet, injured Steve Harrington.

While he showers, you make his bed and prep your supplies so you can tend to his cuts and wounds when he gets out. It's a repetitive but necessary process to prevent any infections, and Steve's lucky he didn't need stitches or anything worse. You're fumbling with your collection of travel-sized bottles of topical antibiotics when Steve emerges from the steamy bathroom in a pair of gym shorts and an old Hawkins High School shirt.

You look up, your polite greeting suddenly lost in your throat at the sight of his wet hair and tired eyes. There's something devastating and boy-like about his appearance, and your heart twists in your chest. You try to shove it down.

"That was exhausting," Steve mumbles, his posture slightly slumped. He eyes his bed, then where you sit on the carpeted floor. "Oh— did you— are you leaving?"

"I hadn't really thought about it," you admit. "I just thought it might be more comfortable for you to sleep in your own bed instead of the couch. And I have to redo all your bandages and stuff."

Steve nods. "Where do you want me, doc?"

"On the bed is fine."

By this point, you and Steve have familiarized yourself with this process, and with each gentle clean and touch, his wounds get a little bit better. You assume he'll be able to do this for himself at some point in the near future, but there's a part of you — the caretaker, nurse part of you, you assume — that really likes doing it for him.

He lifts his shirt, twisting slightly to showcase the bruising and sores on his side.

"Can you stay another night?"

For a moment, you pause. Glance up at him, but his eyes are focused on the Hawkins basketball team pendent tacked up on the wall. You continue adhering the band-aid to his skin.

"I can do that," you say softly. "You're healing up well, though. I can teach Robin or Nancy, or whoever you want, to do this, if you'd like."

Steve doesn't immediately reply. Not when you gently pull down the material of his worn sleep shirt and help him back into a sitting position, and not when he runs a hand through his damp hair.

"Will you grab the yearbook off the shelf?"

Your eyes follow to where he's pointing and you nod, standing from your spot on the bed. You retrieve it and hand it to him, watching as he flips to the back pages. It doesn't take him long to find the masses of autographs — not to mention, a couple of lipstick marks and more than a few phone numbers.

"Looks like you had quite a few admirers." you joke.

"Yeah, and none of them cared once high school wasn't real anymore," he snorts humorlessly. It's a second more before he points to your messy handwriting, shoving the yearbook into your lap. Sure enough, your signature is there, followed by a short message. "Read it and weep, doc."

You roll your eyes. "So? Everyone signs each other's yearbooks at the end of the year. It's a whole nostalgia thing."

"Read it."

"To Steve," you read aloud, "It's been great going to school with you all these years. Excited to see where you land. Wishing you the best of luck."

You look up at him expectedly. He shoots you a look.

"Keep going."

Below your handwriting is someone's unfamiliar penmanship. It takes you a few seconds to decipher it, but when you do, your stomach flips.

Coolest girl in Hawkins. Super smart. Wants to be a nurse. If she ever comes back to this loser town, it's a sign I have to ask her out.

"Who wrote that?"

Steve puffs out a breathy laugh. "Who do you think?"

"You thought that about me?"

"Of course." he says it like it's the easiest answer in the world. "I still do."

You can't help it when a loud laugh bubbles up out of you. Steve grins, wide and toothy, and you think it's the cutest thing you've ever seen in the world.

"I think you're delusional, Harrington. Maybe you are concussed."

"You said I wasn't, and you've been a damn good nurse so far."

You laugh again, shaking your head at the boy before you. You feel unbelievably giddy, like you just found out your middle school crush likes you back.

And maybe, really, that's exactly what it is — even if you're hesitant to admit it to yourself.

With a swallow, Steve gently shuts the hard covered yearbook before pushing it to the side, as if closing it will put some kind of finality to the ridiculousness of everything that was Hawkins High.

You remember Steve having a rough go of it his senior year. You don't know the details, but you heard rumors. No college acceptances, Nancy Wheeler drunkenly breaking up with him at a Halloween party that fall. It had been a long freefall for King Steve — one that had twisted up your insides at the time, even if the extent of your interactions were longing glances in the hallways.

"Stay," Steve suddenly says, and this time, his ask is breathier, quieter than it was 20 minutes ago.

You look at him. Allow your eyes to wash over the golden boy sitting in front of you, who's no longer such a golden boy at all, but bruised and beaten down and cut up by supernatural forces that you still don't quite understand. He's been swallowed up and spit out by Hawkins and young adulthood and Scoops Ahoy and Nancy Wheeler and Tommy Hagan and Mr. and Mrs. Harrington and even his latest venture at Family Video, where he works with Robin but regularly gets yelled at by teens trying to rent R-rated movies.

(He swears it's not that bad, but his eyes all but twitched at the mention of his boss, who apparently has a dictator-like approach to running the store.)

"I already told you I'll stay." you reply softly, hand pressing into the soft mattress. Your fingers make an indentation in the foam, and Steve's mouth parts. Carefully, he reaches out, his larger palm covering yours. Your breath hitches in your throat and you feel like the biggest loser alive, your gaze remaining low on your now-joined fingers.

"No... I mean, stay here. In my bed. If you're comfortable." Steve amends. He almost sounds nervous, and it finally makes you look up. When you do, his eyes are wide, and you realize you're right.

You nod. "Do you want the TV on?"

He thinks for a moment. The past few nights, you've been sleeping to the sounds of the local news and late night re-runs of sitcoms. You don't ask why and Steve's grateful for it.

"No, 's fine," he decides, trying to shift into a more comfortable position against the pillows.

"Don't strain yourself," you scold. "I'll help you move if you need it."

Steve snorts lowly as you round the bed, clicking the lamp off. His bedroom, now bathed in the inky blue of 1 1 pm, feels less intimidating this way.

You climb in on the other side, pulling his comforter over your body.

"Are you comfortable?" he asks as you move onto your side.

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Shush."

You smile. Steve doesn't miss it.

He wishes he could face you, but he can't with the wounds on his side. Instead, he lays on his back, his arm splayed out between you two, his hand palm face up. It's quiet for the first few minutes as you both listen to each other's breathing.

Steve's not sure if you're sleeping when he says it.

"Can I ask you something?"

You open your eyes. "Hm?"

"Sorry. Did I wake you up?"

"No," you answer honestly. "I was drifting a little, but I'm awake. What'd you wanna ask?"

He pauses. Promises himself he won't lose his nerve.

"When I'm a little better... Maybe before you head back to school, or maybe in the summer when you come back, like after the semester's over... can I take you on that date?"

Steve stretches his neck to look at you. Even with his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he can't quite make out your facial expression, with the way you're biting your lip and smiling at him. He can't figure out if you're looking at him with pity or if you're excited, but either way, he can't recall the last time he was this nervous to ask someone out.

And then, he feels your hand slide into his, and it's like all of his worries never even existed at all.

"I would really, really love that, Steve." you murmur, intertwining your fingers with his.

You both grin at each other in the dark like fools.

[emwrites14]

goodnight kiss | steve harrington

pairing: steve harrington x gf!reader

summary: steve drops you back home, but he doesn’t want you to leave just yet…

wc: 2.5k

contains: fem reader, established relationship, NSFW but no sex (MDNI), grinding, making out, pet names (baby, my girl), suggestive ending, no use of y/n

a/n: literally couldn’t get s1 steve bathroom scene out of my head. needy steve>> 

Steve parked his Beamer on the curb outside of your house at 1 am. It's raining outside, and the soft splatter of the rain can be heard through the glass windows. Steve turned the radio down to a low hum; its soft sound mixed with the sound of lips smacking.

Steve had a problem: he just couldn't seem to let you go. You guys had spent the whole day together, and after a lot of coaxing on your part, you finally got him to drive you back home. This wasn't enough for Steve. He craved more of you, so now he is holding you hostage in his car, using his wonderful lips to keep you captive.

Your boyfriend has always been a little needy. Always wanting to hold your hand or praise you with those lips you so adored. Today was an entirely different situation. He was extra needy, extra doting, starving and deprived. The only way to relieve him of this hunger was to have you as close to him as humanly possible, always. 

In the past, receiving excessive affection wasn't something you necessarily hated; it was just something you didn’t know how to handle. But when it comes to Steve, how could you hate it when he looks at you with complete adoration? How could you hate it when he looks up at you, pouting when you stop running fingers through his hair? And how could you hate it now when he’s kissing you like he needs it to survive? 

“Steve,” you laugh while dragging the ‘e’ at the end of  his name. “I have to go now, my parents are gonna kill me,” you say softly, your voice breathy as Steve continues to plant kisses on your lips, your cheek, anywhere he can kiss you. 

“Just.. gimme.. one more minute,” Steve mumbles in between kisses. He places one hand on your cheek and the other on the back of your neck to bring you closer to his face. He lightly rubs his nose against yours – his way of telling you that he’s going in for another kiss. He leans in and kisses you, slowly at first until it grows to be messy and desperate. Despite your best efforts to leave his car, you can’t seem to resist his touch, his kiss. 

Whenever Steve kissed you, it was as if the whole world went quiet and it was just the two of you. No monsters, no upside-down, no disappointed parents – it was just you and him. Nothing but you and Steve sweetly embracing each other, and a kiss that makes both of you melt into one another. For both of you, that feeling of nothing, nothing except the two of you in that moment, was sweet and devoid of any expectations. 

You gather enough self-restraint to pull away from Steve's hold, pressing your palm flat against his chest to create some distance. “Okay Steve, I really have to go now,” you plead, but he is already moving, positioning himself to hold your face with both his hands. 

“Okay, just one more minute, and then I’ll let you go.” he uses his thumbs to caress your face slightly. His eyes focus on your lips like he’s spellbound, as if your presence has him completely hypnotized. 

“You said that five minutes ago!” You laugh at your boyfriend's silly logic. You slightly shake your head in his hands, but you make no move to push him off. With any other guy, you would've been annoyed, but it was different with Steve. You loved when he got all clingy; it made you feel wanted. 

“I know baby, I know…” he trails off, eyes wandering all over your face, from your lips to the loose hairs on your forehead, like he’s trying to engrave this moment into his brain. “I just really missed you.” Steve does that slight pout that he knows you can’t resist, and in that moment, you feel your stomach flipping. 

“Steven Harrington, I know you're doing that on purpose.” Your tone is playfully stern. You swiftly take his hands off your face, moving them down to the middle console of the car. You don’t let go of his hands though, and Steve uses this as an invitation to lean into you again, noses almost close enough to touch. 

“Maybe…” Steve gives you a sheepish smile while his eyes dart from your lips to your eyes. “Is it a crime to miss my girl?” This earns him an eye roll from you, but regardless, a big grin stays planted on your face. In Steve's defence, you guys have been apart for a bit. With your hectic work schedule and Steve’s odd work hours at the radio station, it made it hard for your schedules to match up, leaving him with massive ‘you’ withdrawals. 

A piece of Steve's hair falls on his forehead, and muscle memory has you freeing one of your hands to brush it into the rest of his perfect hair. This causes Steve to let out a quiet sigh, his head leaning slightly into your touch. His eyes flutter closed as you rake your fingers through his hair in that practiced way where you know won’t mess up the shape of his hair. The two of you stay like this for a couple of seconds before Steve breaks the silence. 

“Okay, let's make a deal.” His eyes open again, looking into yours. He knows you have a weak spot for his hazel eyes, and he uses this to his advantage, making puppy eyes at you, eyebrows slightly raised. 

You retreat the hand that was in his hair back to the middle console of the car. You give him a hesitant glance, almost accusatory. “Come on, don’t look at me like that!” Steve shakes his head, chuckling a bit before continuing. “Listen, all I’m asking is for one last kiss and then I'll set you free. I promise.” He looks at you with pleading eyes, hoping that you agree to his proposition. 

You think it over for a second, slightly squinting your eyes, which you can tell is making him a little nervous. “Fine, but just one last kiss! I’m serious this time.” You poke your index finger against Steve’s chest, and he puts his hands up in defence. 

He moves his hands to cradle your face once more, “One last kiss, I swear.” 

Steve gazes into your eyes lovingly, and you decide right in that moment that if this was going to be the last kiss of the night, you would make it memorable. You slowly turn your head to kiss the palm that Steve had resting on your face. Steve doesn't take his eyes off of you, his lips slightly parted as he watches you. You then turn over to his left hand and lightly kiss his thumb. There was something about Steve that always brought out the most delicate parts of yourself. He just knew how to bring out an affectionate side of yourself that you’ve never been able to share with anyone else. 

Taking Steve's hands off your face, you swiftly maneuver over the middle console of the car and settle yourself into his lap. You place your hands against his chest as he hugs you closer to him, one arm circling across your waist and the other holding the back of your neck. In this moment, Steve looks at you with absolute hunger in his eyes. With the hand placed on your neck, he pulls you closer to his face, softly brushing his nose against yours until your lips meet. Immediately, your head feels fuzzy as you start to lose yourself in the feeling of growing pleasure. 

The kiss is soft at first, a kiss that truly shows how much you've missed each other. His lips were warm, soft, and all too inviting. You can feel his breath tickle beneath your nose as he plants gentle kisses on your lips, each one getting longer than the last. The familiar warmth that comes with kissing Steve spreads through your stomach. There’s a slight trace of peppermint that lingered from the gum he was chewing earlier on his lips. 

With every passing second, the kiss gets hungrier and hungrier. Steve wastes no time sneaking his tongue into your mouth, making the kiss even sloppier and heightening the taste of peppermint. His arms tighten around your waist, gripping you as a way to stabilize himself. He cradles your head with that gentle firmness that you’ve grown to expect when Steve holds you close to him. It makes you feel like you're in the safest place on earth. 

You take in a fistful of Steve’s sweater to help you softly grind your core into his lap, desperate for any friction that your Levi’s jeans will allow. You moan frustratingly in his mouth, wanting more. Steve slides his hands onto your hips, his big hands squeezing and helping you grind down onto his lap. You feel the growing bulge in his pants, which only adds to your pleasure. 

Both you and Steve are now moaning messily into each other's mouths. He takes up all your senses. The feel of his sweater in your hands, the taste of his lips, the faint smell of his cologne. 

You feel one of his hands slide to your ass, grabbing the back pocket of your jeans to further control the roll of your hips in his lap. This new position has your hips rolling against Steve’s bulge in just the right way that has him breaking off the kiss to hiss out a “fuck…baby”. He leans his head against the headrest as you continue to grind down on his lap, using this time to catch your breath. All thoughts of getting home on time are out the window when Steve is whimpering out a series of curses, completely overwhelmed by the feeling of you on top of him. 

You let go of your grip on Steve's sweater and slide your hands up to the back of his neck. Heavy breathing and soft moans fill the car as you gently tug the hair near the nape of his neck and close the distance between your mouths. Steve continues to whimper into your mouth as you deepen the kiss. 

You guys continue like that for a couple more minutes. Moaning messily into each other's mouths as you guys grind into each other, trying to chase any feeling of pleasure you can. 

After one final stifled moan into your mouth, Steve reluctantly pulls away from you, resting his forehead on yours and slightly panting. If there was one thing about Steve Harrington, it was that he was a man of his word. Even if it pained him to leave you, he would keep his end of the deal. 

You’re also trying to catch your breath, eyes half lidded, and in an act of pure desperation, you go against your better judgment. “Stay the night,” you say, looking dead into Steve's eyes with a look of pure need.

You knew the risks. You knew that your parents were strict when it came to unexpected visitors, especially when said visitor was your boyfriend sneaking in with you at 1 am, way past the time your curfew was set. And even though you are an adult, living under your parents' roof means they still treat you like a teenager. Despite knowing all of this, you physically and emotionally did not want Steve to leave you, so you said fuck it. 

Before he responds, Steve searches your face for any signs of hesitation, giving you the time to really make your mind up about this. But you still had that expression that he knows all too well, the almost stubborn look when you’ve made your mind up on something, and you’re willing to face any consequences that come with your decision. 

“Well, if you insist,” Steve grins up at you, hands resting on your hips. This earns him a light slap on the shoulder. You’re trying to fight your smile as your boyfriend dramatizes the hurt from the slap. 

“Don’t push your luck,” you say, giving a stern look. Despite the sarcasm in your tone, you still plant your two hands on the area that connects his throat and shoulder, your thumbs caressing light circles on his neck. Steve's grin grows into a smile as he acknowledges your pattern. The one where you use a tough voice with him, but the most gentle touch. He’s come to understand that it's your way of reassuring him that you're not being serious. 

You guys stay like that for a couple of seconds, your thumbs on his neck and his hands rubbing up and down from your hips to your waist. That sweet nothing feeling that you guys have grown so familiar with, a feeling that has you both completely out of touch with the outside world, is being felt by you and Steve at this moment. 

“You’re so beautiful.” Steve looks up at you with glazed-over eyes, a mix of lust and love in his expression. 

“You’re so corny,” you grin at him. In response, Steve frowns and pretends to be all wounded. This makes you laugh a little as you go in to give him a peck on the corner of his mouth. 

“I guess you’re pretty beautiful yourself,” it comes out sounding so shy, and a small smile tugs at your lips. 

Steve’s faux frown morphs into a smile as he rakes his hands up your back and pulls you in for a tight hug. He breathes you in, savouring this moment for one more second. “Thank you, baby,” Steve mumbles into your neck, planting a ghost of a kiss to your skin. Just that slight contact sends a shiver down your spine. You can’t believe that he still pulls that reaction out of you. 

He loosens his arms around you and gives you a slight pat on your butt. “Time to go,” he breathes out. You shift back into the passenger seat. You watch as Steve pulls the driver's door open and walks into the rainy night. He does a little jog over to the passenger side, and you  

turn in your seat, getting prepared to exit the car. Steve holds his hand out, helping you get out of the car. 

He lifts his jacket above both your heads as a makeshift umbrella, and you guys make a beeline to the front door. Once you reach the awning of your porch, Steve lowers his jacket and snakes one arm around your waist as you fumble with your keys. 

Before you fully unlock the door, you turn back at Steve, one of his hands still resting on your waist. You tug at the collar of his sweater, ushering him down to meet your lips. You swiftly kiss him, causing his breath to hitch at the unexpected action. 

Just as he's settling into the kiss, you pull away and make your way into your dimly lit house. The quick kiss has Steve's head all scrambled, and he quickly follows your retreating body inside like an eager puppy dog.

[sukunasbopit]

Offbeat - drummer!choso x fem reader

Part 2

slow burn • roommates to lovers • mutual pining • jealousy • angst with happy ending • eventual smut

Read part 1 here!

You hum the song that was playing in the car as you sit on the couch and unlace your boots. Choso’s pulling out the practice pad kit before he even takes off his shoes.

“Want me to teach you again?” he asks with a little smile and a hopeful glimmer in his dark eyes.

You bite your lip. You know what that means. And he knows you’ll say yes because he’s already setting it up in front of the couch cushion next to you.

“Hmm…” You check the time on your phone, trying to play it off like you aren’t absolutely dying to sit on his lap while he teaches you to play. “Just for a little bit.”

You slide onto his lap and he slides his fingers down your arms until they wrap around your wrists, warm palms against your skin. You hear him take a slow, shuddered breath.

“We can just… pick up from last time,” he says quietly.

You grab the drumsticks and he guides your hands into position. He starts moving your hands through the pattern.

Boom, ts, dum-dum, ts. 

Boom, ts, dum-dum, ts.

You both know you’re not really learning anything. He’s doing all the work, just using your hands to play. But that’s not the point. It was never about learning to play the drums anyway.

You can feel his heart pounding where his chest is pressed firmly against your back. “You’re getting better,” he murmurs next to your ear, even though you both know it’s a lie.

He slides his calloused palms further down your wrists, thumbs brushing your hands. Your heart flutters when you feel the brush of his chiseled jaw against your temple.

“Think you can try it without me?” he asks, and his voice dips a bit lower than you’re used to, taking on a rough edge. A tingling heat spreads across your cheeks.

“Yeah,” you breathe out, trying not to make the butterflies fluttering violently in your stomach so painfully obvious.

His hands slide away from your wrists and you keep the pattern going. For a minute you think you’re actually doing pretty good. 

Boom, ts, dum-dum, ts. 

Boom, ts, dum-dum, ts.

Then both his hands come to your hips. His slim fingers spread wide across the fabric of your jeans and your rhythm immediately falls apart.

“Just adjusting you,” he murmurs, but his hands aren’t working to adjust anything. They just stay there, gripping your hips.

Something thick and hard presses against your ass, and your brain quickly catches up—that’s… that’s his—oh my god. That is definitely his dick. The drumsticks slip from your suddenly nerveless hands.

“Hey,” he says, catching them in time and guiding them back into your palms. “You were doing good.” As casual as he’s trying to come off, his voice is audibly more strained now. He sets his hands back on your hips. “Try to get back into the rhythm.

Somehow you manage to pick the pattern back up but your hands are shaking. His fingers dig slightly into the fat of your hips. Then he slowly and subtly starts to roll his hips, and you feel every thick inch. The friction is maddening, and he’s so big you feel like the pressure alone might tear through the back of your jeans.

“So good,” he murmurs raggedly right next to your ear, his breath hot on your already flushed skin. “You’re doing so good.”

You don’t know if he’s talking about the drumming or the way you feel against his dick, but you don’t even care because your thighs are clenching involuntarily and you can feel your panties getting sopping wet.

The drumsticks drop from your trembling hands and clatter to the floor, and he doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just pulls you against his achingly hard cock even tighter and leans his face into your neck.

“Choso. I should—” you say breathlessly as you try to push yourself up, thinking this has probably gone way too far, way too fast. “I should go to bed. It’s getting late.”

He instantly stops rolling his hips, but his grip on you tightens a fraction, still holding you there. You feel him take in a slow breath, nose brushing your hair, and then he lets go. “Okay,” he says, voice unbelievably strained. “Yeah. You’re right.”

You stumble off his lap and give him a quick “goodnight,” not looking back as to hide the way you’re heavily blushing. You shut your bedroom door behind you and lean against it, chest heaving. Well. Now you know he’s definitely packing. You always wondered.

Your cheeks are on fire and you press your palms to them, trying to cool down. There’s no way that was accidental. He knew exactly what he was doing. Maybe you shouldn't have panicked and run off like that… he must be mortified right now.

—

Choso sits on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, mentally scolding himself, but his body apparently hasn’t gotten the memo because he’s still so hard it hurts.

‘What the fuck were you thinking?’ he thinks to himself. There’s no excuse he could possibly give that would make this seem innocent or accidental. Nothing he could say that would make it seem like anything other than what it actually was. Him dry humping you like some kind of disgusting perv.

He drops flat on his back with a creak of his bedframe. He’s ashamed to admit it, but he just wanted to see what you’d do. He wanted you to rub back up against him so badly. Living with you has been the sweetest, most agonizing torture. He’s wanted you for so long but he’s never been able to bring himself to do anything about it until tonight—and fuck—he went way too far.

He drags his hands slowly down his face, over the black line on the bridge of his nose. Maybe you don’t have feelings for him after all. Maybe he’s been fooling himself into a fantasy this whole time, reading into everything way too much, as he thinks is a terrible habit of his.

He’s never been good at this. He’s never been charming or smooth enough to make the first move. Sure, he’s not a virgin, but that’s solely because he’s gotten lucky enough that the few girls he’s been with practically threw themselves at him. 

But you don’t do that. You’re so sweet and warm, and the way you smile at him he could swear you want him too, but you’ve never been the bold type. You’ve never grabbed him, never kissed him, never said the words he desperately wants to hear.

He wishes you would.

His dick throbs against his jeans and he sits up with a resigned sigh. He’s already lost his dignity tonight. Might as well go all the way.

He reaches up and pulls out his hair ties, letting his espresso-dark hair fall to his shoulders. Then he stands and strips off his loose black tank top and tosses it toward the hamper. He kicks off his black distressed jeans and stands there in his boxers, the physical proof of what you do to him obscenely tenting the fabric.

He opens his dresser drawer of sleepwear and looks down at the neatly folded sweatpants. Then he reaches behind them, to the very back of the drawer, and pulls out a pair of dark purple lace panties.

Just taking them out of hiding makes his heart hammer against his ribcage. He knows he’s terrible for this. He knows it’s pathetic and creepy and crosses a million lines he can never uncross. But when he saw them on the bathroom floor a few weeks ago, left behind by accident after your shower, he picked them up with trembling hands and shoved them in his pocket. He knew immediately he wasn’t going to give them back.

The first time he jerked off with them, he told himself he’d only do it once. Just to see what it was like. But once turned into twice, and twice turned into every single time he touched himself, and now he can’t even get off without them.

Of course he washes them after, every single time. He handwashes them carefully in the bathroom sink when he knows you’re asleep, heart racing, listening for any sound of your door opening down the hall. The paranoia is exhausting but necessary. If you ever caught him with your missing panties in his hands, dripping with water and whatever else, if he had to see the realization dawn on your face about what he’s been doing with them—No, he’d rather actually die. There is no coming back from that.

He presses them to his face and inhales deeply, eyes blissfully rolling back. The sweet scent of you still hasn’t worn out from the fabric. He slides his boxers down and lies back on his bed. He’s harder than he’s been in months, leaking down his veiny shaft, all because for a few minutes he got to rub himself against you on his lap. 

He wraps your panties around himself and lets out a shuddered breath, stroking them down slowly. It’s nothing like his hand. It’s so much better. So soft and silky, and it makes him think of you wearing them, on top of him, grinding your needy pussy up against him until the fabric is drenched—

“Rrrnngh… fuck—” he groans, precum dripping down in milky rivulets, marking your panties with every stroke.

He lets his imagination go back to when you were sitting on his lap on the couch, but this time you don’t go anywhere. You’d turn around and straddle him, spread those pretty thighs over his lap, and you look at him with dark, hazy eyes.

“You’re so hard, Cho,” you’d say breathily, and your hand would slide down to palm him through his jeans, and he’d buck up desperately into your touch. Then you’d kiss him with those impossibly soft lips, and you’d taste like the cherry lipgloss you’re always applying.

Schlick schlick schlick! Choso’s bedroom fills with the obscene wet sounds of your cum-soaked panties clinging to his cock with every pump of his fist.

The image is crystal clear in his mind. He’d carry you to his bed, your hair beautifully spread across his pillow, eyes locked on his while he strips you slowly. He’d watch your plush lips fall open when he pushes inside you, your slick heat gripping him perfectly while you dig your manicured nails into his shoulders.

He’d fuck you so hard your breasts would bounce with every thrust and he’d lean down to lap his tongue at your nipple. He’d worship your body the way you deserve, take you apart piece by piece and put you back together satiated and glowing.

He’d spill into you so full you’d feel it pooling inside you, spilling down onto the sheets. He’d do anything and everything he’s been fantasizing for what feels like an eternity.

His hips buck violently off the bed and his fist pumps his swollen cock in a frenzy as he spills thick ropes of cum all over your panties.

Then the high fades and his face falls as reality comes crashing back in.

But he’s still clinging to the fantasy’s end, the only part that never leaves him for even a second.

He’d tell you he’s in love with you.

That he’s been in love with you since the moment he met you.

That you’re his dream girl and the idea of anyone else touching you makes him want to break things.

But a fantasy is a fantasy.

All he can do right now is hope to god you’ll forgive him for grinding against you like some sex-starved loser. You deserve so much better than that.

—

When morning comes, you’ve already made your decision. You’re going to pretend you didn’t notice what he was doing last night.

Is he going to believe you? Probably not. Choso’s perceptive as hell, and you’re not the best liar in the first place. But it’s the best thing you can do to give him some peace of mind, to let him save face, and to preserve the comfort between you two.

The truth is, you’ve been kicking yourself all night for running away. You just got up and left when he was clearly trying to take things further, left when the man of your dreams was literally rubbing himself against you, and all you had to do was stay.

You were just so caught off guard by it. Choso’s never made a move like that before. You always thought of him as the quiet, romantic type. The type to bring you flowers and open doors. The type to hesitantly ask before kissing you, let alone grinding his dick on you.

But maybe you don’t know him as well as you thought you did. Not that that changes how you feel about him. The discovery that he has this raw, desperate side only makes him so much hotter.

You pad into the kitchen and find him already sitting at the table. His dark hair is down, falling around his face in those uneven layers you love, and he’s wearing low-slung gray sweatpants and a faded black t-shirt.

He keeps his eyes fixed on his coffee as his fingers drum against the table nervously. Tap tap tap tap. He doesn’t look at you. Won’t look at you. Like a scolded dog.

“Morning,” you say softly as you reach for a mug.

“Morning,” he mumbles into his coffee.

Tap tap tap tap…

You can feel the tension already, and it’s suffocating.

“I’m sorry.” His voice sounds quiet and rough like he didn’t sleep at all last night.

You glance over at him with the coffee pot in your hand. “For what?”

He finally raises his eyes to you, just for a second, and there’s so much shame in them. Then he looks back down. “...You know.” Tap tap tap tap. “...Last night.”

You tilt your head at him, pouring your coffee slowly. “What about last night?”

“Don’t—” He takes a shallow breath. “Please… you know what I mean. Don’t make me put words to it…”

“I should be the one saying sorry for cutting it so short,” you say, keeping your voice light and casual. “I was just so tired from work, y’know?”

“You’re…sorry?” His brows furrow. “Wait. Cutting what short?” His eyes go a bit wider. “You wanted to keep going?”

“Yeah, like I said, I was just exhausted. But we can pick it back up again soon if you want. I know you like teaching me the drums.”

“Teaching you the…” His eyes search your face like he’s looking for a crack in the facade. Is this some kind of test? “I’m so confused,” he whispers.

“What’s confusing?” you ask, taking a sip of your coffee.

He scratches the back of his neck. He knows this has to be an act, but maybe it’s best for him to just let this go. “Never mind,” he says, nodding slowly. “If that’s what you… yeah. Never mind.”

He lets out a slow breath through his nose. He overthought this so much, and this was not how he pictured getting past last night. Just pretending it didn’t happen. But he’ll take it. At least you’re still talking to him.

“You still coming to the show tonight?” he asks.

You walk over, rest your hand on his broad shoulder and give it a squeeze. His heart skips a beat and he stares up at you. “Obviously,” you say, smiling down at him. “You know I never miss your shows, Cho.”

—

Black combat boots with silver buckles. Sheer black tights that disappear under a short black skirt. The skirt sits high on your waist, showing off your curves in all the right ways. A deep burgundy cropped sweater that shows just a sliver of your waist when you raise your arms, with a neckline that dips low enough to be just a little tantalizing.

Your hair is down in loose waves, and you’ve done your makeup even darker than usual: smoky eyes, sharp winged liner, deep red lipstick. You’re practically begging him to eat you up, aren’t you?

You stare at yourself in the mirror. You look like someone Choso would want.

What are you kidding? You are what Choso wants. And yeah, you had to act oblivious for his sake. Especially after running off and humiliating him like that.

But tonight you’re going to make it all up to him~

[sukunasbopit]

Offbeat - drummer!choso x fem reader

Part 1

slow burn • roommates to lovers • mutual pining • jealousy • angst with happy ending • eventual smut

TW: mentions of death (past-tense - no death happens in current day story) and self-harm (self-inflicted tattoo during mental health crisis)

You’ve grown to love the smell of the record shop over the last few months, that dusty, nostalgic scent. Outside the windows, vintage streetlamps cast pools of warm light on the sidewalk in front of the shop. Lights that barely push back the October shadows. You can see yours and Choso’s reflections ghosted in the window glass, overlaid with the darkened street and the drift of rust-colored leaves passing by.

You’re crouched by the indie rock section, sifting through the dividers as you check alphabetization. Someone had shoved Arctic Monkeys back in the wrong spot, right between Radiohead and The Strokes. You pull it out and slide it back into the A-C section.

“Found another one,” you say over your shoulder.

Choso looks up from where he’s reorganizing the new arrivals display near the counter. His dark brown eyes meet yours and your heart does that traitorous flutter it’s been doing since the day you met him. You’ve given up on pretending you don’t feel this way about him. But you haven’t given up on pretending he doesn’t notice.

“I swear it’s always the indie rock section,” he says, turning back to adjust a record as he rolls his eyes. “College kids.”

“You’re a college kid,” you say, fighting a smile.

“Yeah, but me and you are old college kids,” he points out with a little smirk. “So I guess that’s why we’ve got the rare skill of knowing our ABCs.”

You laugh, still sifting through the records. “Okay, funny. But god, don’t call us that. Old…” You stand up and dust off your black jeans. “Absolutely ancient and decrepit at twenty-four.”

“I’ll take ancient over being an immature eighteen-year-old any day,” he says with a shrug.

“Says the guy who eats cinnamon toast crunch for dinner almost every night,” you say as you hide your smile behind your hand. You couldn’t resist.

He drags his hand up through the back of his hair with a little embarrassed smile, accidentally pulling at the two spiky buns he tied it into this morning. A few short dark strands come loose at the nape of his neck. “Hey,” he says in a playful protest. “Don’t come for my cereal.”

He looks at you for just a second, just to make sure you know he’s not serious. When he sees you’re still smiling, he goes back to organizing. “And here I thought we were friends,” he adds, still smiling slightly. A rosy blush dusts across his pale cheeks as he reaches for another record and sets it on the stand.

His loose black tank top drapes over his lean muscular body as he works, showing off the full canvas of tattoos on his arms that wind from his shoulders to his wrists. You’ve memorized most of his tattoos by now, memorized the meanings of them too.

And you know the one that holds the heaviest meaning is the stark black line that runs across the bridge of his nose. Your eyes linger on it now with a hint of sadness as you make your way towards the counter with your arms full of misplaced records.

You asked him about it months ago, and the story has stayed with you ever since. Choso is the oldest brother of ten siblings. When he was sixteen, five of them died in a car accident. The car went off a bridge, and in one terrible moment half of his family was gone.

Kids ranging between six and twelve years old, just erased from the world while he had been safe at home doing something mundane like homework or watching TV, completely unaware that his entire world was being ripped apart. The guilt of surviving when they hadn’t never left him.

The tattoo happened during his darkest time. He was in his worst stage of grief and had stopped going to school, stopped leaving his room, stopped existing in any meaningful kind of way.

He did it himself in his bathroom with a needle and ink he ordered online. It was dangerous and painful but he needed it, he needed something on the outside to match the way he felt split down the middle.

It was a permanent testament to the reality he could never escape until his last breath. The devastating line between the living and the dead.

But Eso was the one who pulled him back from the space between.

He came into Choso’s room one night, trying to console him the way he’d tried dozens of times before. But this time he noticed the crumpled pages in the trash that Choso had written, trying to get the grief out of his body and onto paper.

Eso pulled them out and read them while Choso laid there with his face in the pillow, and instead of saying what he usually said about healing and time, he told Choso they were beautiful.

Then he did something that changed everything. He left and came back with pages of his own that he’d written, proof that he’d been drowning in the same grief. The heart-to-heart became a turning point, and slowly, Choso began to open back up. They started writing together, pouring their grieving hearts onto the pages. Somewhere along the line, they began making music together. They even bought some instruments, and Choso took a special interest in the drum kit.

Eventually the idea of starting a band took root. Kechizu joined them, partially out of excitement and interest but mostly because he needed to be part of whatever was helping his older brothers survive the loss. For a long time they had no lead singer, but that was okay. They built their sound around instrumentals and wrote the lyrics for a voice they’d find eventually, when the time was right.

Over time, the meaning of the tattoo evolved. It was still about the five siblings he lost and always would be, but it had grown to mean something more: Balance. The truth that he could carry both grief and happiness without one cancelling out the other. That he could remember and mourn his lost brothers while also choosing to live as fully as possible for the ones who remained.

Learning his story had fundamentally changed the way you saw him. He wasn’t just some hot, quiet drummer you’d developed feelings for. He was a sensitive soul who learned to piece himself back together. Someone who turned his darkest moment into his passion.

You understood why he threw himself into drumming the way he did, why some nights he’d play for hours in the living room. It was his lifeline. His way of working through something he didn’t have it in him to say out loud.

“Is there something on my face?” Choso asks as he catches you staring. “Well—besides—” He gestures at his face tattoo.

“No. Nothing,” you say gently, setting the records on the counter. “Just got lost in my own thoughts.”

His eyes widen just slightly, trying to read your face. It makes you want to look away, but you don’t. You never can really, when he looks at you like that.

“You do that a lot,” he says.

“So do you,” you say with a soft laugh, tapping your fingers against the counter in a drumming pattern, a playful imitation of what he does constantly.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve watched someone try to talk to him while he’s drumming on tables, counters, his own thighs, totally lost in his head. It’s honestly one of his cutest quirks.

He glances down at his hands and color rises in his cheeks. “Point taken.” Then he looks back up and he’s almost smiling. “So… I drum on things when I’m in my head. And you…” he hesitates for a second, considering if he wants to say it, “...were looking at my face.”

He meant to come off with a teasing tone, but he can’t help the shyness and curiosity in his voice. “I’m usually trying to memorize patterns when I do it,” he says, focusing closely on your eyes. “What about you? What were you thinking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say, attempting to sound playful, but the way you’re blushing probably gives you away. “My mind just goes places sometimes. Hard to remember.”

“Hmm…” He stretches and his tank top rides up slightly, exposing a strip of his toned stomach and the trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans. “Okay.”

God, he’s so hot.

Is he doing this on purpose? After a year of living together, you’d think you’d be able to tell when he’s flirting vs. when he’s just being Choso. You force your eyes away. Get it together. It’s not like you hadn’t seen him walking around shirtless all summer in the apartment.

You look over at the clock mounted by the door. 9:48pm. Twelve minutes until closing, and the shop’s been empty for the past two hours. The owner left at seven, trusting the two of you to close up like he does most weekdays.

“Almost there,” you say, moving down the counter to straighten the display of tote bags with the shop's silver logo. “Anything left on the closing list?”

“No. Everything’s been done. And I’m almost done with the display.”

“So, Saturday,” he says, trying to sound casual. “You’re still coming to the show, yeah?”

“Of course, Cho. I’d never miss one of your shows.”

“Okay, cool. It’s at nine,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But if you want you can come earlier. Like eight. You can watch us sound check.”

He’s organizing the same three records over and over. “It’s not like, exciting or anything. But you could get to the front of the venue before the place gets crowded.”

“I’d love to come early,” you say with a smile. “I should stand in front of stage left, right?”

“You…yeah. Stage left.” A flush creeps up his neck. He didn’t expect you to remember that. “That’s where I’ll be. It’s the best view of the drums.” He starts breaking down the empty cardboard box the new records were in. “And I’ll be able to see you too.”

Your heart skips a beat and you suddenly realize the last line’s got you smiling like an idiot. If he couldn’t read you before he definitely can now. You look away and pretend to straighten up the already straightened stack of business cards. “Guess we should lock up,” you say.

He nods. The closing routine is second nature by now. Turn the lights off, lock the register, arm the security system. Choso checks the back door lock and the front door lock, then you both step out into the autumn night.

Choso’s car is parked in the corner of the small lot. It’s a faded black Honda Civic that’s seen better days but it runs well enough. It has dents in the passenger door from some incident he never fully explained, but the stereo system is pristine. He installed it himself and spent hours getting the speakers just right, because if there’s one thing that Choso couldn’t compromise on, it was the sound quality of his music.

He unlocks the car and you slide into the passenger seat, immediately grabbing the aux cable. It’s your guys’ routine that doesn’t require any kind of discussion. You control the music on the way home and he controls it on the way to work. You pick something loud and fast, something with drums that you know he’ll love. Within the first verse his fingers are drumming on the steering wheel, and he’s mostly steering with his knee.

“One of these days you’re gonna hit something,” you say with a little laugh.

“Not gonna happen. I’ve been driving like this since I got my license. No accidents yet,” he says, still drumming with a little smile. “Well… no accidents from the drumming.”

When the chorus hits you start singing along. Something about night drives with him makes you feel less self-conscious and more willing to just sing out and have fun.

“You could replace Satoru, you know,” he says after the song fades out. “You have a pretty voice.”

“God, no.” You laugh and shake your head. “You know I have too much stage fright for that. Plus Satoru would hate me for taking his spotlight.”

Choso chuckles. “I think he’d perform in an empty room just to hear himself sing.”

“To be fair, that’s not so different from you and your drums,” you say.

“Yeah, but… things change.” He glances at you from the corner of his eye. “I don’t really like playing alone anymore.”

[softchaosfics]

Freckles

Pairing: Portgas D. Ace x reader

Warnings: none just fluff<3 (sickeningly sweet fluff)

Summary: Just some appreciation for Ace's freckles<3

Ace was stretched across your chest, warm, heavy, and perfectly relaxed.

It was one of those lazy afternoons where neither of you had any intention of moving. The blankets were tangled around your legs, sunlight spilled softly through the window, and the room was quiet except for the slow rhythm of his breathing.

His hair tickled your collarbone, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, and with every breath he took, you could feel the steady rise and fall of him against you.

He looked peaceful.

Too peaceful.

You couldn’t help yourself.

Your fingers traced lightly over the freckles dusted across his cheeks, soft and familiar, and you found yourself counting them under your breath.

“One… two… three…”

Ace shifted slightly, one eye cracking open as he looked up at you with sleepy confusion.

“Hm? What’re you doing?”

You smiled, sliding your hand into his hair and gently lifting his head so he had no choice but to look at you.

“Admiring you.”

That immediately made him suspicious.

“…Why?”

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the freckles there.

“Ace,” you whispered placing a kiss on his nose, “you’re so cute.”

He blinked.

Once. Twice.

Then his entire face went red.

“Wha- I-”

He stammered helplessly, suddenly deciding the ceiling was the most interesting thing in the world.

You smiled wider.

“Your freckles are adorable. All of them.”

Ace groaned and immediately tried to hide his face in your neck.

You laughed softly but let him, your fingers still tracing over his skin. This time down his neck, over his shoulders, counting the freckles scattered there too.

“Five… six… seven…”

“Stop,” he mumbled, voice muffled against your skin.

“Nope.”

“Please.”

“Absolutely not.”

You pressed a kiss to the top of his head.

“Your cheeks? Adorable. Your freckles? Perfect. Your stupidly pretty face? Unfair, honestly.”

Ace made a strangled noise.

“Shut upppp,” he groaned, somehow managing to sound offended and flustered at the same time.

You grinned, running your fingers through his hair.

“And don’t even get me started on your shoulders.”

He let out the softest, most pathetic whine..an actual whine..but he didn’t move away.

If anything, his arms tightened around you.

You smiled to yourself. Because that was the thing about Ace.

He didn’t always know how to handle being loved like this ,openly, gently, without condition.

But he never pushed it away.

Sometimes he got embarrassed. Sometimes he tried to hide. Sometimes he acted like he didn’t know what to do with all that softness.

So you kissed his forehead holding him a little closer, and kept counting freckles against your skin like it was the most important job in the world.

[indiewritesxoxo]

THE GOJO CINEMATIC UNIVERSE!

(indie's version)

...some of my best box office hits!

a selection of my gojo fics for your enjoyment! art from left to right is by @/to00fu @/aransmind @/thatsallitchief

CHOOSE YOUR ACTOR!

✰ only ones who know starring...SUPERVILLAIN!GOJO

✰ no. one party anthem starring...ROCKSTAR!GOJO

✰ snapshots starring...BEST FRIEND!GOJO

✰ pick your player starring...CHRONICALLY ONLINE LOSER!GOJO

✰ snowed in starring...YETI!GOJO

✰ true love waits starring...NERD!JO

✰ say you don't starring...ENTITY!GOJO

✰ the king's crown starring...EMPEROR!GOJO

✰ gender swapped + eating out starring...FEM!GOJO

✰ slimed starring...SLIME!GOJO

✰ prince charming starring...YANDERE!GOJO

✰ what's mine is yours (and what's yours is mine) starring...BODY SWAPPED!GOJO

✰ god complex starring...CULT LEADER!GOJO

✰ the aliens are cumming starring...ALIEN!GOJO

✰ dorky guys finish first starring...NERD!JO

✰ cut your heart in half starring...MAGICIAN!GOJO

✰ national anthem starring...PRESIDENT!GOJO

✰ divine dicking starring...PRIEST!GOJO

✰ sperm donor of the year starring...BEST FRIEND!GOJO

✰ call me anything you want + two princes starring...NERD!JO + FRAT!JO

✰ lost and found starring...SPIDER!GOJO

✰ who's your whore? starring...FRAT!JO

✰ cat-fished! starring...SNOW LEOPARD HYBRID!GOJO

✰ the one that got away starring...ASTRONAUT!GOJO

a/n: the way this isn't even half my gojo masterlist is lowk so funny to me it took everything in me not to add spider gojo on here lmfao. anywhoooo reblogs + comments are always appreciated adore you all :3

series | latest oneshots | patreon

[indiewritesxoxo]

THE ONE THAT GOT AWAY

he loves you through wormholes and back!

synopsis: it was just supposed to be a routine mission. but when things start to go wrong and time starts slipping through his fingers, gojo realizes a little too late he might lose you too.

pairing: astronaut!gojo x f!reader x teacher!choso

wc: 14.8k

content: mdni. HEAVY ANGST. smut. character death. inspired by interstellar, time dilation, sad ending, hurt no comfort, unprotected piv sex, teasing, kissing, gojo is so incredibly in love and obsessed with reader, accidental pregnancy, twins, pining, yearning, complicated emotions, misunderstandings, choso is also a lovesick puppy dog, video messages, gojo cries and throws up, moving on, absolutely sadness and despair

art is by @to00fu !! div by @tsumiinum !! this was an incredible commission to write for @dayanim <333

“You’re literally the prettiest girl on the planet.” 

You giggled, your mouth curving up into a painfully cute smile as his palms spread your soft thighs further apart. Perfect face tilting to the side as you arched an eyebrow, “Just this planet?” 

“All of them,” he easily chuckled, pressing a peck to the inside of your exposed thigh, admiring the expanse of your bare skin, completely naked in his sheets. Sprawled out like his favorite feast, waiting for him to devour. 

If he could, he’d swallow you whole and take you with him to space. 

Pack you up and bring you with him. 

But unfortunately, NASA probably wouldn’t approve of him stowing you away on his final official mission before he moved to a different position. 

“I don’t want you to go,” you pouted at him, running your fingers through your hair as he returned to dotting more kisses up to your hips, down to just below your belly button, trying to memorize the way your skin felt on his lips. 

“I know,” he sighed, struggling to justify why he was going to you when he could hardly convince himself these days. “It’s just six months.” 

A routine mission. 

It was far from his first. He knew how it would play out. Shoko and Suguru would join him on the crew, so at least the time wouldn’t totally drag by. He hadn’t planned to join, but with what they promised to pay for it, it was sorta hard to refuse. Especially when he was still saving for a wedding and a house down payment. 

Still, considering the fact that he’d only just gotten back from one less than a year ago, he knew that it wasn’t just him it was hard on. 

“It feels like forever,” you complained, a crease between your brow as your hand shifted to cup his cheek, lift his face up to look at you. The cool band of your engagement ring resting on his skin reminding him of the promise he made to you when he popped the question. That he’d give up exploring the reset of the universe if you’d be his wife. “I’m so tired of missing you.” 

“Baby,” he frowned, heart slamming into his rib cage at the disappointment he detected in the lines of your face. 

He didn’t want to do this to you. Didn’t want to be the guy that wasn’t there for you. 

But this was all just temporary. Soon he’d have secured a future where you could both permanently settle in a beautiful little house with a big yard for mini-yous and mini-hims to run and play. 

Climbing back on top of you properly as you huffed at him, caging you in underneath his muscled arms, not stopping until your bodies were connected, skin-on-skin, his forehead resting on yours as your eyes met his. 

“Don’t baby me,” you defensively murmured. 

“But you’re my baby,” he pouted back at you. Your body shivered a little, thighs pressing together before he used his knee to nudge them further apart. “And you’re gonna be my wife when I get back.” 

He liked the ring of it. 

His wife.

All his. 

He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time. 

Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness. 

You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself. 

“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud. 

“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it. 

“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed. 

Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed. 

The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it. 

Soon, you’d have the best. 

“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both. 

“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed. 

“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes. 

You wanted to believe him. 

“Uh-huh,” you exhaled. 

He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you. 

His home. 

Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.

“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you. 

“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.

“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.

“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours. 

There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.

But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up. 

And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press. 

Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.

Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it. 

Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes. 

He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too. 

You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum. 

He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body. 

Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay. 

“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone. 

Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body. 

But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck. 

He didn’t want to let go. 

And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts. 

They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot. 

He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position. 

But he’d get to stay with you. 

Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment. 

“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in. 

“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.

Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out. 

You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.” 

That was just who you were. 

What you’d do. 

You gave him what he wanted. 

Even when you didn’t like what he asked for. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.” 

“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him. 

But you giggled, and that was good enough.

“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested. 

“We already-” 

“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?” 

“I just want you.” 

Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.  

He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.

Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them. 

Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become. 

Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible. 

They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.

It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on. 

All just a galaxy away. 

It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe. 

Risky, sure, but it’d been done before. 

And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem. 

The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet. 

Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter. 

No, a more pressing issue had presented itself. 

A distress signal was being sent up. 

Someone was below – and begging to be rescued. 

“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it. 

“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen. 

“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.

Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time. 

“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”

“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far. 

Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months. 

“Yeah, that’s why they’re sending a distress signal,” Suguru sarcastically grimaced. 

“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded. 

“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”

Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.

It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.

And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.

There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.

“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it. 

He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.

Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.

“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.” 

“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.” 

Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave. 

There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth. 

“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing. 

He told himself it was the right thing to do. 

That it was what you would expect from him. 

He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages. 

You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera. 

But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up. 

“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it. 

He wanted to touch the screen. 

Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong. 

“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it. 

And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and- 

Holy shit. 

“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.” 

A baby. 

He was going to be a father.

His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.

“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.

Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments. 

“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie. 

No. You surely didn’t mean…? 

“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?” 

It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space. 

Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it. 

You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks. 

“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.” 

Never. 

He’d fucking be there. 

“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.” 

He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he? 

Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four. 

“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.” 

He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera. 

“I’ll come back for you.” 

Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.

But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?

In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.

“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze. 

Found his mouth opening, about to say no.

Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel. 

But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way? 

Would he be able to look his children in the eyes? 

He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.” 

Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it. 

He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship. 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

“You should move on.”

It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.

You couldn’t let go of him.

Six months turned into six years without Satoru.

The one thing you were terrified of had come true.

You lost him.

Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him. 

Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks? 

You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you. 

It’s always someone else. 

Until it’s not. 

Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come. 

“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-” 

“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket. 

You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father. 

Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug. 

Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead. 

When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.  

Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood. 

Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere. 

She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru. 

But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt. 

“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry. 

“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys. 

She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh. 

You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it. 

If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes. 

You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about. 

Apollo and Artemis. 

After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery. 

To be fair, you had done it in his place. 

Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went. 

The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call. 

And then nothing. 

NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious. 

Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing. 

Somewhere you’d never be able to reach. 

You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them. 

Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint. 

You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.

At least the ocean was on Earth. 

It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand. 

But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too. 

You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk. 

Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed. 

And Satoru had missed all of it. 

Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one. 

And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway. 

Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.  

There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it. 

Him. 

But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids. 

The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it. 

You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class. 

Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings. 

Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had. 

You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it. 

“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.   

“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake. 

His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go. 

“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.

“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing. 

“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over. 

You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them. 

“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”

You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.

“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.

Your chest hurt.

Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.

“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.” 

“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him. 

“Oh, um-” 

“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.” 

People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”

“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”

“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence. 

Satoru would know what to do.

But he wasn’t here.

And all the decisions were yours to make.

Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.

Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.

“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.

“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair. 

You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field. 

Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home. 

Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play. 

He didn’t.

To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either. 

Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.

You told yourself that you were being an active parent. 

Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards. 

Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work. 

And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.

He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing. 

The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute. 

Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy? 

Smile back when they spoke to you? 

Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. 

You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them. 

But eventually, the school year wrapped up. 

You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that. 

Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it. 

A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids. 

Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out. “Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing. 

“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.” 

“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her. 

“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose. 

They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too. 

“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting. 

“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you. 

It was nice of him. 

This was nice, actually. 

A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans. 

But it wasn’t terrible. 

You loved your children. Loved being their mom. 

Maybe you could learn to love your life too. 

You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang. 

“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair. 

“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.” 

You didn’t want to consider if you would. 

“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded. 

You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to. 

All you really wanted was for them to be happy. 

“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him. 

Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.

His eyes were dark. 

Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them. 

But they were deep. Warm. 

“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.” 

“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too. 

He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”

“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously. 

“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?” 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

Their mission was fucked. 

Suguru was dead. 

Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call. 

Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder. 

Now they had neither. 

The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process. 

Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too. 

Like his best friend wasn’t gone. 

He’d never get him back. 

No one would. 

Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home? 

He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.

God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl. 

The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it. 

Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut. 

But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now. 

He wished you were here. 

Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him. 

That his best friend was somewhere better. 

Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him. 

Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life. 

Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he? 

He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-

The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief. 

Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest. 

Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.   

Loading messages from the past eleven years. 

No. No no no no no.

It was wrong.

It had to be fucking wrong. 

The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-

Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back. 

He did. He would. 

The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone. 

Begging him to not make you. 

Gojo froze. 

Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message. 

Part of him wanted to hit stop. 

Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it. 

But his fingers weren’t fast enough. 

And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying. 

Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying. 

The twins. His twins. 

Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this. 

Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera. 

He was. 

Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another. 

His children were growing up without him. 

From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids. 

In what? Fifty minutes? 

Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back. 

They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him. 

Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them. 

And you, god, his pretty, perfect you. 

Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead. 

Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening. 

You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked. 

His girls a wormhole away. 

Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you. 

But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.

What if it was too late? 

What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth? 

The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met. 

Would you stop missing him too? 

He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background. 

You looked more mature now too. More put together, hair styled differently, no longer bare-faced when you turned the camera on, in a different room that obviously belonged to a house that wasn’t his home. 

Toys weren’t scattered around everywhere in the background anymore. But sometimes the twins would run through with one of their friends, some pink-haired kid that seemed to come over often judging by the way you barely blinked when they passed behind you. 

Gojo felt like a stranger. 

Some creep looking in the window of a happy family and thinking it should be his. 

“Mom,” Apollo whined, trying to tug on your sleeve as his shaggy white hair hung around his shoulders, attempting to drag you away while you were in mid-sentence. “Me and Cho made a cake. Come try it.” 

“Sure, honey,” you softly said, cringing a little before glancing back at the camera apologetically before signing off. 

Was Cho one of his friends? One of yours? 

He didn’t actually want an answer. 

But the next video seemed to clue him in on one anyway. 

You were wearing a shirt that was too big for you. The collar of it stretched out, your hair mused and down as you softly spoke, like you were trying not to wake someone up. 

It wasn’t Gojo’s shirt. 

An awful feeling settled in his bones. One that etched deeper with every little off detail he noticed. 

A pair of men’s shoes in the background. A watch left on your desk, barely in frame. The Cho the twins occasionally chattered about affectionately. 

Who apparently was taking them to soccer games and science museums like he should be doing right now if he heard them correctly.

Gojo didn’t want to believe that you were dating again. Even if he knew that it would be the normal thing to do. 

Completely reasonable for you to move on after not hearing a word from him in nearly a decade. 

But the idea of you loving another man, letting him into your life, letting him take his space-

He puked. 

Head between his knees as he got sick on the floor, throwing up a mixture of salt water he swallowed earlier and the freeze dried breakfast he had this morning. Funny, wasn’t it? He’d lost over ten years with you and his best friends in just a day.

An hour on that horrible planet had cost him a decade. 

Body wracking with shudders as he coughed and spit, wiping the back of his mouth just in time to look up at you while those pretty lips of yours pressed in a thin line. Sadness shining in your eyes, frustration and disappointment you rarely let show evident in your trembling frame. 

“It’s hard to keep hoping for you,” you admitted, reaching out to shut off the camera, and he desperately wanted to scream for you to not give up, to just fucking wait. 

But then the computer chimed in that there was one video left the second the screen went black after you ended it. 

His hand reached out, desperate to touch you, desperate to stop you, but your world was spinning faster than his was. 

And your face was back on screen, something inside him wilting and withering at the realization that another year had probably passed for you, maybe even two, more that he would never be able to get back. 

A few more faint lines were etched by your eyes, subtle creases left as a sign of all the time he missed with you. But you looked healthier. Happier. 

His beautiful girl sitting there and smiling at him instead of screaming like you should’ve been. Cursing his name for not coming home sooner, scolding him for being a piece of shit that should’ve stayed on Earth.  

“Hi, Satoru,” you spoke softly, fiddling with your hands. “Been a while since I’ve made one of these.” 

He was terrified to know how long.

“The twins are good. They’re gonna be ten next month,” you continued, not looking directly at the camera as you talked. “They’re both smart, like you. Apollo’s been more into soccer than school these days though.” 

He wanted to see him. See both of them. 

Hold them too, know his children outside of the information you would tell some distant relative, even if that was all he felt like right now. 

“Artemis wants to be a scientist when she grows up. She sits on the sidelines of his games with her nose buried in books,” you told him, a little smile reflexively curling up on your lips just from talking about them. “I wish you could see them. Wish you were here.” 

His chest hurt. 

Gojo didn’t know he stopped breathing until his body forced him to suck in a breath, lungs screaming for air as he stared at the woman he was supposed to marry. 

This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. 

The mission should’ve been routine. Simple. 

Suguru should be setting up the navigation. He should be begrudgingly agreeing to being his best man and coming to the courthouse to witness the rushed ceremony. 

“Sometimes,” you started, swallowing hard as your gorgeous eyes welled up with tears that threatened to spill out. “I dream of you. Us. Back in our old apartment in the creaky bed and the broken window. I wake up thinking I’m still there.” 

The hard lump lodged in his throat was threatening to choke him entirely, the taste of bile still on his tongue as his nails digging crescent moons into his palms as he watched your mouth quiver. 

“The government declared you dead a few years ago. One of your old colleagues came by one day, said that no one really knew for sure what happened, just that you missed the supply drop. Used a bunch of big words like I was too stupid to understand that the bottom line was that you weren’t coming home. Tried to make me feel better about it too,” you bitterly scoffed at the memory, resting your chin on your knees as you exhaled. On the brink of crumbling just recalling it, “Told me that you might’ve settled on a colony on a different planet or got stuck in some fucked-up time dilation. That you might still be alive out there somewhere.” 

If his throat wasn’t already raw, he would’ve screamed at the screen that he was. 

Wanted to beg you not to fucking believe whatever bullshit everyone else was feeding you and believe in him. 

“You don’t feel dead,” you added. Sniffling a little, using the back of your hand to rub underneath your eyes. “Maybe it’d be easier to move on if you did.”

Even his relief was tainted by guilt, ruined with his own worry that he was ruining your future by wishing you’d be stuck on him forever. 

“My therapist thinks I’m wasting my life waiting on someone who’s never coming back,” you murmured, speaking to him more like you were talking to your diary than truly believing he was going to hear any of it. “But how am I supposed to tell her I’m scared that some day you will, and I won’t be here?” 

Everything hurt.

His body, his heart, his soul. 

Aching for everything he’d lost. Everything you lost because of him. His own kids growing up without a fucking father because he was an idiot who put a career before his family. 

The life he’d spent years carefully building towards lost because he miscalculated. 

“I know it’s not fair, but fuck, thinking about you moving on with another girl, or fucking starting some colony up in space and having kids with someone else, makes me wanna throw up,” you admitted, clueless that he had just puked at the idea of someone else being the stepfather to his twins. 

You hadn’t even confirmed-

“I’m being a hypocrite,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands to hide the fact you were crying — and that’s when it hit him.

The engagement ring on your finger wasn’t his.

Smaller. More subtle. A different cut and style. 

No. You couldn’t-

“I’ve, um, been dating a guy for a few years. He’s sweet. Everyone loves to tell me how much you would’ve liked him,” you admitted, twisting the ring around your finger anxiously like you were confessing a sin. He didn’t like him. Already hated whatever bastard had snuck in and swept you off your feet. “They keep saying that you’d want me to move on.” 

What a load of fucking shit.

The last goddamn thing he wanted was for you to move on. The idea of you marrying another man was enough for him to gag again, bile rising from his stomach as he struggled to stop it. 

“I still love you,” you shrugged a little, guilt of your own etched in your face as his eyes stung with more tears. “I just love him too.”

Gojo would take getting stabbed over hearing those words from your lips again.

“Choso said maybe it’d make me feel better to make another video for you, y’know, get everything off my chest,” you exhaled. “I’m just so tired, Satoru.” 

Okay, well, that kind of felt like being stabbed. 

Knowing that this was all his fault and you were the one bearing so much of the burden. 

“I know you’re probably never going to see this, but you’d want me to be happy, wouldn’t you?” You asked, eyes big and wavering as you struggled not to sob, reaching up to play with the silver chain of your necklace tucked under your shirt. “Would you hate me for choosing someone who cares about me and our kids?” 

He could never hate you.

Even if you married ten other men while he was gone.

He would just always hate the man who got to call you their wife. Jealous of whichever one got to take family photos with you and take you on vacation and sleep next to you every night. 

Gojo wanted to be that guy. Wanted to get down on his knees next to you now and dry your cheeks, kiss your mouth and murmur anything you wanted to hear just to make you feel better.

“I’m getting married in four months,” you murmured, wiping the tears away from underneath your eyes, mascara smearing on the back of your hand as you sniffled. “At that chapel we picked out. The one with the pretty hydrangeas out front.”

No no no. 

He could still make it. 

Couldn’t he? 

If they skipped the supply drop entirely and went straight back through the wormhole? 

Hadn’t he lost enough? 

Gojo refused to let you slip through his fingers a second time. No matter how fast the hourglass was running out of sand. 

You stood up, walking out of frame for a few seconds as he heard the sound of something unzipping. And then you came back, holding out something white and-

A wedding dress. 

“You never got to see me in one, so I thought-” You didn’t finish your sentence, just swallowing hard as you draped it back down on furniture just out of sight. 

The camera barely focused on your body as you peeled your clothes off, his breath hitching at the intimate sight of you slipping the dress on, struggling to zip the back by yourself before walking closer. 

You looked like an angel.

And Gojo sorta wished he was dead. 

Stuck in the stunned shell of his body as he watched the way the dress clung to your chest and flowed to the ground, his heart thrumming loud enough he was sure it was about to break through his ribcage. 

And then a noise in the background startled you. 

The thud of a door shutting. The excited clamoring of children, a girl giggling as a man said something he couldn’t quite make out. 

Your face scrunched up, a million different emotions flashing across it as you both heard it at the same time. “We’re back, baby.” 

Another man was calling you baby. 

Footsteps echoing down a hallway he’d never gotten to walk down, your own body rushing over to block the door before it could open. 

“I’m trying my wedding dress on, Cho,” you called out, lips pressing together in a pretty pout. “It’s bad luck if you see.” 

“Yeah? We brought back your favorite takeout, want me to put it in the fridge or-” he started asking, his voice deep, gravelly. 

“You can leave it out,” you replied, your voice softening as you spoke to him. “I’ll be out in a minute.” 

You glanced back at the camera, guilt returning the second your stare hovered over at it. 

And before Gojo could even really appreciate what a beautiful bride you made, you were rushing to get out of it, biting your lips before stuffing it back into a garment bag, putting your clothes back and returning to your seat. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, fingers trembling as your hand reflexively reached for your necklace again. “I wish things were different.” 

It could be.

It would be. 

Even if a little voice in the back of his head suggested that you might not leave your current fiancé for him if he made it back in time. 

That you might choose the man that had actually been there for you all this time. 

Behind you, there was a knock on the door. 

“Can I come in now?” 

No. 

This was supposed to be private, a one-sided conversation that was for his ears only, but you were glancing back over your shoulder. 

“Yeah,” you quietly answered. 

Gojo almost wished your fiancé was ugly. That it would make it easy for you to pick him instead.

But of course, he had to be annoyingly attractive, dark hair hanging around his shoulders and bangs that reminded him of the best friend he just damned as he casually walked over to you, concern etched into his sharp face as he leaned in to press a kiss on the top of your forehead. 

“Everything okay?” He asked, but then his eyes shifted and he noticed what you were filming. “Oh, baby.” 

The sound of someone who knew you were hurting. Who cared. 

“I’m okay, really, I’m just saying goodbye,” you murmured, like they both couldn’t tell how close you were to breaking down. 

“I’ll give you a few minutes,” he spoke gently, his touch lingering on your skin like it really was his now. “Apollo and Yuji want to go spend the night with one of their friends.” 

Gojo wanted to strangle him. 

Fly through the space and stars just to give him a black eye for just how casually he spoke about his son. 

Although some sliver of him was well fucking aware that Choso had probably been more of a dad to Apollo than he’d ever gotten to be. 

“That’s fine,” you shrugged, nodding a little as your body relaxed, tension lifting from your shoulders the longer you looked at him. 

Gojo hated that he could see that you really did love him in your eyes. 

See that familiar glimmer shining in them as you looked up at a stranger instead of him. 

Choso left the room, but his presence didn’t. 

You stared at the door for a few moments after it shut, but you didn’t say whatever you were thinking. Kept it bottled up before you eventually looked back at Satoru. 

Not that you could even see him. 

You thought you were talking to a ghost. 

That’s all he’d become to you. To his children. A phantom haunting rooms he’d never entered. Lingering in empty spaces he should’ve been. A spectre living in the shadows of your heads. 

“I miss you,” you murmured, reaching for the button one last time to shut it off. “I don’t think that will change. But I can’t keep believing you’re coming home.” 

No. Please no. 

He was.

“I love you, Satoru,” you half-whispered, choking the words out. “Goodbye.” 

The screen went dark. 

His reflection staring back at him. Cheeks wet with tears that wouldn’t stop, breaking down as he fell apart, nausea swirling as he forced himself to stand and step around where he’d thrown up, pacing the floor as his brain struggled to work through a problem he didn’t know how to solve. 

He went back to the console, frowning when he tried to start recording to send a message back out to you, to beg you to just give him a little more time, but nothing happened. 

Body and brain barely working together to frantically tap buttons, staring at what data was available to see if he could find when the transmission was received. 

A faint flicker of hope stirring when he realized it had only been two days ago. 

You weren’t married yet. 

Maybe there was time.

And even if there wasn’t, he’d do his damndest to get there and wreck your marriage if it meant winning you back. 

He was a wreck, stumbling out of the room to rush to find Shoko, nearly tripping on his own feet as he found her by the controls, her neat brunette brows scrunching together in disgust when she saw the state he was in. 

“What the hell-” 

Gojo wasn’t sure he was even speaking in full sentences when he started rambling about time dilation, about how they already missed a goddamn decade, her mouth curling down into a tight frown as he got into the details of how they needed to go home now. 

“We don’t have the fuel,” she deadpanned, drawing his attention to the data on screen. “We can make it to our supply drop, but unless they have some there, we’ll probably be stuck on their settlement until another crew comes along.” 

That wasn’t a fucking option. 

They had to make it.

But even when he spent the next forty-eight hours crunching the numbers and calculating different ways to return, he still came to the same conclusion – Shoko was right. 

And still said ‘I told you so’ when he said fine to going to the planet for the supply drop, figuring that at least if the load was lighter, he might be able to make what they had left stretch. 

He was barely showering. 

Barely eating. 

Manic energy getting him through the long days and longer nights to avoid the dreams that would only mock him for all his failures. 

They were just filled with your face, with Suguru’s, of children that called another man dad. 

Filling his notebooks with different calculations he was desperate to get right this time. 

Skin crawling with the fear that he’d fuck this up and lose you forever. 

He didn’t get to mourn Suguru. Couldn’t mourn the years he missed. 

Not if he didn’t want to miss the rest of them. 

By the time they made it to the next planet, he was a wreck. Practically shoved in the shower by Shoko to get cleaned up before they landed, feeling ill when he was forced to get his suit back on, praying to whatever higher power might be out there to let there be fuel. Let him go home to his family. 

This planet wasn’t full of water. Wasn’t one big ocean. 

Landing in a lush green field, not far from real buildings, actual structures erected, fellow scientists rushing out to greet them as Shoko worked fast to unload the supplies with their help.

Gojo knew he probably sounded like a lunatic rushing to get his request for fuel out as soon as possible, counting the seconds in his head as he hoped that they weren’t months passing for you back home. 

“I need to get back to my fiancée, my kids, please," he begged, pleading without caring how pathetic it came out when everyone here had given up their lives on Earth in the name of science and research. 

“I’m sorry,” their de facto leader apologized, an astronaut he once grew up looking up to frowning at him as he glanced around at their simple setup to search for anything that could help him. “We don’t have any. There’s going to be another supply drop in a month, more people coming to live here. You could probably go back with them if-” 

“No,” he accidentally interrupted, the word ripped from the back of his chest as he recoiled. 

It couldn’t end like this. 

He’d be too late if he stayed.

“Satoru,” Shoko hissed, pulling him back as his breathing got ragged, on the verge of a panic attack. 

“Shoko, they don’t-” 

“I know,” she cut him off, swallowing hard as she fixed him with her steady stare. “Look, I’ll stay here. You take the lander back. Without me and all this stuff, the fuel should last.” 

“You want me to leave you?” He asked, automatically shaking his head no at the absurd suggestion. 

“I don’t have anyone waiting for me back on Earth anyway,” she shrugged.

He didn’t have the seconds to debate it. 

“Are you sure?” He asked, his chest already aching at the idea of being alone on the ship. 

“Go get your wife back,” she huffed. “Name one of your next kids after me.” 

“Deal,” he breathed, throwing her arms around her in a rushed hug before he had to sprint back to the lander. 

Both his best friends left behind on planets he knew he’d never get back to. 

And still, he wasn’t sure if he’d even be able to make it back to the one they came from. 

He wasn’t even meant to be the navigator. 

Wasn’t supposed to be the one frantically typing in coordinates and rushing through checklists to get back home. 

Struggling and squinting at the consoles, breathing heavy when everything was inputted, running the numbers again and again.

He should make it.

Although, his current path put him at landing in some random field in the middle of nowhere, NASA would probably be rushing to get there once they realized it was one of their landers. 

If only he could send out a fucking transmission. 

He tried to figure out why it wouldn’t work, fiddling with it almost every day in failed attempts to fix it and rewatching your videos when his energy threatened to run out. 

Gojo hadn’t cut his hair in months. That was something Suguru usually helped him with. It was nearly touching his shoulders, looking like a stranger in his reflection in the fogged-up mirror on the occasions he’d make himself shower and scrub his skin until it was practically red.

But maybe you liked men with longer hair now. Wouldn’t mind the fact that he changed too. 

When he slept, he made it to the chapel just in time, rushing through the double doors right when the officiant asked if anyone objected. 

He would whisk you away, dip you down and kiss you, fingers sinking into the silk of your wedding dress as he begged you to still be his. 

Some part of him felt like it was all light years away. 

Up until Earth was outside his window, his heart thrumming at the thought of you down there, sharing a bed with someone else while he was fighting so hard to come back to you. Did he fuck you as good?

Make sure you finished every single time? Dot your face with kisses and carry you into the bathroom? Make all your favorite foods and worship the ground you walked on every day? 

Gojo didn’t know if he’d be able to handle knowing.

But fuck, if it meant he’d still get to have you, he’d share you with that asshole. 

Gojo still couldn’t send a transmission, had no way of actually notifying anyone when he got in the lander, flipping switches and changing settings as he got behind the controls. 

Shutting his eyes for a few seconds as he set the coordinates, palms sweating as he clutched the controls. If his math was right, today would be the day you were supposed to be standing at the altar. 

He could do this. 

Failing wasn’t an option.

Not after everything that had brought him here. 

“I’m coming home, sweetheart,” he murmured, a little aware that he had probably lost it if he was talking to himself up here. 

But he hoped you could feel him. 

That even if you were wearing your wedding dress right now, you would be able to sense him somehow. Clinging to the hope that yours hadn’t completely faded yet. 

The landing fucking sucked. 

Hitting the ground too hard, his head snapping forward fast enough he was pretty sure he had a concussion or whiplash, body bracing for the impact as it skidded to a stop in a corn field an hour from that chapel he just toured with you last year. Even if it’d been more like twelve to you. 

It still didn’t stop him from rushing to get out, nearly kissing the ground as he stumbled out. Sucking in the fresh air as he glanced around, his legs trembling as he forced himself to keep moving, well aware he definitely looked like shit even if he tried to clean himself up before his, ah, crash landing. 

“Are you okay? What the fuck is-” 

Gojo grimaced as he glanced up to find someone who pulled over on the side of the road, a stranger squinting at him and the wrecked lander in disbelief. 

“Uh, could you give me a ride?” 

Maybe the universe had decided to cut him some slack. Give him a helping hand as he sat in the passenger seat of a beat-up truck, rubbing the exhaustion from his eyes as he noticed the new phone in the cupholder. 

“Do, uh, you mind if I make a couple calls?” He asked, the distant sound of sirens echoing as they put mile after mile away from the lander – and inched closer and closer to you. 

“Sure,” his new friend shrugged, using his face to unlock his phone at the next stoplight and passing it over. 

Gojo still had your number memorized. 

Even if you didn’t pick up the phone for him. 

No voicemail box set up either, just the generic ‘please leave a message at the beep’ he didn’t have it in him to oblige. He hurried to dial one of his old contacts from NASA he remembered, not sure if Ijichi would pick up either. 

But they did. 

“Hello?” Ijichi croaked, almost sounding like he just woke up, or maybe was sick. 

“Hey, it’s, uh, me,” he said, tapping his fingers on the side of the window. “I sorta crash landed. You guys are gonna want to send someone out to take care of clean up.” 

“Satoru?” 

“Yeah, it’s, um, been a bit, hasn’t it?” He awkwardly chuckled, rambling off the coordinates twice, sure that Ijichi was scrambling to get them down before he exhaled. “Look, I’ve got a wedding to crash. I’ll check in later.” 

Gojo hung up before he could get caught up in any more stupid space bullshit. 

He was finished. 

Ready to spend the rest of his years devoted solely to you and his twins. 

Would you be happy to see him? 

Let him pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your mouth and promise that you missed him? 

He’d spent so long daydreaming about it that he didn’t really know what to do when the truck pulled into the very much empty parking lot of the chapel. 

Was he too early? 

Too late? 

Walking up to the double doors and pulling them open to find barren pews illuminated by stained glass windows. He walked around like an idiot, something pricking at the back of his brain that he wouldn’t listen to as he looked outside at the cemetery next to it. 

He didn’t have a real reason for going back out there. 

Just some invisible string tugging him there as he held his breath, searching for proof in the last place he wanted to find it. 

And there it was. 

Sitting underneath a willow tree waiting for him. 

He stared at the gravestone. Your name etched into the stone – with another man’s last name attached to it. 

His knees gave out. Collapsed underneath him as a broken sob racked through his body, hitting the hard ground as his body surrendered to the pain. Fat tears rolling down his cheeks, sucking in shallow breaths as he cried for the life you had. 

The one he hadn’t been there to give you. 

You couldn’t be- 

Someone tapped on his back. 

He turned fast, shaking as his eyes landed on your face. His pretty girl, probably a good twenty years older than him, aged like a fine wine as your mouth fell open in a surprised gasp. He reached out, fingers trembling as he nearly touched your cheek from his position on the ground, but you froze.

“Dad?” 

It wasn’t you. 

Artemis tried helping him up, tears springing up in her eyes as she immediately hugged him, his brain fractured as he realized that his daughter was here. His daughter was older than him. How much time had passed? How fucking off was he? 

“Oh my god, it’s actually you, when I got the call, I didn’t think-” 

“Artemis?” He breathed her name, wishing he’d gotten the opportunity to say it to her a million more times. “You’re-” 

“Holy shit, I have to call everyone,” she grinned, her smile hurting his chest when it looked so much like yours. “Apollo isn’t gonna believe it. You know, you’re already, like, a great grandpa thanks to him, by the way.” 

Every word was a fresh punch to the gut. 

A great grandfather. 

He never even got to be a father. 

Missed his kids growing up, getting married, having kids of their own, and even them having kids. 

“How long has it been?” He asked, his voice raw, broken chords of disbelief as Artemis' face twisted up, looking behind him as it struck her that he hadn’t known any of it.  

“Since you left?” She awkwardly spoke, tilting her head as she scratched the back of her neck. There was a wedding band on her finger. Did your husband walk her down the aisle? “Um, about fifty years?” 

Four months had been forty years. 

Gojo couldn’t stop himself from crying again, wiping away his cheeks faster, ashamed of what he’d done. 

A fool masquerading as a man. 

Artemis awkwardly wrapped an arm around him, trying to soothe him as she used her free hand to send texts like he couldn’t see through the tears. Sobs wracking through him as the dam inside him broke, reduced to rubble as he fell apart. Painfully aware that he was only inches away from you, and still no closer at all. 

He’d never hold you again. Never touch you again. 

Wouldn’t get to see your smile or hear your laugh, feel the warmth of your affection. 

His children wouldn’t need him. 

For a while, his daughter just sat there with him. Let him cry until he managed to halfway collect himself, his eyes swollen and sore as he struggled to breathe, body aching and stomach starving despite how sick he felt every time he looked up and saw your grave. 

“She passed away last year,” Artemis muttered. “She’d been sick for a while.” 

God, he felt like he was going to die right now. 

Figured it would hurt less than hearing about everything he missed. 

“She talked about you a lot. Made you out to be a big hero,” his daughter smiled softly, obviously trying to make him feel better. You should’ve turned him into the bad guy. “I actually work at NASA. God, she was pretty pissed at me when she found out I even applied, but I promised that I wouldn’t go to space so, uh-” 

It seemed like she inherited his ability to shove his foot in his mouth, her lips clamping shut as she realized that maybe this wasn’t the time. 

“Apollo’s a teacher now,” she abruptly changed the subject, and he didn’t know what to say.

Just staring at her in shock, unable to form proper sentences when he thought he was coming home to a preteen – not a fully grown woman who looked so much like you it hurt to breathe. “Oh, there he is.” 

He looked over to see his son was walking down the path with an old man, talking between each other with furrowed expressions. 

Watched the shock register on their faces when they saw Gojo there. 

He didn’t know what to say when they finally approached, the thick silence and tension simmering in the air as he stared at Apollo. 

Strands of silver in his white hair, blue eyes burning with emotions he didn’t blame him for. Resentment. Reproach. 

“You’re-” 

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” he heard himself say, voice cracking painfully. 

“Yeah,” his son huffed, arms folding across his broad chest. “Us too.”

“Apollo,” the older man next to him scolded, giving him a fatherly look that seemed so natural on his face before throwing Gojo a look that was almost like ‘kids, right?’ “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Choso.” 

And despite the fact he had to be in his seventies now, Gojo still sort of wanted to hit him.

Rip the golden band off his finger and start a fight over the fact he’d gotten to spend decades with the love of his life. 

“Was she happy?” He asked instead, hollowed out, no strength left in him to stand. 

“She was,” Artemis softly confirmed, patting his shoulder like he was a child. And he wondered if she had kids too, or if even his son’s children were older than him now. 

“She missed you,” Choso added, more mature than Gojo suspected he would ever be.

Because right now, he was filled with hate.

Anger and rage boiling and burning under the surface at the injustice of all of it. At everything he missed. Everything that should’ve been his that ended up in the hands of someone else because he was too stupid to hold onto you tight enough.

He hated Choso. Hated space. Hated the universe. 

Mostly though, he hated himself.

“We should go get some food,” Artemis artfully pivoted away, trying to tug him upright. “You’re probably starving, right?”

Gojo thought he nodded, not that he was totally in tune with his body, dazed as he tried to sort through the thousand thoughts flooding through his mind.

Numbness creeping in now that he knew it had all been for nothing.

“Before I forget,” she murmured, taking off a necklace he hadn’t noticed her wearing. The thin silver chain weighed down by two rings dangling at the end. The engagement ring he once gave you – and a plain band of white-gold. “Mom always wore it. She told me she bought the band for you before you were supposed to come back and could never bring herself to put either of them away.” 

She dropped it in his palm, his pulse pounding in his ears at the proof you never fully gave up on him. One last thread of you in his hands as he automatically unlocked the clasp and put it on himself, the weight of it sitting over his chest and tethering him back to reality.

To the two children he made with you standing in front of him now he was still lucky enough to meet. 

Artemis interlocked her arm with her brother, laughing at something he said before immediately beginning to bicker about where to eat at, who to call next.

Giggling about their sister, his throat closing at the confirmation you had another baby after him. That you lived a full life he’d only get to see second-hand. Through photos and stories instead of in person. 

Apollo grumbled something under his breath, throwing a glare back at Gojo, still protective over you after you passed. Artemis just elbowed her brother though, tossing the hair back over her other shoulder that reminded him of you.

And some depressing part of him wondered if that’s what you and him would’ve looked like together one day if he stayed. 

He would never get to know. 

His eyes drifted back to your grave. And then the one next to it. 

His name etched next to yours. A plot you must have purchased for him back when you thought you’d never get his body back. 

A loving fiancé and father. 

Gojo was grateful he would at least get to be buried next to you one day. 

You spent your life missing and mourning him.

He supposed it was just his turn. 

a/n: reblogs + comments are always appreciated :3

[tonycries]

Homewrecker - T.F.

Synopsis. Six months since you’ve broken up with Toji Zenin - hotshot center for the men’s national team, perhaps the most feared man in ice hockey - and you’ve moved on…somewhat. Six months since you’ve broken up with him, and listen- Toji doesn’t mean to be a homewrecker, but he’d totally still wreck that p—ahem. Now if only he could get that two-timing boyfriend of yours out of the way…

Pairing. Toji Fushiguro x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, ice hockey player!Toji, ex-boyfriend!Toji, Winter Olympics AU, exes to Iovers, second chances, ice hockey finals, ice hockey games, jerseys, Naoya cameo, channeling my Naoya hate tbh, fights, sIight vioIence, Toji being in his feels, yearning, pússydrúnk Toji, oraI (fem rec.), p talking, p sIapping, P WORSHIP, he’s GONE, he’s better than HIM and he proves it, fíngering, spítting, overstím, manhandIing, doggy, Iocker room s, he’s big, making it fit, ‘teaching’ your p, cervíx smooches, multiple o’s, he’s JEALOUS, desperate s, rough s, slight marathon, sIight exhíbitíonism, needy Toji, FÉRAL Toji, creampíes, cúmpIay, proposals, sIight bréeding, happy ending, Shiu cameo heheh, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.1k

A/N. SURPRISE!! Hiiiiiiiiighly request hehehe- inspired by this scrumptious Tiktok by the lovely @/bellursjournal <33

234 fights.

234 won.

Ice hockey wasn’t just about the hard-hitting, fast-paced, ice-cold adrenaline that coursed through each and every single player there—outreaching like a gale towards the rows of audiences that jumped up in elation. Shivering at the impact of every skate, glide, and punch.

No, ice hockey was also about bringing people together.

And as corny as it may sound, it was part of why Toji loved these games so much. As one, he made them stand. He made them shout. He fired them up until they became immune to the frigidness of Milano Santagiulia Ice Hockey Arena.

So it wasn’t exactly out-of-the-ordinary to see a fight start up during one of these games - between players (him especially) and between fans.

What was slightly unusual was to see a fight occur between a player and a fan. Which is exactly what he was watching happen right now.

And even more unusual was just who it was.

You—arguing with some brute he assumed to be your boyfriend.

Tch…Toji’s scarred lips curl without him even realizing it. He’d noticed you the second you stepped into the rink - he always did. The second you’d stepped into his life, the second you’d stepped out of it. It was like this undeniable tug at the pit of his stomach, this rush of victory, this sudden warmth that he couldn’t explain - and couldn’t quite imitate no matter how many layers he wore.

Not that he would reminisce, of course. 

You’d met at one of his games—and to this day, no matter how many other matches he played in, he still considers that one of his best. It was in the feeling that you gave him - that game felt different. It was.

His eyes kept drifting to where you sat behind the plexiglass, and his skates have never glided smoother across the ice. It was a win for the records. After the game, Toji himself had been mulling over whether or not he should approach that pretty university student that had been shouting his name throughout the entire game- when you yourself had shyly walked up to him in the fan-signing section.

Steps tentative, a book crushed to your chest.

You’d asked him for an autograph in that sweet voice—and he’d scribbled his number out then and there. Media training be damned.

And when he’d asked you who your favorite player was- lo and behold, you’d replied that it was…Shiu Kong. He doesn’t think he’s laughed louder in his life.

That was also the game that got him on the radars of national team scouts.

You’d dated for a year. Almost exactly.

And to be transparent, it’s already been six months since the two of you broke up. Over some…honestly, he doesn’t even remember properly. He knew it had to do with his updated training regiment and the way he’d been pushing himself during the Olympics drafting season - and because of it, Toji knew he fucked up. He knew he missed dates, missed quality time, missed milestones. Barely came home from the rink.

You didn’t even care about that, he thinks. You wanted him to pace himself and take some breaks, he thought that sounded like a nightmare. Eventually, the last straw had been when he’d missed your one-year anniversary, and it’d accumulated into an explosive argument- that, he could remember.

He’s gotten better since then, he thinks.

But Toji was just about as over it as any man would be over the love of his life- fuck, did he really get his cringe after the break-up? That probably wasn’t good for his health. But it’s just that…he hasn’t felt that particular rush of victory ever since you left.

Not even when he was chosen for the official Japanese ice hockey team, not even when they landed in Milan, not even when they progressed to the finals.

But today…

The fucking finals of the Olympics and he was sitting on the players’ bench before the game, scouring the stands for but a glimpse of you. The fuck have you done to him? 

He could feel that surge of warmth, however. As though every fibre of his body had long since attuned to you, wasn’t whole without y- fuck off. The point was that you were somewhere here.

And Toji was reminded of those days you’d be sitting in the very first row of his games- front and center, waving a banner with his number, wearing one of his red jerseys. ZENIN—it would say on the back. Not one from the merchandise store, of course, though those sold out so fast that even Toji himself wouldn’t be able to get his hands on one.

So his eyes slid along the first rows of fans. The turnout was incredible.

Japan vs. the US. 

And Toji could guise his sudden alertness towards the audience as checking for any distractions in the stands - he didn’t want to be off his game during the fucking finals, now, did he? Especially not considering that their newest recruited defense player was…

But he knew that was bullshit.

Nothing ever threw Toji Zenin off his game.

And yet…and yet once he spotted you - seated amongst a clump of blue-wearing supporters on the other side of the rink, right opposite where he sat on the players’ benches - he couldn’t help the sudden jitter that ran through his body. Honestly, he thinks he might just break that streak of (substantiated) overconfidence before a match-

Fuck, how beautiful you were. 

Just as beautiful as the day he lost you, it makes everything almost move in slow-motion. If this were a movie - and it somewhat feels like one right about now - then the music would swell, and Toji’s eyes would turn to hearts, and perhaps there’d be a dance number or two and then a montage of-

Bullshit, bullshit! Toji Zenin wasn’t thrown off his game.

Toji Zenin was unaffected by your presence- and the fact that you were wearing a jersey clearly representing the other team. He didn’t fucking care.

He didn’t. Not even about the fact that you were currently in the middle of a very heated argument with one of the US players. Blond hair. Black tips. Shorter than him. Not even by how close you leaned into him. And Toji doesn’t bother to wipe the scowl off of his face as he perks his ears in your direction - one could never be too sure whether you were trading secrets with this e-boy blue-team boyfriend of yours.

You would never, to be clear, but just- just let him fucking evesdrop-

“—can’t believe you would do this to me.” Your voice carries, and the little tremor in your tone makes his eyes widen.

Sure enough, he could see the glimmer of tears in your eyes.

You’re rising up from your seat slightly, and it draws the attention of fans around you. Seething, “I can’t believe you would-”

“Shhhhhhhh—” The man has the audacity to bring a finger to his lips and shush, likely louder than you were being in your controlled tone. Trembling, but controlled. His half-blond bangs sway just a little as he looks towards his own team and coaches, then back towards you. “You’re being crazy right now.”

“I’m being crazy?” Laughing in disbelief. Holding up a phone that seemed to be the other man’s, presumably given to you for safe-keeping during the match. “I’ve seen the messages, and you say I’m being crazy-”

“You are. You’re acting hysterical and I need you to calm down.” Toji couldn’t see the man’s ugly face, as he had his back turned towards the benches. But he could see every bit of how this particular sentence made your expression crumple- “Look I don’t know what you think you saw on those texts, but it isn’t what you think it is. It’s locker talk- I went out with the other players, got some drinks, met some fans and…nothing happened with any-”

“You’re cheating on me-”

“You’re paranoid.”

Your eyes flash, “But-”

“You know I always hate to talk to you like this, baby. I really do.” He reaches up and puts a pale hand on the plexiglass, “But you’re just being paranoid. And I don’t want to call you insecure, but-”

“Don’t you dare—” You’re standing up now.

“See? This is exactly what I mean.” From the ruffling of his uniform, Toji could tell he was crossing his arms. Oh, how he wished this son of an asshole would turn around right now- just turn around and let him get a good look at what gave him the right. His cruel lips curl just a little bit in a way that just looked so familiar. It makes his blood boil. “You’re being crazy.”

And Toji sees the exact moment you furl in on yourself. “But…” It makes his fists clench.

Before he knows it, he’s gritting his teeth so hard he tastes metal.

“I’m a hockey player, baby, I’ve gotta network.” With such a tone of finality, he ends off—“Stop being so hysterical, and maybe we can have a civil conversation after.” The man kicks his blades into the ice and starts to push off, “Cheer for me loud during the game. My teammates are going to be watching.”

You don’t say a thing.

But he does, “You’re lucky you’re dating me, y’know?”

And that’s when Toji’s eyes finally fall to the text upon the man’s uniform.

ZENIN.

He knows who it is even before he turns—and Toji falters. Not out of reconsideration, or anxiety, or fear - but out of the sheer surprise that ah, this was going to be convenient.

Because Toji Zenin knew the bastard - more than he would have liked to.

Naoya Zenin was a part of his past whether he wanted to or not. He was the snot-nosed, bratty second heir to Zenin Industries that would hide behind corners and snicker to himself whenever Toji got caught sneaking out to the arena again. Whenever he was told off for going against Zenin family values - against his duty to become the head of their sport equipment business - by whichever higher-up happened to be feigning for a stress outlet that day.

Short and sweet, Toji Zenin wasn’t supposed to become an ice hockey player—let alone the fucking best in the country. But he digresses.

And how fucking hilarious was it that the (second) heir to a family so vehemently against Toji becoming an ice hockey player…also became an ice hockey player? He had an inkling this would happen - when Naoya’s mean-spirited amusement turned into surveillance attempting to catch him sneaking out of the estate, turned into watching him play at the local arena. Turned into awe.

He knew the boy was stunned ever since the first time he watched Toji play. And he never laughed when Toji was caught after that day.

But it seems that that still hadn’t stopped the kid from growing up into a fucking asshole like the rest of them.

He was damn glad he’d escaped from that household the very second he’d gotten an offer from a local team, the Tokyo Ice Bucks. Though a morbid part of him wished he’d stayed just long enough to be there for when Naoya announced that he, too, wanted to become just like their disgraced once-heir. How he wished he could’ve seen the reactions of his high-strung relatives, his uptight family friends, his parents, his council—though, seemingly it hadn’t worked out too bad for Naoya.

As he climbed up the ranks, he’d heard through the grapevine that his cousin had been sent to some of the most expensive training centers in the world. Ultimately getting signed onto a team in the US (though the hefty sum his family had paid likely helped, but those were just rumors of sports business…). He also knew that the other man had gotten naturalized recently, getting chosen for the Olympics team. He knew it all.

Toji just didn’t know that Naoya would also be your fucking boyfriend.

“Major scene, eh?” Kusakabe clatters himself down on the bench, slightly winded after a practice run. He fixes the laces on his ice skates, “I saw your ex-girlfriend there, she’s gotten even more beautiful. She seemed to be arguing with-”

“Mhm.” Replying absent-mindedly, Toji stands.

“Something about cheating- what a fucking bastard. Doesn’t deserve her, but then again neither did you.”

“I know.”

And Kusakabe frowns, “Does she know that she’s dating your weirdo estranged cousin?”

“No fuckin’ clue.”

“Oi…” Comes the slightly wary tone at Toji’s swift, dismissive responses—Kusakabe looks up at his teammate. “Don’t do something stupid.”

But Toji doesn’t answer, too fixated on watching the remains of your argument with Naoya: you sitting down weakly in your chair, looking around to make sure no one notices as you wipe away the tears in your ears before they overspill. He sees red.

He shoots up to a stand.

“Oi-” Kusakabe’s more panicked tone echoes across the ice- did Toji already get inside the rink? He was skating on the ice before he even registered it. “Oi, fuck-face. Asshat. Toji—”

But Toji’s eyes were set on one thing, his ears were listening for the commentator announcing the imminent start of the game.

“Toji, don’t do something stupid-”

And maybe he was stupid. Because it wasn’t for nothing that Toji Zenin was named the most feared man on the ice by The Hockey News just this year. He stood big. He stood tall. He stood unafraid to fight his entire childhood, so why should he be afraid to fight on the ice?

234 fights since the start of his ice hockey career.

234 fights won.

And right now the man wasn’t afraid to get blood on his hands, even if it suspended him.

Their coach barks at the rest of the Japanese team to get into position, and it’s a blur as he bends low at the faceoff spot, awaiting the referee to release the puck. Toji Zenin: captain of the Japanese Ice Hockey team.

His eyes shift past the US captain before him—to where Naoya Zenin was lined up as well. And he can see the precise, exact moment that the other man registers- and a shiver courses down his spine.

The puck drops.

It goes to the Japanese team.

Toji swoops the puck using the blade and attacks between the forwards- pitiful, honestly. He could almost let out a slight burst of laughter as he senses the dumbfounded looks on their faces—and yet, he doesn’t spare them a single glance backwards as he races between members of the other team. Past center. Past forward.

 A right-winger attempts to steal the puck. He’s ignoring Kusakabe’s call to pass and toe-dragging around his bland-faced opponent to skate right past. Right winger. Left winger. 

The forward surpassed yet again.

At the speed of light, screaming audience members meld into one.

All but you.

You—you’re all that’s on his mind as Toji makes it unscathed up to the defense- past left defense. 

Until he’s left facing the very man he hasn’t seen in ten years. Eyes like his, though they were dark and widened in fear - somewhere in the far distance of the stadium, Toji hears one of the commentators make a remark about their relation. He doesn’t listen.

He feints the puck slipping out from the leash of his hockey stick for a split-second—just long enough for excitement to flicker in Naoya’s eyes and for his own hand jerk to claim it. Only to smile- hah, you fucking thought.

And Toji’s slamming at the back of the puck - straight into the net of the goal.

Bursts of cheers and commentary as the Japanese men’s ice hockey team scores the first goal of the Olympic finals. Fans getting up onto their feet. Hands high in the air.

But Toji’s own curls into a fist that meets Naoya Zenin’s jaw.

The sickening sound of bone crushing against flesh, knuckles - it’s never sounded sweeter in Toji’s ears. The baffled man is on the floor before he can even register what happened. Thud! There’s a gasp that echoes throughout the stadium, before the two-toned man haplessly attempts to get up and get at least one hit in for his own dignity—but it’s too late, he raises a feeble hand but it falls. Meanwhile Toji pummels punch after punch.

Hard enough that it makes the ice floor shudder.

Long enough that the referee glides over and their team starts surrounding them.

Naoya’s now spread-eagle on the floor and sobbing for mercy, which Toji genuinely didn’t hear - he genuinely didn’t. Couldn’t. His ears were ringing and his eyes were seeing red- no, they were seeing that vision of you wiping away your tears.

His prominent knuckles met the swoops and structure of Naoya’s face, features that he can’t deny make him wonder…did you see Toji in him? The proud slash of his mouth. The high cheekbones of the Zenins.

It made something twist within him to think that not only might you have seen Toji in him- but then he would’ve betrayed you as such. As if Toji ever would.

Naoya made you cry.

He couldn’t beat this fucker harder.

It takes four of his own teammates to pull him off.

And by then, even the commentators had stopped speaking, the audience watching in a mix of interest and horror. Their hands on their mouths. Toji staggers onto his feet and yet his hands were still clenched - still twitching as though he was in the middle of the fight.

Kusakabe’s nails dig into his skin even through those thick uniforms, and he’s muttering something in his ear about the referee and a five-minute timeout. But Toji doesn’t care.

Toji isn’t looking at the referee, or the coach, or any of his teammates.

He turns his head over his shoulder to look at you—

You with your mouth agape, your eyes fixated reciprocatively on him, your blue jersey taken off to reveal your normal clothes underneath. There was a slight tremor in your body as you take in your ex-boyfriend, Toji. 

Victorious from beating up your cheating boyfriend. 

And the black-haired man can only smirk.

He tastes iron, and it’s only then that he realizes he had a nosebleed. Dripping from his left nostril and down across his lips, his garish grin; not from a single thing Naoya did, of course - that fucker hadn’t even gotten a single hit in…Toji was almost reconsidering whether the bastard was a Zenin at all - but perhaps from his teammates fighting against his fighting, perhaps from his sheer anger, perhaps just from looking at you for the first time in six months.

Even from here, he could see the slightest snippet of your bra strap peeking out from underneath your t-shirt.

It was the Japanese national ice hockey team red.

Or more like, Toji Zenin red.

He smirks even wider.

.

.

.

Needless to say, Naoya Zenin was carried out of the game in a stretcher.

Toji didn’t feel any regret about it - not even a single speck. His penalties still applied as well- for about five minutes before he was back to kicking ass in the finals. Metaphorically, this time. 

He was about to show them why exactly he’d become the captain of the national team in such a short time.

And he could take on whatever shit they were commenting about a ‘family feud’ and a ‘beau stuck in the middle’ (who the hell even told them that? He was sure it must’ve been that loudmouth Kusakabe) if only…every time he circled the perimeter of the rink, he could see that smile of yours through the plexiglass screen. No banner with his name, but still cheering him on in a sea of blue.

Also needless to say—Japan won gold at this year’s Olympics for men’s ice hockey. 

The celebrations were overpouring - streamers, confetti, fans attempting to jump their way into the rink. This was about tenfold the intensity of celebrating any local game they’d won, and yet…his eyes were anywhere but on the commentators, the audience, the teammates that were huddling around him. 

Toji was turning his dazed head left and right- only attempting to find you.

“We won—” Kusakabe yelled out at him, giving him a hefty thump on the back and pulling the man into his embrace. “We fucking won, you asshat-”

“We did.” Toji’s lips felt parched. He couldn’t see a single sign of you through the chaos. “I think.”

They - meaning the rest of the team, with their captain tacked-on and looking slightly astray ever since he lost sight of you - celebrated for the pictures, for the podium. They celebrated on the ice and off it.

Eventually, the celebrations extended past the rink and towards their locker rooms. It was a sprawling room that’d been especially constructed; white walls and wood-panelled furnishings, even whiter ceilings that gloried down even more spotless racks for each, swathing the end of the room in a semi-circular fashion. It was where they kept their helmets and their jackets, took them off like armor after such a win. Towards the other end of the chamber were the stalls where they showered, large enough to house a small group in each of them, with benches of clean wood.

The tile beneath was colorless except for five familiar rings intertwined, spreading their wings from one end of the locker room where the showers were—and down to the benches where the celebration had bled out. 

The players had long since filtered out to celebrate with food and family, except for one particular captain of which he had no family visiting. But also because he was getting his final warnings on pulling such a stunt like that…

“—I have no idea what-” Coach Shiu Kong peers through his stern eyebrows at the man seated on the bench, his head bowed low. “-or who triggered you to start enforcing like that, but know that you are walking on very thin ice.”

If Toji hears the other man - his best friend - then he doesn’t show any sign of it.

“Their defender practically needed to be hospitalized.” Shiu sighs, “I don’t give a shit if you beat the boy up, but keep it within guidelines. I overheard some of the officials discussing whether we should’ve given you a much tougher penalty.”

At that, Toji flinches.

“A much tougher penalty.”

Being a player himself not too long ago, however, Shiu could understand the other man somewhat. And he knows the captain would do it all again. 

Gladly.

Toji remains silent, and Shiu pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look- you’re lucky you got off with a five-minute penalty this time. Insanely lucky. Next time you’re not gonna be so lucky, so I suggest you keep your fists to yourself.” 

“Tch…” Their star player wrinkles his nose and looks away.

To which Shiu claps him on the shoulder, “Look, you did good out there.” Looking closely at the other man, “And I know the girl- I’ve seen her around practice when you used to bring her, before she stopped coming around. Gorgeous. But keep your head on straight.”

One final clap. “You did good.”

Before he, too, leaves.

The locker doors swing behind him. And then there was one.

As the celebrations raged on outside, Toji doesn’t know how long he spends sitting on that bench - thinking to himself. About what? Everything and anything. He couldn’t quite pinpoint one thought before it flowed into the next one, and even then just as he’d register it—suddenly it was speeding into the next. Aqueous. 

But one thing was for sure, they were all about you.

You.

You.

You.

Knock-knock-knock.

Who the hell knocks on locker room doors?

Slightly bemused and perhaps wondering whether this was a paparazzi hoping for a good shot, Toji leans back in his seat and lets the knock reverberate. He doesn’t answer before the doors are clicking open, and a set of footsteps ring across the vast, dampened chamber - a set of footsteps that he’s memorized far better than his own heartbeat.

It was you.

This realization doesn’t damper his shock a single bit as your head peeks ‘round the tiled corner. Breathing out an exhale of relief as you realize that he’s the only one there, you’re revealing yourself properly in his line of vision now.

“Oh, good.” And your voice- fuck, even your voice doesn’t feel real. It echoes slightly in the space, and makes you sound even more dream-like in Toji’s ears. “I didn’t feel like walking in here and seeing an eyeful of ice hockey dick.”

“Think about ice hockey dick a lot?” They’re the first words out of Toji’s mouth to you in six months, and suddenly he feels like banging his head against a wall. 

“You mean Naoya?” Your nose crinkles in distaste, and he feels like spitting. “Hell no—” He feels like laughing. “I told him we’re breaking up the second he got put on that stretcher.”

He startles himself with a guffaw, “As the bastard was being carried off?”

“As the bastard was being carried off.” You’re nodding, before awkwardly shifting on your feet. “I’m sorry.”

One of his brows raise, “For what?”

“I didn’t know he was your cousin. I just thought the last name was a coinci-”

“Nah- forget about it.” Waving off one hand - roughened with so many years of training, of holding a hockey stick as though a lifeline - in your direction. “No harm done, girlie. Guess that jus’ means you have a type- though obviously…” Toji stabs a finger in his direction, “-I’m the handsome one of the family.”

“As humble as ever, I see.” You tease.

“Always.” He shrugs in a nonchalant attempt, though his green eyes kept straying to you. “You look good.”

You’re meeting his eyes slowly. “You look good, too.”

And whatever he sees in your expression makes him gulp. “Fuck-” He whispers underneath his breath, reaching up and rubbing the burning back of his head. “Now, not that I mind ya being in the men’s locker room but…”

“O-oh.” You jump slightly, as though just now reminded of your objective. “I wanted to thank you.”

He’s taken aback. “Huh?”

“For…well not that I condone violence buuuut—” Averting your gaze from his, “I wanted to- thank you.”

“Y-yeah.” Breathless, “No harm done. The fucker didn’t deserve you anyway.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s a slightly challenging look in your eyes now, “I wonder who did.”

Toji Zenin then stands from his seat, and you’re taking a half-step back as if you’d forgotten just how much the athlete towered. His shoulders had gotten broader since the last time you saw him, fitting out the shape of his brand-new uniform snugly. His biceps bulkier. His hips more defined. His face more ruggedly handsome. His sage eyes sharper—and currently locked in on you…

“To be quite honest…” Toji starts, a slightly husky timbre to his tone, “I don’t think anyone did.”

You jut your chin up in defiance, “I disagree.”

“Clearly the current dating pool isn’t good enough if you ended up dating fucking Naoya of all people.” And was that a silent seething you could hear in his tone? “Never would I blame you for what he did, girlie. Never. I’m just wondering what the hell attracted you to him in the first place.”

And your hand’s reaching up to touch him- “I have…I have no idea.”

“Because don’t you know what you deserve?” His large right hand reaches out to cup your cheek tenderly- before he’s gliding it to the back of your neck and squeezing you meanly. “Tell me.” He tightens his fist and makes you look up properly at him, “Tell me what you deserve.”

To which you’ve just finished grabbing onto his red jersey. Tugging him to you—you’re walking backwards and dragging your ex-boyfriend with you. “Someone…handsome.”

He grins, “Mhmmmm?” Fingers tap-tap-tapping the cute column of your throat. “And what else?”

“Someone big n’ strong.” Step by step, you head towards the nearest vertical surface you can remember - one of those wooden partitions that separated the shower stalls from the changing area. “Someone really good at hockey.”

“Heh-” He fails to hide the glint in his eyes, “And?”

“Someone sweet, though he pretends not to be.” Giggling at his huff, “Someone interesting. Someone that opens up. Someone that won’t give up.”

“And?”

“Someone filthy rich-”

“Heh, gold-digger.”

“Someone that can change for the better for me.”

It’s with a quiet thud—! that you’re hitting the partition now- taking Toji with you. He braces himself with a large arm pressed on the area above your head, and from here you can ogle every single muscle, vein, and twitch.

Every single scorched pant as he leans in.

Blinking up at him, your heart races at the question you were about to ask. “Someone that’ll fuck me right?”

He smirks and you swear you can feel it against your mouth. “Why the question mark, doll?”

And then his lips are on yours.

Rushing. Ravenous. Famished.

Toji massages his scarred lips against yours, smacking at the taste of that dewy cherry lipgloss you had on. And he doesn’t hesitate for a single second before letting the tip of his tastebuds draaaaaaaag right down that gloss, humming. “Missed this taste.” He trails his right hand up to rest against the edge of your chin—widening the gap between your pretty lips n’ swiping his eager tongue in. Hot and open-mouthed.

Kissing you so filthy.

Toji fucking groans something feral as his tongue slips even deeper, reclaiming those velvety spots inside you. And as he feels your mouth water, feels your hips start to squirm, the ice hockey player can’t help but chuckle. 

Lifting his left hand off of the wooden surface to run down your front, managing you away from the partition and inside the stall. You’re walking blindly backwards, being led by solely his hands - nothing inside but the showerhead above and the wide open space. Toji pushes you against the cold tile and kisses you even more fervently—“Missed how wet she’d get just from kissing me.”

Cupping your pussy through your short, short skirt.

“Is she purring already?”

You gasp, “You can’t just say that-”

“What was that?” Toji cocks his head in near-innocent confusion, “Can’t hear you over her congratulations.”

“You fucking-”

The next thing you’re seeing is enough to knock the wind out of your lungs - and the words. And it’s not because of anything Toji says, it’s not because of his expressions or his gestures, or even the way he rubs the mountains of his palm against your clothed pussy—it’s because of the way he doesn’t hesitate before letting his knees hit the tiled ground with two deep thuds.

Fucking kneeling before you.

Toji throws your non-dominant leg over his shoulder, and bores up at you with half-lidded eyes. Heavy. Darkened with arousal- he wanted you so fucking bad.

He was a man deep in thirst.

In a single motion, the hockey player flips your skirt up n’ tucks the hemline into your waistband. 

It’s almost as if he’s in a daze - as if he’s hypnotized - as he brings his face closer to your throbbing core. Where your pussy was nearly beating out of your red panties—before Toji flares his nostrils and gives that dampened spot on your panties a gooooood sniff. “Mmm, s’like coming home.” Your mouth gapes as you wonder whether he even realized what he was saying- was it possible to even act so starved? So animalistic? Open-mouthed, he breathes out a scorching hot pant that makes your legs shake. “Shit—shit, shit shit-”

“What?” You squeak out in—well, perhaps in surprise, perhaps because of the way your ex-boyfriend doesn’t waste a second more before nudgin’ your legs apart and sticking his nose right between your clothed slit. Slurp! 

And his mouth merely opens with a gasp.

With a groan.

A sudden jolt courses through the hockey captain’s muscular body. And before you know it- before Toji himself knows it, he’s clasping onto either side of your hips and draaaagging your pussy all down his face. 

All across every handsome feature of his. It doesn’t matter if you still have panties on, he’s gaping his dampened maw wide open and saaaaalivating across every nook n’ cranny he could reach. That cute crevice of your pussylips growing even wetter as you start to feel his nosebridge rub uuuup and down, uuuup and down- up and down. 

Gurgling those sweetened wads of slick at the back of his throat as he ebbs himself even closer- “Oh my god, pretty girl…” And for a second there, you think he’s talking to you—only to find Toji pulling away with a squelch! of fabric. His half-lidded eyes remain fixated between your legs, and that sinful mouth of his glistens eagerly with your juices. “Fuck, oh my god-”

“Wh-what is it?” You’re squealing out, despite fully knowing that he’s talking to your pussy by now. Just your pussy.

And Toji croons upwards, his glazed eyes flickering towards you. “Your sorry excuse of a boyfriend doesn’t eat you out, does he?”

You gape.

How the fuck did he know?

“Because she told me- duh.” Toji rolls his verdant eyes as though the answer should’ve been obvious - the answer to a question you clearly don’t remember asking. Out loud, at least.

Although…your mind isn’t clear at all.

It’s so clouded by the way he massaged the top of your folds with his tongue. Those rugged, textured tastebuds flicking aaaaaall over your outer lips, dipping into the outline created by your slit. In and out. In and out.

It’s as though he was already attempting to fuck you through your damn panties- perhaps the only thing holding him back right now. Toji taps the flattened surface of his tongue across your sopping slit once he’s completely sure he’s slurped up every ounce of you there was to slurp-

“Can you hear her?” He utters hoarsely. And he doesn’t even need to wait for your response - Toji surges in once more in a way that was almost uncontrollable—“She’s purrin’ so much- heh.”

Eyes rolling to the back of his head at the cloying, clingy taste.

You were just so weeeeeet and warm.

“She’s been so neglected. Poor pussy.”

“Oh—” Your mouth drops.

And that’s the last thing you’re managing out before Toji tucks the rounded tip of his finger beneath your ruined red panties, making it snap- once before tuggin’ them aside and spitting. Letting the vertical line of saliva lubricate you a bit more for him to swab his tongue everywhere and anywhere—“She- she hasn’t been tasted like this in aaaaages.”

“I haven’t, I haven’t-” You sob.

That pointed chin of his plasters against your cunt, nearly hitting the back. And Toji’s pushed up so deeply against your pussylips that you’re wondering whether he even has the space to breathe- crushing his face between your folds. What was that saying about big noses? “She hasn’t been tongued the way she likes it.”

Wrenching your head off of where it’d been rested against the cold tile wall. “H-huh?”

With a growl, you’re shocked as his four thick fingertips come slammin’ down on your pussy. “Pay attention, doll.” And he’s juuuuust nudging aside your sensitive folds to lap up the sap leaking between them. Feeling that cute orifice of your hole that was just clenchin’ around him, “She hasn’t been tongued the way I know she likes it. Dirty girl.”

And you’re shivering as the very first inch of his girthy muscle slips inside your entrance. “Fuh-fuuuuck-”

“She hasn’t been tasted like she deserves.” He pants out between rovering movements with his head now, baaaaaack and forth. Baaaaack and forth. Faster each time. Deeper each time. “She hasn’t been spat on. She hasn’t even been fingered-”

“Fuh-fuuuuck, ngh—yes.” You’re keening out, your voice crackling dangerously. “I mean no- no, he didn’t.”

Feeling the leer of his lips against your other ones, something almost cruel to their shape. “I know.” His severe timbre - mixed with the scrape-scrape-scrape of those textured tastebuds inside you - make you see stars. No warning—and he’s reaching up to plaster the crown of his thumb against your throbbing clit. “And I’ll fuckin’ kill him for it.”

Without thinking much of it, you’re grabbing onto a handful of his jet-black hair and bowing your body forwards. “Toji—”

“Look at her.”

As though he wasn’t even hearing you right now- Toji’s eyes were widened, his voice slightly breathy. Both of his hands were positioned on either side of your cunt n’ spreading your puffy pussylips apart. “Fucking look at her…”

Toji’s tone was trembling.

Toji’s tone was wrecked.

And you’ve never seen the man knot his dark brows like this- as though he was at the feet of a shrine and worshipping you with looooong, deep thrusts into your wet cavern.

So watching him between your legs like this- you already knew that Toji was a ravenous eater from your relationship. But to hear him be so desperate?

You couldn’t help the next words that fall from your mouth, “N-Naoya always thought it was emasculating to-”

There’s a brief squelch then a smack!

He’s tugging his hands away from your stinging clit, before kissing all over it. Sucking. It made your knees weeeak to feel him unabashedly press up against your pulsing nub as he thrusted his tongue inside - sniffing, moaning, breathing you in. “How can ya have a pussy like this…” 

Letting his jaw droop even further open as he presses the tip of his tongue inside, swabbin’ into every geysering orifice. “How—?” He’s massagin’ your tight walls apart from one another, accelerating with every soft gasp you’re letting out. “How can ya have a pussy like this n’ not just fucking drown yerself in it?”

You’re bucking off of the frigid tile, leaking out a few more dewdrops of slick.

He moans as he watches that bead of translucence exit from your hole n’ cascade between your legs- “Some men die of thirst whilst others fucking- fuck, fist their cock to the thought of this pussy every night.” 

Excitement zips down your spine as you realize he’s talking about himself- every night? For six months straight? “Every-”

“Every night.” Toji affirms. “Six months straight. I thought about how many times I’d make you cum on my tongue.”

“Shit—” He’s then fucking your poor hole battered, harder than the strokes he had before. Those were just to fit the first few inches of him inside, these were to make your velvety pussy feel him.

“Every fuckin’ night. I missed this pussy soooooo—” Spitting. “-much. Every night, I thought about how much my poor girl must be missin’ me. Every night, I thought about how much better she’d taste than any sweet dessert in the world.”

“Toji—” Your whines rattle through the locker room. “Shit, it feels so good-”

“And it’s the fuckin’ least she deserves.” 

Without any further warning, Toji then slides the larger end of his thumb between your sopping wet slit. Collecting a few wads of your clingy juices, he’s pushing it back in—

“Fuck, she’s so tight.” He whispers underneath his breath, nose crinkling at the way your gooey walls immediately rush to clench around him. His tip being engulfed by the warmth. Not only were you sucking him in, but those cutely trembling hips of yours were jerkin’ off the wall expecting more, more, more- “She hasn’t been fucked properly in a while…”

And before you can even register it, he’s removing his thumb with a wettened plop! Rapidly replacing it with his lengthy middle finger, his index.

Scissoring those scouring tips open inside you.

Swabbing them into those ridges n’ sweet spots.

Letting them jostle against one another and against your most tender areas-

Fuck, you’re throwing your head back.

Those thoroughly thick fingers of his kept filling you up so much more than his tongue did, and you’re gnawing down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from making too much noise—even more than you already were. In and out. In and out.

How you missed the pleasurable burn of him stuffin’ you. 

The way it sends carnal shockwaves up your spine- especially every time he pushes past the shy squeezes of your first ring of muscle. The first restraint. 

“T-Toji…” You’re wailing out in that pretty tone that makes his ears perk up immediately, “Please—” Your hips rut upwards, “So close to…”

“Tch- d’you even have to ask?”

And you didn’t think that Toji Zenin was ever the type to forget anything to do with your cunt, did you? Did you? 

Because this wasn’t his first damn rodeo: you best believe that the first time Toji ever had the chance to feel you clenchin’ around his fingers, he took the time to memorize every nook and cranny inside. He’d mapped it all out.

He’d drilled it straight into his brain that if he quirked his fingers juuuuust so to feel the spongy depths of your roof- then shovelled his fingers along that pathway…juuuuust so. He’d be greedily swallowed up until his joints, and it’d only take a few more vulgar thrusts for him to locate that special bundle of nerves inside of you.

The one that made you see stars. The one that made you call his name out loud enough for the neighbors to hear-

“Heh…” He dares crack a smirk, “And he hasn’t found this spot yet, right?”

And right now, your prettily cracking whine was echoing across every corner of the locker room. “T-Toji—” He’d found your g-spot. Reeling his slick-glazed fingers back just enough to roughly push and push, to dig his rounded fingertips against that throbbing area. Constantly. “Right there- k-keep going. Right there-”

“Heh- keep going? You seriously ever thought I’d stop—?” The captain of the national theme looks genuinely baffled you’d asked, disbelieving of the words. Him? Stopping when you’re completely begging for him not to? “Doll, I’d rather fuckin’ die than let this pretty pussy down.” 

And with that said, Toji wraps his swollen lips around your clit once more.

He was stimulating you with twice the blissful waves now- once with his fingers probing into you and pinpointing each sensitive nerve inside you. The other through the wet smacks! of his lips, latching onto your knobbly clit and sucking as though the sweetest candy in the world.

You watch as Toji’s handsome cheeks hollow out because of his suctioning. His pretty pink lips were all glossed over with layers of your sploshin’ cunt, rolling drunkenly over that nub.

“I need you to cum on my tongue.” The black-haired man sputters against your wet, treacly cunt—his breaths becoming more n’ more ragged by the second. Tone thick, “I need you to cum on my fuckin’ tongue so bad-”

“M’so close—” You’re using the leverage you have on his sweaty bangs to tug him in even deeper- not that Toji could go even deeper.

But he smirks at your sheer desperation and you can feel the formulation of his expression against your sodden pussy. And that’s when your panties are being properly ripped off your hips- straight off. Clean. With his teeth. As you buck and gasp, he’s spitting out the useless lace remnants into his left hand and snakin’ it between his legs.

And you’re not quite sure - you can’t see beyond his hunched core - what Toji’s doing with that particular treasure. But by the way his biceps suddenly flex as though gripping something, by the way he lets out a sudden grooooooan deep into your pussy- you can already guess.

Toji’s sculptured arm starts flying up and down at a rapid pace.

In the same sloppy, striking cadence as he’s fuckin’ his tongue between your soft pussylips. He jerks himself off furiously, a thin line of sweat drizzling down his forehead the more, and more, and more-

“Toji, baby—” You’re whimpering out, tugging on his shaggy strands a bit to make him look at you. “M’gonna cum- so don’t stop, m’kay?”

“Has-” Panting out a murky breath, “Has he ever made you cum before?”

To which you’re almost embarrassed to shake your head, “N-no…”

“Can’t believe he’d- fuck.” Toji grumbles, his thick brows marrying together. Those sharp canines of his make an appearance as he snarls, “M’gonna kill that bastard. M’gonna fucking kill him-” Slapping the velvety underside of his tongue down-down-down—“But first m’gonna make you cum.”

And since the last time you saw him, Toji Zenin has learned to keep his promises. And he’s proving it.

Which is why it takes only a few more vicious strikes at the very bottom of your pussy - at the very target of your g-spot - for you to throw your head back n’ start shaking with your orgasm. The white-hot pleasure coursing through your every blood vessel makes you cry out, so much better than you remembered.

This wasn’t the same as idly prodding yourself with your vibrator while your boyfriend wasn’t home.

This makes you buck. This makes you gasp. “C-cumming—” Your thoughts coming belated to you as you’re riding out Toji Zenin’s handsome face, elongating your high on the prominent curve of his nose or the puffiness of his lips. “Cumming, Toji, shit…s’the best it’s ever felt.”

“Uh-huh?” He murmurs up wetly at you. “Only the best for m’girl.”

“Your girl?” And that makes something within you tremor almost as much as your orgasm.

“Shhhhh, and ride out your orgasm-” He’s talking you through those soaring peaks of your high - incredible. 

Because not only was Toji curving his fingertips just right against your g-spot, but he smirked against your clit and gently bit down on that nub.

You’re flinching upwards- never having experienced something so strong. At least, not in six months.

And it seems like forever before your high passes - not that you were complaining. That orgasm left you all heated and raw, feeling so wound-up that you honestly thought a mere brush of Toji’s fingers would be enough to get you cumming again.

Your overwhelming wave of pleasure is just barely finished before Toji stands up to his full height again.

Blinking away the tears in your eyes, you’re looking up at him. The slightly-dimmed lights of the locker room created the effect of a halo around his head- how ironic…because the way he’d made out with your pussy made you think of Toji to be someone from quite the opposite realm.

But you don’t get to comment on that right now.

No- you were too busy watching slack-jacked as he tugs off his national team jersey. 

And you’d already seen Toji shirtless before - of course, you have. You’ve already seen him in every state there was to see him—but it’s seeing him after so long that really makes your cunt twitch. Your eyes sweep across his broad shoulders, those toned pecs with a certain familiarity- you note that he still had that unruly line of his happy trail. It was deep black in color, a ruggedly handsome look to it as it started off at his abs then snaked all the way down, down, down…

His chiselled abs. His slightly-tanned skin.

The only real difference that you could’ve pointed out was that Toji, in fact, seemed a little…bigger than you remembered him. Bulkier. Beefier. Broader around his arms and his pecs.

And perhaps that was in part to do with memory- but more likely it was that his new training regiment with the national team had been serving him well. Very well.

And his cock, fuck, his cock…

Toji hadn’t fully exposed himself as he jerked off whilst eating you out- but it was more than enough. Just enough of his black hockey pants getting nudged down—they stuck around his meaty upper-thighs, and you’re left starin’ at the thiiiiick throbbing cock in-between.

Toji was big. Toji was hard. Toji was so reddened at the tip of his bulbous shaft that you wondered whether it must be painful-

You hadn’t forgotten just how big he is, had you?

But you swear Toji had been around seven or eight inches the last time you’d…seen him all those months ago. But this? This was about nine- fuck, if you pulled out a ruler than you wouldn’t be surprised if he was around even ten inches. 

Perhaps that was just your imagination refusing to concede that your ex was the largest you’ve ever had. The best, too.

Thickened so much that it made your legs squeeze. Covered in veins from underneath his reddish tip, and aaaaaaaaall the way down to his tanned base. 

Those hefty balls of his clenched at your attention, and you’re both thinking at the same time that he must’ve really missed you.

Toji reaches his right hand up to his face and spits—slithering it down to give his aching erection a good tug. That mere touch was enough to make him ooze out a few more droplets of pre, capping the top of his crowned tip as though the prettiest glaze.

He has to cough ever-so-slightly to rip your attention away from his cock.

Even then, you could barely keep your eyes off of your ex-boyfriend as he turned his hockey jersey the right way. About to throw it over his shoulder when—he looks at you and seemingly gets an idea.

“Off, doll.”

And suddenly it’s a blur of hands and grabbing - Toji’s pulling your own clothes off, ultimately leaving you in absolutely nothing. He tucks those remnants of your panties in his pants pockets, and tugs your head through the holes of the jersey—

“Y-you’re making me wear this?” You’re babbling out stupidly as he steps back to admire his work, “And only this?”

Toji lets out a low whistle, “Fuck, yeah.” Before gesturing for you to twirl- “Now turn around n’ put your hands on the wall- hah, I want to see my name on you while I fuck you.”

Nevermind the fact that technically this was his last name, as well.

But that didn’t matter - never would. These were Toji’s colors, Toji’s number.

And right now, it was Toji’s fat- aching cock that was making your pussylips bulge apart. Slowly and sensually.

He might’ve been ravenous when he was tasting you for the first time in six months - but Toji was taking his goooood time filling up your driveling orifice. Stuffing back the beads of slick that kept on spraying out of you, letting his pointed tip stretch your entrance out.

He’s letting his breath hitch as he reels his hips back a bit, pushing his twitching cock iiiiiiiiiinside and then out. Iiiiiiiiiinside and then out.

Baaaaack and forth.

Baaaaack and forth.

That ruddied roundness of his cockhead gets stuck between your lips, and Toji’s brows furrow- he attempts to pull out. He really does.

But you’re just gobbling him up so damn greedily- inch by fucking inch. That he can’t help but arch his toned hips against yours- soothing the globes of your ass cheeks a bit before Toji gives a nice, honed thrust. Pointed deep towards the back of your pussy.

Though he isn’t getting that far with your snug channel.

“O-oh—” The captain groans out as he’s sucked in deep, push by fuckin’ push. The intrusion of his girth makes its way ‘round your first ring of tight fuckin’ muscle - slotted between your legs and enough to leave your knees weak with only a few shallow thrusts.

Toji’s having such fun holding onto the side of your waist- eventually moving to hook ‘round your pretty thighs when it seemed as though you were going to collapse.

His pretty girl, so desperate to take him that you can’t even stand.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” He breathes out, scorching breath gusting down the curvature of your spine. “Fuck, my girl’s pussy feels so good—”

“Toji-” And for the first few of his semi-thrusts, you’re letting your eyes roll to the back of your head. But thereafter you’re jerking your hips back in desire for more, craving all those carnal itches inside of you satisfied by Toji’s thick cock. “N-need it.”

Toji opens his mouth to tease - you’re sure of it - but at that very moment you’re using your velvety walls to give him a thorough clench that makes him break off into a groan. “This pussy’s been so hungry f’me, hm?”

Shivers wracking through your entire body. “Y-yes-”

“He didn’t fuck you like he should’ve, hm?”

“He didn’t—fuck.”

“Always wished it was your- heh, ex beside you, huh?”

Tearily, you’re looking back at him with an expression of sheepish guilt. “Yes…”

“Oh—” And the mere fact that you said that - your mere answer - is enough for the towering man to hunch his body into yours. To buck his hips into you like an animal.

It wasn’t even planned.

Just an instinctual movement to graze his dribbling tip against the very forefront of your womb- Toji lets his cockhead pulse inside you for a moment before starting to fuck you again. Slightly speedier, slightly deeper. 

Slightly rubbin’ the line of his flared ridge against your dewy insides—it made the man’s balls clench to watch the way you’d drip n’ suction around him. You were fucking thinking of him? Just as much as he was thinking of you? “So this pussy has been greedy f’me.” As if to prove his point, he’s easing in just a few more puckered inches to swipe the front of his burning divot against your spongy cervix. “How many times have you touched yerself to the thought of me?”

“I-I—” It takes you a sudden slap on your pussylips to realize that he was genuinely waiting for an answer. 

“How many times?” Toji gasps between his clenched canines, Adam’s apple bobbing in fervor. “And don’t lie to me, girlie- I know s’been more than once.”

“So many times-” Just the most sultry scrape against your g-spot- the sensation of Toji’s pulsating cockhead pressing on those nerves feels so good. Good enough to reveal your secrets, your hazy brain seems to think. “T-too many times to count-”

“Fuck.” He has to gnaw down on his bottom lip to keep himself from cumming too soon. Too fast. If anything, he wasn’t going to be like that (likely) two-pump chump boyfriend of yours.

Which is why the older man finds himself smearing his left hand over your pussylips once more- this time, however, it wasn’t to place a mean spank. It was to spread those folds open and roll his fingertips over your neglected clit. “Dirty girl. And h-how many times have you cum just from the thought of me?”

“All of those times, Toji.” The constant rhythmic nudgin’ of your favorite spot was enough to leave your mind absolutely shattered by this point in time. “All those times I—ngh, can only cum if it’s you.”

“Oh?” Fuck—fuck, fuck, fuck. D-don’t even fuckin’ say…” He reaches down and slams his hand against your clit once more - partly to take his mind off of those sinful words you were babbling, partly out of punishment for exactly those. And if you were in any better state of mind, then you’d have marvelled at the fact that you’d just made Toji Zenin sound damn starstruck. Just with your pussy. “Don’t even fuckin’ say that shit.”

He leans over you and nuzzles his cheek against your own.

Scarred lips muttering into your ear, “I know she’s been- fuck, needing me just as much as I need her.” They’re kissing down your sweaty temple for a few seconds before sinking his teeth into your ear lobe, “I know she’s been fucking—dreaming of me, wishing for me, fantasizing about me, getting so fuckin’ aroused at just the thought of me that- hah, locker rooms like these were a problem.”

Blinking the tears away from your eyes, “W-wait…”

“Or maybe that was just me.” Toji finishes off. Though he really didn’t have to for you to realize that he’d been talking about himself the entire time.

Toji had been craving you these past six months.

Desiring you.

Fucking his fist and his pillows at the thought that - perhaps one day - he’ll have you underneath him like this again.

And perhaps that’s why there was a strange reverence to everything he did. Something jittery at his fingertips, something that made him hold you a little tighter - as though to make sure that you were really real.

He’s looping both strong arms around your tremoring figure and gluing you to his toned front. There, you were being massaged after each rub n’ puuuuuull of his vein-decorated cock down your swallowing insides. Hand still reaching downwards.

Toji lets out the most lecherous slurps once he still manages to loop his hand between your sodden pussylips n’ toy with your clit. Finger pinching. Thumb rolling. Just by how sensitive you were - still getting re-used to the sultry sensation of someone else’s hand upon your nub - he knew that that damn Naoya wasn’t properly lovin’ on this part of you, either.

And it makes his blood boil just as it did on the rink today.

His fingers move on top of your clit at an almost frenzied pace- back arching, head throwing back. 

Naturally, your lips spread wide open to let out an echoing moan—but it’s too late. Toji’s already leaning in and replacing it with a dollop of his sweetened saliva, “Yeah…” He looks down at you as though you were a dream, “M-maybe that was just me- fuck, but I have one question, doll.”

“Yes—?” Sobbing out.

“Have you ever…” Almost as if it was a precious secret, meant to be between the two of you and the locker room, Toji leans down to whisper against your ear. “-imagined me while he was fucking you?”

Your jaw drops.

Your cunt twitches.

And Toji feels the flooding of your walls with arousal- it’s splashin’ either side of his cylindrical girth. One that was probing and pushing—and speckling every sweet spot inside you with his sap, Toji was fucking you as though he was furious with you.

Long, hard pummels of his hips.

Hard enough that the skin surrounding his pelvis area was reddened.

Long enough that your mind was already completely muddled - filled with only the probin’ pressure of his plump cockhead. Pointing against the cute button of your g-spot once more—“Yes.” You whisper.

And if there was anything - anything - that could make the Toji Zenin falter, then it would’ve been this. Because for two split-seconds you’re feeling the constant sloppy scouring of your innards pause- before it’s resuming harder than ever.

Before he’s fully bottomed-out now and slamming against the gooey depths of your womb.

Before you’re cumming from just that single thrust-

“Y-yes—?” Even Toji’s voice shatters on the repetition of your answer - and he’s looking down at you with his deep, probing eyes. “You- you thought about m-me fucking you when you were still with that bastard?”

You turn around at the amused disbelief in his voice, and nod. “Always thought about you, Toji.” You’re not blind to the way this particular sentence makes the other man flinch—“Every time. He must’ve thought that- ngh, he was the one making me feel good this whole time but it was- oh. It was you.”

“And it…felt good?”

“So good-”

Unsure what to say - unsure what to even do- Toji merely leans down and bites the tender side of your throat. Sure for anyone to see past your collar.

Claimed.

You squeal as you’re fucked through your second high of the night, “A-always you—Toji.” Though loooooong and rugged smooches of his tip, perfectly pointed to graze your ridges inside and ultimately end up on the g-spot. 

Tears bursting to your eyes. Hands slipping with sweat along the tiles.

Toji pulls you even deeper into his embrace - grabbing ahold of your neck with his free hand, the other reaching down to pinch your clit in short, staccato pulses. Matching the peaks of your high. He makes sure to wait just until your wracks of pleasure are at their highest, before plummeting his throbbing cock inside.

Maximizing the rub-a-dub of those prominent veins of his. Sending spurts of pleasure shivering all throughout your body at their massage.

Ridged shaft stretchin’ out those spots that feel the best, his sheer length splitting you up from the inside - you couldn’t possibly forget how well Toji’s cock filled you. Reaching into any deep crevice and orifice, markin’ himself out aaaaaall across your channel with the rounded bruises he left behind.

The captain of the ice hockey team was ruttin’ into you so hard that it was causing the heels of your feet to lift off the floor. 

His thick fingertips dig into your body, plastering you against him- “Always you, my girl.” His words come out sharp and exhaled, “Only you.”

“O-only—ngh.” He catches you from slipping down the vertical wall, scorched chuckles dusting down the crook of your neck. “Toji…”

“Hmmmm?”

Slight panic bleeding into your tone, “Th-there’s someone in the other l-locker room—fuck.”

“Fuckin’ what?” 

Still wracking with the waves of your high. “There’s someone in the other locker room-”

Growling, he’s bowing his powerful lower half towards you - where you were frantically gesturing and miming something at the other side of the wall. The locker rooms were positioned as such that they were side-by-side, sharing a single wall split down the middle of its vast cavern, from which they ignored the existence of the other out of courtesy.

And no matter what one might fear about rowdy ice hockey teams, it never did cause any issues. Yet.

Right now you could hear someone’s footsteps through the tiled wall, you could hear someone’s existence, you could hear someone muttering.

Seemingly not having the best of days - though after that loss, you couldn’t blame them - your mystery US player was banging on locker doors and hissing out swears. It’s only once he seemingly drops something on the floor by accident, letting out a string of expletives starting with ‘b’ that it’s clicking just exactly who this player is—

“Oh, look-” Toji’s the first to start, and you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “-your wittle boyfriend’s here, too, doll.”

“He’s not my-”

“Why don’t we give him a proper welcome, hm?” Toji’s crooning out meanly, “Why don’t we cheer him up? That little ah- incident on the ice must’ve really been a blow to his ego.”

You’re shivering at the implications, “D-don’t you fucking dare-”

“Whaaaaaat? M’not doing nothing.” Scarred lips quirking up into a grin- you’re noticing that Toji hasn’t slowed his hammerin’ down for a single second. In fact, he’s reeling his slick-glazed cock backwards and leaning the weight down upon your lower half, probin’ you at even deeper angles. The smooth, slippery tip of his shaft was swabbing away into those nice bundles of nerves- “I didn’t even say that you should do anything.”

Hiccuping at the feeling of him funneling you full - all the way to your throat. “Th-then—”

“I just need you to be a—mmm, good girl f’me and- hah, take it.” The constant smacking of his toned hips get even harder, louder. Ricocheting off your eardrums and off the walls- “Take aaaaaaall from tip to base.”

The utmost amount of squelches n’ slurps leaving you.

You wondered if Naoya could already hear you…

Shivering at the carnal feeling of him stretchin’ those tiniest orifices within you up. You loved the way his honed tip would ease in, only getting thicker and longer and thiiiicker and loooonger the more he’s fucking you. The more. 

“Take it aaaaaaall until this greedy pussy’s satiated-” He pinches your clit once more, lining down the spot of your nerves. “Take it all until this pussy remembers-”

There’s the sound of another locking being slammed from the other side of the wall.

And you’re shivering-

To which Toji grinds his hips in close - so close - that you’re unable to buck n’ swerve your hips away. Eagerly taking those deeply probing grinds of his, “Take it until this pussy remembers who’s always fucked her right.”

You’re mewling through your tears, “Y-you—”

And Toji grins before bunching up that red, red jersey of his in his free hand. Looking at the name that flashed upon your arched back, jostling with each thrust - “And who’s that? What’s the name on the back of this jersey?”

“But he has the same—fuck.” Moan echoing so fucking loud this time- you’re swearing you hear the other man pause whatever he was doing. Hear him listen. Hear him wait. “Zenin.”

Something drops to the floor on the other side of the wall, as if fallen in shock.

And Toji smirks.

“That’s right-” He pants out open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck, “Can’t hear you- what’s the name?”

“Zenin-”

“Still can’t hear you-” Thrusts and bursts of pleasure steadily climbing up in intensity. Even though you’ve just cum, you could feel a twitching at the pit of your stomach. “What’s the name?”

“Zenin-”

“What’s the fuckin’ name?”

There was no way he couldn’t hear by now. The slapping. The clenching. The moans. “Zenin—”

He slaps your clit once. “And who’s last name is that?”

You knew you were going to fall apart soon. You knew that all it’s going to take was one final thrust- reeling his rounded, glossy tip back as far as it would go. It’s letting just a few tears cascade down your cheeks, and you’re looking back - “Y-yours, Toji?”

“No.” He grins—chiselled core pummeling into yours. He teases your clit with a cute lil’ heart drawn on top, “S’gonna be yours.”

“Oh—” With the loudest, most lecherous moan yet- you’re falling apart all over Toji Zenin’s cock. So sensitive that your orgasm rips through your stark and primal - nothing but a resurgence of bliss that leaves your limbs feeling all weak.

They’re shaking just a lil’ as you’re riding out your high on his vein-covered cock, the perfect number of strikes before your g-spot feels raw. 

The perfect number of strikes before your clouded mind gets even cloudier—and Toji’s throwing his head back with a sharp, busting orgasm. Toes curling. Abs clenching. Beading from the drooling divot of his shaft, he gushes out constant volumes of cum.

Letting it dribble all the way from your deepest depths to your sultry hole- and then spotting even the tiniest crevices inside of you with his pearly white juices. “Shit-” His crackling tone breaks out into the heady air, “Sh-shit, now she’s properly mine again- heh.”

As Toji fucks his wads of seed deeper inside you, they’re letting off the most lewd squelches.

“Now she’s shut up her yowling a bit- ngh, my girl’s been wanting this for so long, huh?”

“Yes.” You nod. 

“She’s been starvin’ for my cum?” He coaxes, “She’s been all empty without me?”

“So filthy…” You’re mumbling out. Uncaring anymore of what Naoya would think - you didn’t hear anything more from his side of the locker room—maybe he’d disappeared?

“Damn right.” Toji chuckles. Dark bangs covering most of his vision as he’s pumping his thickened tip inside, swervin’ aside your sopping wet walls to make even more room for his thick cum. “She’s now all full I think, hmmmm?”

And you certainly felt full. 

You could feel the splashin’ around of those gooey puddles of sap inside you, clinging onto the tiniest spots they could. He was only messing your insides even further with every single thrust—leaving a wet puddle of most of it seeping into the very back of your womb. “I th-think so-”

“What was that, Mrs. Zenin?” Toji goads, his voice ringing out loudly. “Think yer all full with my cum or do you want even- hah, more?”

You’re murmuring something unintelligible that he has to lean in to hear.

“What was that? Can’t hear you, doll, you’ve gotta speak up-” Suddenly, he leans away and addresses the other side of the wall. “Whaddaya think, Naoya? Think she deserves some more-”

“Toji, shut up—” Swatting behind at him.

Toji escapes with a burst of gruff laughter, “Of course, I wouldn’t ask that fucker-” He presses a somewhat chaste kiss onto your lips, “Tell me, doll, what do you want?”

“I w-want…” You’re repeating from before.

“Hmmmm?”

“Think I might want your baby, Toji.” Peering up at him with such pretty heart-eyes.

And that makes his breath hitch.

That makes him stall.

Toji’s green eyes widen just a fraction- before he’s pulling out and turning you around. Staring deep into your eyes, the captain urges you to jump - wrapping your legs around his toned waist, your hands on his shoulders, your body being easily hoisted by his own - so that he can lift you off the floor.

Probin’ that rock-hard tip of his inwards- 

“Guess there’ll be one more Zenin this time next year- heh. ”

.

.

.

Naoya Zenin was stunned. He was speechless.

Which is highly unusual, because Naoya Zenin is never shocked. Never speechless.

Except for when he saw the estranged Toji Zenin at the game…and when he got beat up by Toji Zenin at the game…and right now, as it’s slowly dawning upon him that Toji Zenin was fucking his girlfriend after the game-

Naoya didn’t think you were serious, alright?

Because how many fuckin’ times have you threatened to break up with him over stupid shit like that? This was just a little outing with the boys - to a few nighttime establishments with a few nighttime girls - that was being blown majorly out of proportion.

And sure, Naoya might have embarrassed himself thoroughly in front of you and a couple million spectators today.

But what couldn’t a 5000 yen bouquet fit?

He was planning on making up with you right after, telling you to stop being paranoid and perhaps this will only make your relationship stronger in the long run. And he’d just gotten back from the medic to get his shit back when…when the noises had started up.

It was a slightly damp noise at first, almost like water.

Then came the soft groans.

The impact of skin-on-skin.

The voices that made it undeniable—if only he couldn’t recognize them. And he almost couldn’t, to be quite honest, Naoya had never heard you making such noises when it was him in bed.

But he knew it was you.

Worst of all, with Toji fucking Zenin of all people.

And it was when Toji had loudly announced your engagement to him, the way you’d be taking his last name (Naoya had no clue the two of you had dated before, and he didn’t want to know) that’d been the last straw for him. He dumps his bangs and his uniforms behind, storming out from a locker room that was now thoroughly invaded by the sounds of your sex.

Muttering some unrepeatable phrases underneath his breath, Naoya’s so caught up in his wallowing that he nearly doesn’t notice the man he bulldozes over in his effort to get away.

“Oh, hey—” Shiu smiles sheepishly at the younger man, “I just wanted to check on y-”

“I’m fine-”

And with that he’s storming off. To where? He doesn’t know, he’ll probably have to come back and get his shit later but…

He takes it that you’ve now officially broken up with him.

Meanwhile, suit-clad, clipboard-holding Shiu is left utterly confused at what just happened. He’d expected a screaming match, maybe several lawsuits by the spoiled heir of the Zenin Industries at least.

Refusing to believe his luck, Shiu takes a peak inside the opposing team’s locker room just to make sure that everything was alright- and that’s when he hears it. “—think I might want your baby, Toji.”

Oh.

Oh.

It was coming from the other side of the large wall- their locker room. 

And he’s recognising the voice- wait, that’s your voice. Toji’s ex that he’d been moping over for these past six months, the one that triggered their captain to get in that fight today in the first place.

Though, he doesn’t blame you- with that fucker as a boyfriend? Shiu doesn’t think he’s biased for claiming that his best friend’s leagues better.

But, at the end of the day, Shiu was their coach above all.

And as their coach, he couldn’t allow his players to get into anything reckless or anything violating the code of the Olympics. They’d all be in such deep shit if you happened to be caught - so you must forgive Shiu for doing what he has to do.

For rounding the other side of the locker room entrances and stepping into his own team’s chamber. Heady with sweetness, with sex.

He’s here as a coach to warn the two of you- really. That’s just it.

That’s it.

Nothing else. Nothing else at all.

No ulterior motives.

His pants tighten, cock twitching traitorously at the barrage of noises leaking into every corner of the room.

Shiu raps on your stall door as a…coach.

A/N. Mwahahaha…come to me coach… ALSO TO MY PHILIPPINES BABYGIRLS WE MISS YOUUUU <33

Plagiarism not authorized.

[tonycries]

Right Round

Synopsis. He’s a 10 but you milk him dry?!

Pairings. [SEPARATE] Higuruma x Reader, Gojo x Reader, Ino x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, making him cúm dry, making him WHlMPER, p sIapping, spítting, chokíng, headIocks, challenges, DlLF!Toji (well he already is), Avatar AU (for Geto), Fire-bending master!Geto, use of powers, true form!Sukuna, Heian era, DP, Sukuna’s second mouth, overstím, squírting, slight dry-húmping, they’re GONE, GOJO’S POWERS, Shinjuku Showdown FR, ìnappropriate use of cursed techniques, unIimited void, he’s feraI, slight pIots, matíng presses, fuII neIsons, manhandIing, pussydrunk JJK men, sIight bóndage (Higuruma), creampìes, cúmpIay, slight cúmfIation, pet names, swéaring.

A/N. ALRIIIIIIIGHT I heard you babygirls ab Zuko okay?! And he just kept remindig me of Sugu so…

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - 6 rounds.

Your neighbor Toji has been eyeing you for a while.

Of course—one could argue that that was simply due to the structure of this place. It was one of those shoebox apartments; deceptively smaller-looking on the outside, with a pitiful few sprigs of a garden and an elevator that never worked. The only thing the exterior got correct was just how…intimate you’d be with your next-door neighbor. 

And you knew all too well.

When you first moved, you’d walked the few steps it took to knock on your neighbor’s door - Fushiguro, the nameplate said - and you were met with…the most attractive man you’ve ever seen.

Off-color undershirt. Tall stature.

A body that could’ve been handcrafted by the gods themselves as he lifted a muscular arm up to grasp the door frame. “Tch. Whatever you’re selling, we’re not buying.”

But you weren’t put off - because you’ve been eyeing Toji, too.

And the moment you saw him, you’ve been wanting to ride that man dry.

But perhaps that was too much for an introduction to your next-door neighbor, no? That was probably more of a second meeting thing- hah. And so you’d hastened to explain that you were actually the new tenant, handing over the bundle of cookies that you’d baked for the residents you were close to.

And Toji had looked at the cookies, and at you….and at the cookies…and at you- before ultimately sticking his head outside and glancing down the hallway - as if to make sure that this really wasn’t some superior marketing tactic. 

And yes, he really had just gotten free cookies.

Finally, he raised a dark brow at you and smiled - or at least what you imagined was a semblance of a smile. Just the slightest quirk of his scarred lips. “Heh…we’ll get along. Nice to meetcha, I’m Fushiguro Toji.”

And just then, Fushiguro Megumi had made an entrance at the wafting smell of freshly-baked treats. Immediately tugging the bag out of the man’s hands and taking it for himself-

You promised Toji that you’d make another batch for him.

And so you did. And so you baked, you accompanied Toji shopping, you helped him move away from giving poor Megs instant ramen for dinner all the time—you even got to bake in their kitchen when your oven once broke down. 

Thus. After a few months, Saturday nights often looked like an amalgamation of both your previous routines; with you ignoring your manager’s overtime phone calls to put on your favorite show and indulge in some selfcare. Toji with his pen out and his eyes squinting at the latest jockey racing results- dammit, Haru Urara lost again. 

Down the hall, Megumi was fast asleep.

All in his apartment.

You can’t remember the last time you’d wound down in your own- but before you can consider what that meant…Toji’s throwing his pen down. He heaves himself up from the brightly-lit dining table to sit down beside you—gaze narrowing at the half-shitty soap opera you’d put on to pass the time. “What…the hell is that?”

“A show.” You retort.

“I get that- hah, you think m’stupid?” Toji rolls his sage green eyes. And before you can reply with something smart, he’s gesturing half-heartedly at the screen before him. “I mean- why the hell is there so much…crying and moaning.”

Your gaze snaps to the quickly-shifting scenes on-screen, “That is, uh…” In the few seconds you’d looked away to scour Toji’s library for a book that wasn’t a sports magazine or a Haru Urara fanbook, it seems the plotline on the TV had taken…a far more different route. “Sex.”

“You think I fucking don’t know what’s-” As you’re laughing your head off, Toji cuts himself off and pinches the top of his nosebridge. Surely to ward off his oncoming headache.

You always did do that to him. In the best way.

And after a deep breath, he gestures idly at the screen once more. Or more specifically: the way the love interest’s eyes widen in shock, mouth dropping as he looks between where they were connected. He’s saying something that makes you still, “Why is he talking about…cumming dry? There’s no way that’s fuckin’ real.”

“It is?” You’re peering at him in confusion. “It literally is?”

Toji crosses his beefy arms, “No way.”

“You’re going to argue with science, Toji?”

“M’just saying- it’s never happened to me.” He retorts.

And the words are out of your mouth before you can stop them- “…Is that a challenge?” You regret them as soon as they’re entering the tense air, making the older man stiffen beside you—

And you’re just about to apologize and bow yourself out of the awkwardness when-

“Oh you can fucking try.”

It’s how you find yourself being guided to Toji’s single bedroom - no matter how many times you’ve been in his apartment, you’ve strayed far from here - and sprawled out on his vast mattress. Legs straddling his hips. Hands braced on his pecs.

You’re grabbing a nice feeling of them and it makes the beefy man groan. He’s peering up at you through his jet-black bangs, only half-covering his smoldering gaze. “So…? I’m fucking hot, yeah, but you’re just gonna stand there ogling me or…”

“So humble, too.” You scoff.

And then you’re fiddling with the drawstrings of his sweatpants to take his thiiiiick, reddened tip in a single swoop - or at least try to. He grins, “Yeah. And don’t forget big.”

.

.

.

Toji Fushiguro fucks you - or it’s more like you’re on top n’ bouncing your hips down onto him - so that you won’t forget it.

So that you’re feeling the lil’ twinge of pressure between your legs once you’re walking out of this damn room, so that you’re feeling the remnants of his cum glued creamily to your pussy. It better feel empty without him in there - and Toji has one palm of his pressed up against your gaping mouth, so that you won’t wake Megumi.

And the other one of his was latched your left hip.

Gripping lovingly onto the flesh there and lurching your hips up and down—faster and faster. Moving. Manhandling. Because with just a few strokes of his sheer girth, you’re seemingly dickmatized.

And leaving it aaaaaall up to Toji to guide n’ prod.

To angle your hips in figure-eights so that he can feel his cum swirling inside. Stirring it with his glistening cock. “Atta girl.” Toji gruffs out at the feeling of being utterly slathered by your walls. “And what was that about cumming dry? Hah- because m’still rock-hard and the only one having trouble here is you—”

“You’re trouble.” You huff.

“Not what I said.” He snickers. Before his handsome face leans upwards and licks off a stray tear dangling from your cheek, “But you’re lucky you’re- hck! cute. And how many rounds was that, huh, doll?”

“Six.”

“Good. And how many rounds have I cum dry?”

“Zero…” Huffing at the smug look on his face- oh, how you wanted to wipe that off. Oh, how you wanted to make him eat his words—and perhaps without even realizing it, you’re jerking your hips stubbornly back and forth.

It wasn’t matching up to the controlled place that he was slammin’ away at the back of your cervix- but it sure was something.

Your velvety walls were utterly drenched in Toji’s hot cum by now - and that just made it so much easier for you to ground your feet into the mattress n’ take him. All of him. All of those crude, curved inches of him that opened you up perfectly—“B-but don’t think that you’re gonna get off that easily.”

“Oh yeah?” A moan hatches at the back of his throat- botched exhales. “And what’s different about this time, huh?”

“This time-” Fuck, Toji’s grin spreads in a feline way across his face. He was looking at you through half-lidded eyes, vision just a little blurred from pleasure, and there was an almost…wolfish hunger in them that makes you answer- “This time I don’t have enough space.”

And that makes one of his brows raise, “Hah?”

“I said it.” To emphasize your point, you’re parting your thighs just a little—almost difficult with the way his sap had them glued together. The milky-white ribbons of Toji’s cum leakin’ out of your poor pussy, so much of it that it’s dripping down and making his black curls there glisten. “Look…”

Toji’s pants slightly quicken at the sinful sight.

“Next time, you better not cum so much again- or else s’not gonna fit.”

Scoffing, he runs a thumb freely between your pussylips- and pushes in a few of the escaping wads. “And what if I just…make it fit.” Along with the fat edge of his thumb. “Juuuust like this.”

You’re wracking with shivers at the sudden intrusion, “What- cock so sensitive you can’t stop cumming?” Though you really liked it - with how much he was flooding your cunt every time - and he knew it, too.

“Pussy so whiny she can’t handle one more?”

“You wish.” 

And that’s earning you a good spankin’ on top of your pussylips.

One. Two. Three.

Without pause. Soon, your cunt’s feeling utterly raw in the aftermath—and you’re clinging onto Toji’s firm deltoids for dear life. 

But that didn’t mean you were going to back down anytime soon.

No…instead, you’re using the sudden grip to steady your weakened hips. With your two knees squeezing either side of his obliques, and your back arched into a curvature that makes his mouth water - you’re meeting Toji’s sloppy pace. Pushing him back down by the shoulders and taking over the sloppy pace—

Toji’s tipping over onto the pillows now. You’re smack-smack-smacking your hips down onto his at a jackhammerin’ cadence - faster than even he was, perhaps…

And it’s that fact that makes him breathe, “O-oh, okay.” Toji’s unsure where to put his hands- so you’re swiftly taking them into yours and making him puuuuush down on your bloated stomach. The wads of his cum glisten down your thighs, catching the dim lighting of the bedroom. “This is new.” Never has anyone ever tried to take charge of him.

And there was something so hot about it.

Something so irresistible about that determined set of your brow. The way you’re ruined on his cock and attempting to desperately make him even more so. The way you’re squeezing your cunt so tightly around his length—dragging your walls down it. And up. And down.

Your hamstrings ache as you ride. Your pussy’s grabbin’ him all over from the veeeeery crowned top- and then down to his thickened hilt.

Milking him is the only expression he can use to describe the motion.

“New as in…” You’re feeling the smile stretch across your face, milking Toji’s cock was all he was worth. Your hips accelerate. “-going-to-make-you-cum-dry sort of new? Or?”

Another spank- this time, right on your clit. “D-don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Pushing him down from attempting to take control of the pace once more. You’re throwing your head back and riiiding out his erection the way you like it - “M’just saying…you just stuttered.” His breath hitches at your response- “So victory might be closer than I thought.”

“I…”

“Awww. Is the big, bad Toji Fushiguro speechless for once?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

But, truly, he could feel the pressurized build-up at the base of his cock. Starting off small. Starting right above where his balls were twitchin’ and aching - and then moving up, up, uuup every single inch to angrily throb at his tip.

Furious, furious.

It had barely even started yet, and somehow Toji already knew that it was something different from all those orgasms that came before it. And so he’s clenching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth as he feels it overcoming him—

“Fuh-fuck.” He’s out-of-breath just from the first wave. And desperately - pathetically - Toji’s hoping to anything that’d listen that it wasn’t a dry orgasm. He’s pleading. He’s mentally on his knees and begging-

And then…with a sudden buck of his hips Toji’s round, blushin’ cockhead strikes the bottom of your pussy. It’s then that he’s realizing that perhaps manifesting really doesn’t work for some old bastard like him- because he doesn’t even have to feel the contrasting wetness of your cervix to already know. 

To realize that though his bliss was searing through his body in waves-

His cock was dribbling out absolutely nothing.

Six rounds and he’d finally lost it.

The rush of his orgasm coursing through him, accompanied by the inexplicable emergence of nothing more. His achingly hot tip can do nothing more than stick deep into your pussy n’ swerve around the bundled-up wads of cum there. Not adding. Not taking.

Horny embarrassment mingles with his broken pride; and Toji clenches his jaw as he peers up at you—you and that damn accomplished smile.

You’re fluttering your lashes innocently down at him- “Yes, Toji? Got anything else to say about cumming dry?”

“No…” He reluctantly admits. Before spitting out -“What else does that TV show have?”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - 10 rounds.

You didn’t expect your husband to be anything but a gentleman.

Who would?

Nanami Kento was the epitome of everything one would want their partner to be; he was sweet, he was patient, he was intelligent in many ways—but most of all, emotionally. He loved you at your best and he loved you when you didn’t feel so - and thus, he was the man that stood before you at the altar. 

Donned in a dark hakama. Blond hair slicked back. 

Rose-gold ring glistening on one hand. 

Stating vows to love one another from here onwards and forevermore; and he’s never meant anything more. Nothing has been truer in his entire life.

The celebrations were uproarious- not from Nanami’s end, but rather from your elated friends. Your new husband sat beside you silently during the reception, making sure you were eating well and that the air conditioning at the venue wasn’t too cold—though when he did get a few beers in him, he kept whispering from a scandalously close proximity how beautiful those robes looked on you…how much better it might look off—

You remember during this time that Shoko had tottered by - held up by weary Utahime - and blessed the two of you ten times over. Ultimately clapping Nanami on the shoulders and telling him to take good care of you.

And to not disappoint you on your wedding night-

But that was around the time that Utahime had decided that your brown-haired friend had taken one too many vodka shots. No chasers. 

And she’d dragged her away whilst you and Nanami sat hot-under-the-collar in your seats. Avoiding much eye contact - because surely most could guess what was bound to happen at the end of the reception, the farewell. 

And so had come the wedding night.

.

.

.

The two of you had barely made two steps into your five-star wedding suite before the expensive wedding clothes were falling to the floor.

And Nanami’s gotten you pressed into the most delicious full nelson on top of the rose petal-covered mattress. Cock heavy and hard. Those crimson flowers forming a heart underneath your two tangled bodies, and Nanami’s cock echoing the most lewd slurps n’ squelches.

It’d only gotten louder throughout the night- as Nanami swabbed the droplets of his creamy white cum inside you. Just married and he was already stuffing you full—

Four hours and hours. Making you cum through each one. 

As a gentleman should, of course.

You think it’s around the tenth or so round when your head’s tipping stupidly backwards - resting against his firm collarbone - as Nanami’s burnished red cocktip rams into your g-spot again. Glued using a few webs of his seed, it’s a carnal sensation that sets your teeth on edge, and the blond-haired man crushes you close—

“Sh-shit…” You’re keening out, voice taking on a shrill pitch. “Kento- oh, ngh—” Barely able to speak through the loooong, thorough thrusts that he was planting inside you. “I n-never knew you could be so…”

Another hard slam! that leaves your ears ringing. And Nanami’s tone husked to almost nothingness as he asks, “Yes, my love—?”

“Rough.” Crying out.

Though they were cries of utter pleasure- of wanting him to continue. Because in the years that you’ve known him, Nanami Kento has never fucked you like this—has never fucked you the way he was hammerin’ mean strokes into you on your wedding night. Harsh plap! after plap! of skin-on-skin.

Of his stinging pink pelvis pushing into yours.

And your husband moves at a carnal pace - muddled brain unable to process anything more - once he feels your limp hips slippin’ out from above him. Covered in a thin layer of sweat and slick leaking like a waterfall between your glossy pussylips. “Sh-shit, Kento, m’gonna…”

“I’ve got you, my love.” Nanami wraps his bulky arms underneath both legs and hauls you upwards. 

“Oh…” Your jaw drops, “You’re just moving me so easily.”

He merely chuckles at your cuteness- were you cockdrunk already?

And once you’re in proper position, laid out on top of the toned line of Nanami’s abdomen, he gently removes his arms. You’re almost disappointed at the massage of his flexing muscles- but before you can miss him too much, your newly-wed husband has them latched onto you again.

This time, in a headlock. 

Left arm looped around your pretty throat.

Right arm slithered between your legs and squeezing your clit immediately.

You buck up at the sudden burst of pleasure- stars behind your eyes. Moans ready at the tip of your tongue—

“Shhhh shh shh, I wouldn’t want whoever’s next door to hear my- haaaah, beautiful wife’s sounds. I’m a protective man, darling.” He murmurs throatily behind you, “Unless it’s that new last name of yours.”

So gone by the way his round, throbbing tip was bulldozing into you until your toes curled- “N-new last name…?” It’s taking you a little while to register it.

But Nanami Kento always was a patient man, wasn’t he? And so he’s simply nodding, leaning down and spittin’ straight between your pretty lips to claim that mouth as his own- and his as yours. Of course. “Your last name.” He responds. “Mrs. Nanami.”

The mere sound of it is enough to make you shudder—“Oh.”

“Or…your last name is mine, too.” Nanami hums to himself- now so utterly gone on the idea of it all. Of marriage. Of the fact that you’re his wife - his wife. He tightens his headlock and kisses your temple gently, “It’s actually why m’a little more…rough, today, my love. You’ll have to forgive me.”

“I l-like it.” You’re replying, “And this is all because of- hngh, our wedding night, Kento?”

“Not quite.”

And you’re feeling cum glue to your cervix as you’re bucking downwards- but of course, your husband would never keep you waiting long. With a simple kiss to that wedding ring you were wearing, he raises your left hand up, up, upwards—to grip at his golden tresses. You’re going to need it.

Because in the next few seconds, Nanami then plants his feet further flatly on the mattress and drills his cock up into you. Tunneling. Mazing. Bashing his ruddied tip against every sweet spot.

He was fucking you like he hated you - and the creaking bedsprings would agree - but oh, how he loved you so.

The sheer amount of pleasure that courses through you was almost numbing.

And without further ado, you’re babbling out the sweetest whimpers n’ whines of his name. Nanami’s breath fanning your face hotly as he leans in and whispers—“It’s because you’re my wife.” 

Lightning strikes you to your very core.

You could feel your high imposing. 

Nanami’s honed canines nip at your earlobes, “It’s the same but not-” He continues, throat growing more n’ more ragged with grunts, the more the thrusted inside. “It’s what I’ve been dreaming for this entire time- fuck, but it’s…so…so much better.” Voice shattering at this very moment. “Darling, it’s like I can’t stop.”

And he fully meant it.

You’re clawing at the beefy expanse of his forearms as he accelerates, your high starting to shoot and crackle with no end-

“I’ve tried.” Nanami’s voice sounds hollow, echoing with something far more primal than you’ve ever heard of him. And hit thrusts- oh, his strikes were so toe-curling. “I’ve tried—but I just can’t seem to. I’ve told myself, I’ve made myself…” The most sinful squelch! wrenches from your pussy as he rolls over your clit and makes you cum once more, “But no matter how hard I try…I just can’t seem to stop wanting to cum inside my wife’s pussy.”

“K-Kento—” Your back arches- lights flashing behind your eyes. “Inside- please.”

“That’s exactly the problem.” He sounds like a man maddened. “I need to see this pussy drippin’ wet with my cum.” You’re shivering as he runs the flatness of his thumb between your cunt’s folds, just so sensitive that the barest graze leaves electricity zapping through your body. “Nine time- nine fucking times-” He rarely swore. “-and I still feel the urge to watch her try to gulp me up. To watch her overspill. To feel her soppin’ wet right down to the womb—”

Breathless with need. “Then do it, husband…”

“I can’t help myself.”

And then Nanami’s cumming.

Like he’d always planned to, of course. But the only problem was that this time - the tenth - he’s feeling nothing but the smallest trickle of cum. Just the faintest few ounces.

And then nothing more- although it feels like he’s still pouring out as much as it takes to flood you. 

It hits him instantly that he’s cumming dry.

And Nanami’s mouth drops, blond lashes fluttering just a bit as he takes in the situation. No matter how many times he was draaagging his vein-covered cock in and out of your channel, it only left him as dry and overstimulated as ever. 

Tears pricking behind his eyes, Nanami gasps. “This feels like a-a premonition…”

“Of?” You blink.

“The fact that this night’s not over yet.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - 8 rounds.

“Please- ngh—” The sound that leaves you is far too pitiful for your reputation. How could you have ever thought…“P-please, I beg of you-”

“Oh? You beg of me, hm?” Geto’s words were just dripping with amusement, and his smile presses up against your throat. Clammy. Pulse thundering. That beautiful long hair of his was completely untied and falling over the sides of your body, strands tickling down your arched back- it was like a cloak of night. And so was the firebending master.

You’re throwing your head back and keening—“More.”

“You beg more of your enemy?”

What treason. What treachery.

How did you even get here?

You could blame all the training; all the long nights and the countless days spent by the water, the feeling of power rippling through your body as you mastered it. It was no secret that the Fire Nation and the Water Nation were at war.

These were the days that would end up as history, after all.

But you just wondered whether this battle would…between one of the best of the Water Nation - you - and the Fire Prince himself. Geto Suguru. 

Announced as next-in-line to the throne. The man your age with a fear-striking reputation that ran far and deep. And treacherous. 

It was a siege planned by the group of rebels you were a part of, and it was simple: attack the Fire Nation’s Royal Palace and end their bloodline once and for all. And for that, you’d have to take care of the prince himself.

Little did you know that what had begun as a one-on-one fight between the two of you at highly close quarters would turn into something….else entirely. As you’d straddled him during combat and prepared to call upon your powers - chest heaving, eyes locked - you had no idea who leaned in first. You had no idea which one of you was the first traitor.

And so here you were…

Knees digging into the hard floor of the Fire Nation’s Imperial Dojo, mouth slobberin’ out lungfuls of moans. Your head throwing backwards and hitting the prominent collarbones of none other than your sworn enemy—Geto Suguru.

Who was fucking his hard, red-hot cock into you like he hated you.

And he probably did.

And yet…and yet- he can’t stop himself from lunging his needy hips forwards and slamming French kisses into the back of your cervix. Those nice, gooey depths that welcomed him with such fervour it almost made him laugh. But despite how bemusing it might be, Geto knows he should stop. He knows he needs to adhere to his duties…but here he was again.

And again and again.

Runnin’ on his seventh round, where he’s ruggedly pulling his vein-covered cock in and out of you. He fucked mean. And he was only getting meaner as he cranes his neck forwards, digging his pearly white canines into the crook of your neck.

Harder and harder.

“N-ngh…” It’s just barely-there. Sneakily, Geto muffles that broken noise emanating from the back of his throat - meanwhile, you’re left moaning once his hot sap starts to fill your cunt up once more.

Just the cutest few drops - drooling - before he immediately pulls out and sprays those satiny ribbons down your outer pussy. Coating a few milky-white layers on top, he then rubs his swollen n’ sap-glossed tip uuuuup and down your pussylips; a few times before plunging back in again. “M-more…”

It’s so quiet and pitchy that he barely hears it. But Geto Suguru wasn’t the nation’s fiercest warrior for nothing- “Pardon?” Those amethyst eyes of his widen at your request. It took a lot to surprise the Fire Prince, but now…he’s leisurely blowing the jet-black bangs out of his face to peer at you. “Repeat that.”

“Is that a command?” You bite.

And what you’re getting in response is a quick swat on your left ass cheek. Geto’s trained fingers were purposefully increasing their body temperature, leaving his imprint sizzling on your skin—“It is.” That chiselled body of his leans his weight even further down on you, massaging you with smooth, perspired abs. His long tendrils tickle your neck, “And what do you have to say to that, smallfry?”

“I say…” You’re whispering.

Leaning down even closer- practically pinning you beneath him. “Mhmmmm?”

“Fuh-fuck you.” 

You weren’t repeating a single thing.

Turning your head ‘round to spit at him. Right across his face.

Except; Geto Suguru anticipates this very moment to leave his unfairly pretty lips ajar and let you spit in his mouth. Straight into his mouth. You’re watching in slow-motion as the glittery wad enters past his maw, getting smeared as the firebender then crashes his lips onto yours.

Such a filthy, filthy kiss. 

You’re moaning deep into his mouth Geto roves his hips back n’ starts prodding even harder. Even harder. With the red, spherical tip of his cock—he enters your womb and lingers for a bit. “Now…” Another slap. “That isn’t a very nice thing to say, princess.”

You gasp. He knew. 

That lineage you’d fought to keep hidden, for years upon years as you trained and grew stronger, noticed so easily by the prince himself…

Two royals tangled in something you couldn’t discern from passion and a fight.

Geto’s smile spreads against your mouth, and his hands come pummeling down in a rapidfire smack-smack-smack on your ass cheek. Temperature raising at the tips of his fingers. It’s practically sizzling- “What? Cock got your tongue?”

Another smack on your cunt. “Shut up.”

“Tha’s alright- you don’t have to answer me.” He croons. Dragging out with the tip of his tongue- and his cock, the sheer sensitivity of your pussy means that now even the slightest hit at your g-spot makes you jump—

Only for Geto to drag you backwards with a single arm wrapped around your throat. His bulky forearm bulges as he traps you in a headlock; and you’re just starting to ogle his muscles as he rams and rams his trained hips into you. Accelerating. Dragging it down your walls even faster- “But there is just one question I need to find out the answer to.” And that hand of his comes spankin’ down even harder. Smoothing along your ass cheek, “Can the Water Princess squirt—?”

“Fuh-fuck.” He was ruthless. If you thought that Geto was fucking you mean earlier, then you weren’t ready for right now. Your hands claw at the flooring before you, “No sooner than the Fire Prince can cum dry.”

It was the eighth round now and the both of you were gone.

With his hips pinning you down to the dojo ground. His headlock tighter than ever- veiny and muscular. The plump head of his cock drills into you so rapidly that it was nearly nothing but a blur of pink—in and out. In and out. 

Geto’s making it a few more sharp thrusts before he feels pleasure coiling at the pit of his stomach. And he can’t have that - of course he can’t cum before who’s supposed to be his mortal enemy - so he squeezes his hand between your legs n’ rolls over that oversensitive nub with two fingers. Powerful fingers—his heat was sizzling, a carnal sensation that you couldn’t even begin to describe.

You yelp.

And though you couldn’t exactly call on your waterbending at the moment, you’re still able to jerk your hips back n’ meet Geto’s thrusts. 

Fucking him just as angrily as he was fucking you.

Again and again.

The dojo grounds around you two rumble as though the most passionate fight, before your head throws back and you’re feeling your orgasm hurtling into you. And without thinking twice, you’re reaching underneath your body and grazing Geto’s aching, pistoning cock- just the slightest wisp of your waterbending power…being used to make your fingertips cold.

Cold to the touch.

Cold to contrast against his furiously hot cock.

With a flinch- you’re both tumbling into your highs.

“Fuck- oh…fuck.” You—with your cunt soakin’ itself in the excess of your orgasm. Dopamine coursing through your veins and your eyes fluttering shut- your peripherals sprint to the back of your head. And your toes curl…“I can feel you cumming dry, Suguru.”

“Sh-shut up.”

And so he was—his cockhead was flinching like he’d been spurting out ribbony wires of cum, his balls were clenching…and yet there was nothing. It wasn’t like the previous rounds when you had your deepest depths splashed in a sudden warmth- Geto, this time, was simply emptying out nothing.

Still fucking you ravenously through it-

“Cumming dry.” Elongating his wave of bliss. Rammin’ into your g-spot like a button, just so you could feel the slightest bit of the overstimulation he was. Almost laughing to himself, “You really fucking made me cum dry-”

“Problem, Fire Prince?”

“Not at all, Water Princess.”

And once he’s finally feeling it bate - his shaft having pumped out nothing throughout its entire duration - Geto presses his face into the crook of your neck and moans.

“Best of three then?”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - 3 rounds.

“Baby, I just…” Choso’s tone quivers, something deep and dark seeping into his words. They seemingly erupt from the back of his throat, against his own will, and hang in the air like a sudden spritz of perfume—

Wait…you swear you’re smelling actual perfume.

Brows furrowing. Turning your nose upwards, you take in the fleeting flowery scent; before looking over your shoulder at where your boyfriend was standing.

It was a slow, sleazy weekend: time for just the two of you. The honks of cars were winding down, and sunset dripped from Tokyo city’s roofs and foliage. The only time when Choso was allowed to refuse the missions that the higher-ups foisted upon him, and when you could decline your manager’s calls without feeling even the slightest bit of guilt.

Instead. He was supposed to help you bake cookies today, he was supposed to be padding into your shared kitchen n’ press a sweet, sweet kiss to your cheek - then insist he take over as he always does. He was supposed to be…not this. Whatever this was. 

Leaned against the dooframe. Head dropped. Hair loose. Breaths coming out in gusts. Choso had his Brother Bear t-shirt off and his bare chest flushed—damp with perspiration. It’s as though he’d been taken over by a sudden fever, ravaging through him, radiating heat through every single pore. Making his rosy cheeks flush even rosier as he jerks his dark, glazed eyes up to look at you.

And a sudden jolt goes through the both of you-

“Choso…?” You’re cautiously taking a step towards him- to which he’s surprising you by taking a step back. “Baby, what happened?”

“I-I just—” His voice hatches and cracks. Urgently clawing at himself. “Remember how I wasn’t feeling too well in the morning?”

You nod, taking another step closer.

He scratches behind his neck - movements torrid and heavy. Lethargic. “So I took a nap, and when I woke up it was just feeling…” Almost subconsciously, Choso’s hands snake down to the drawstrings of his sweatpants- fuck. And it’s just then that you’re registering the throbbing, aching bulge between his long legs. “-hot.”

Wordlessly, you’re looking at the calendar propped up on one end of the kitchen counter. Ah—the realization makes your lips part. Today’s date sticks out like a jagged nail, or - more accurately - like a…

Your gaze flickers back down to where Choso mindlessly paws at his erection. Breathless. Heating up.

“Cho, baby.” You’re catching his attention once more. Chocolate brown eyes glisten with tears- “I think you’re in heat.”

A shiver crawls through his body.

And his jaw drops, “Oh.”

Soon enough, you’re crossing the sizzling distance between you both and taking your agonized boyfriend by the hand. He flinches - just a little - as his skin touches yours- before you’re pulling him into a kiss and he simply melts—moans your name.

The two of you aren’t making two steps towards the bedroom before Choso hugs you from behind n’ crushes his red-hot, sensitive erection into your back. Breathing out a barely-audible plea. And then you’re both crashing onto the floor - the half-curse’s hands tugging on your panties, your hands flying to his cock.

He’s gotten you kneeled and arched into his scorching body temperature- before he reels backwards and funnels his cock in.

Just the very curve of it. Just the very tip—blushed red like a strawberry and twice as thick, he’s letting his eyes flutter shut as Choso cums instantly - instantly - at the feeling of your soaked pussy. The half-curse glues his hips to yours and starts spraying out satiny ropes of cum, “F-f-fuck…” His bottom lip quivers so cutely.

“Already, Cho?” Your purr.

It was just so cute. Because in the next few seconds he’s almost sobbing- “I…I can’t help myself.” Pretty face coming down to press in the junction of your throat, plastered with hot sweat and tears.

“Awwww.” You’re turning around to place a kiss on his cheek, “That heat’s made my poor boyfriend so sensitive, huh?”

And Choso simply nods and nods- “But m’not done yet.” Then you’re feeling the buzz of cursed energy- Choso’s cursed energy. You’re feeling your breath hitch as the technique of blood manipulation courses through his veins and renders his cock as hard as ever, flushed so hot you could feel him scorching between your swollen pussylips.

He just whimpers at the sensation. Blood manipulation always did leave him a little dizzy…

Then his hips are hammerin’ away into yours as though he was hungry to reach every pulsing spot and nerve inside. Every ounce of space. That spongy layer of your cervix felt like fucking heaven to him, and he didn’t know why but…but something was calling at him to keep on pushin’ his bundles of cum even deeper down there. To keep hitting it over and over.

To give you looooong, textured drags from his tip to his foamed hilt.

To let the most sensual grunts emanate from his throat every time he’s feeling your soaked walls attempt to clench around him. Chasing after the sensation of him stuffing you full.

In more or less of a doggy position, you’re steadying your hands on the lust-red carpet beneath you- and bucking your hips up. He was sizzling hot. 

Once.

It makes Choso’s doey eyes widen—and he’s staring at you with bated breath. “What are you…”

Twice.

The globes of your ass cheeks reach backwards and smack! his toned pelvis. That sugary scent in the air only seems to grow even stronger- “Fuh-fuck, baby, that’s dangerous. If you do that, m’gonna…”

Eyes glazing over twofold. A slick line of drool on the corner of his mouth. 

Your own twitches in amusement- you had him absolutely wrecked in nothing but a few bounces. In nothing but a few figure-eights making his pupils run to the back of his head. You’re bucking your hips back n’ forth to milk him even more—

“B-baby…”

And that seems to be the last straw for the heat-struck Choso Kamo: who’s lurching his needy body forwards. Pressing one large hand on the upper area of your spine, it doesn’t take much for him to lean his hefty weight down and make you collapse onto the floor- 

As you’re toppling - your boyfriend following closely behind as though stuck to you by superglue - he’s placing a forearm underneath your face. A soft cushion.

Making sure you don’t knock yourself on anything- it’s the last act of kindness you’re getting before Choso drills his hips down and pumps out hot, glutinous cum into you again. Head throwing back. Adam’s apple bobbing at the sharp electricity shooting through him—so much of it. And so soon, too.

It must be an effect of the heat, he’s thinking…or at least he would have had it not been for the state he was in.

Utterly ruined. Utterly pussydrunk.

Choso Kamo has his maw pressed in an open-mouthed kiss against the column of your throat, deep shivers wracking through his body as he whines n’ bucks. “B-baby, it just doesn’t seem to stop-” His slippery shaft sticks into your g-spot and you gasp- “I don’t know if it even can stop—”

Both in cumming- and in fucking you.

Without him even calling upon it, his blood manipulation rushes through his body n’ straight to his now-upright cock. Your poor, powerful boyfriend isn’t given a single split-second to let himself go flaccid before his cursed energy takes over again. 

He’s rutting and rutting his body forwards. Mouth gaped open at the sensation, and his wet pants synchronizing with the even wetter plaps! of skin-on-skin. They were getting even louder, even sloppier, by the second as Choso’s cum seeps out of your pussy n’ kept getting smeared between your legs. 

Hamstrings aching. His abs massaging your back-

Your eyes kept fluttering shut at the sheer pleasure- it was just about past the second round and you still haven’t gotten used to Choso’s sheer size. Only growing and plumpening himself out even bigger as he kept tunneling between your legs—and you swear that damn heat of his left you even more dickmatized than usual, too.

Letting out the prettiest music to his ears as his curved cock slams into your g-spot once more. “Maybe I don’t- hngh, want it to.” You babble out. “Maybe I need you to cum inside- oh, again.”

“Ohhhh, don’t say that.” Pelvis pressed up so harshly against your body that his happy trail scratches you in a way that was so carnal. And any time you’re shifting - Choso has his right hand wrapped around your throat and haaaaauling your weakened body backwards, “P-please don’t say that.” It all comes out in a rush. “If you do then…”

You’re shivering as his nose runs down your throat- drunk on your pheromones. “Then?”

“Then m’gonna cum again.” He whimpers, “And this time I don’t know if I can stop.”

And, truly, Choso could feel his next orgasm building and building at the pit of his stomach - and at the tip of his shaft. It was different than the two before—just a bit stronger, just a bit more electric- he was feeling zaps of electricity shooting to every point in his body; every blood vessel and axiom inside him. 

His mind was feeling foggier. His eyes were having a hard time keeping open just from the sheer pleasure of your velvety, wet pussy. Engulfing every inch of him. His hips were rammin’ sloppy strokes into you again and again and again until he-

“I-I—fuck.” 

Until he finally explodes into his high.

Tears streaming down his flushed face. Mouth glued to yours. 

One hand at your waist n’ swervin’ your hips around so that you can gobble up every ounce of seed he was streaming. Except…

Choso’s eyes shoot open once he realizes-

Except he wasn’t cumming at all.

“Baby, wait.” Because the half-curse surely felt like he was cumming, he surely knew that he’d reached the peak of his pleasure n’ was stretching out that dopamine every time he plunged into you. 

And he also knew that your wettened walls were squeezing out every drop like you knew, too, yet he just couldn’t feel a single thing dripping out. Not a single thing.

Choso grips the base of his cock with furrowed brows, “I think I’m…”

“Noooo, don’t pull out.” Needily, you’re reaching behind and clawing at his wrists as he attempts to. Only for Choso to shake his head and replace his engorged cock with a few fingers - it wasn’t as good as his entire length, but it was something.

And then he pumps and pumps his cock- if he couldn’t fuck deep into you then maybe he could coat your pretty pussylips with his glittering sap. But the only thing he’s able to let out is nothing. Cumming dry.

“Dry?” You’re looking behind in interest, and it’s just then that he’s realizing he must’ve said that out loud. Fuck, he’s so gone. “Three times was too many, huh-”

“No.” Choso interrupts, “No- no, baby. Don’t even think of that.” And he’s so tearful—he’s so apologetic at the fact that he couldn’t…

Cooing, “There’s nothing wrong with that, Cho-”

“I know, but…” And he hesitates, but the words disrupt from his throat anyways. “-something in me says I need to stuff you full of my cum until I can…hck- see your tummy bloat with it. Now.”

Your jaw drops at the sight of your innocent boyfriend uttering such words. Such dirty, dirty words.

And before you know it, you’re laid flatly on your back with Choso’s handsome face looming over you. The air between you two charges with cursed energy once more, and his red-hot cockhead sliiiides between your pussylips.

Blood manipulation leaving him harder than ever.

He hisses, “Th-this time, I promise to you m’gonna cum…”

“Whatever you say, baby.” Arms flinging around his broad shoulders.

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - 21 rounds…?

You most definitely weren’t going to survive, you think.

The Sukuna Estate has been in an uproar; though this time it wasn’t by reason of an attack, a duel, or the King’s torrid temper. Surprisingly. This time, it was because Ryomen Sukuna had returned from a far-off journey - he’d heard some relative of the Kamo Clan was spouting nonsense about being able to match the four-armed sorcerer in terms of cursed energy, and had gone to put that to the test - and he was victorious.

Of course, he was victorious.

There was no time that he wasn’t. In the few years that you’d volunteered yourself as one of Sukuna’s concubines, you’ve never known the King to lose to an argument let alone a duel. 

And of course, it must be said that Sukuna had numerous - if not hundreds - of women and men housed in his Estate. None coerced; the accepted concubines were more residents for his reputation, than anything. Stories had spread far and wide that he accepted those searching for pay, food, or simply a place to stay—and no intimate relations were a prerequisite for anything that they wanted. You could come at any time, you could leave at any time.

He’d long since tired of mortal desires.

Except for the ones you stirred up, of course.

The stories of the Kamo sorcerer’s pitiful defeat had also spread far and wide- and it’d been the subject of much laughter in the concubine quarters lately. In addition to the fact that - in his woeful attempt at snagging a win and a name for himself - the opponent had called on the help of several different clans (the Abe, the Zenin, the Fujiwara traitors) to ambush and attack Sukuna. 

Though of course they were fallen. As were their men.

And according to the whispers, the death toll had reached the hundreds before Sukuna made his path back home. Back to you…if you were to be so presumptuous.

It wasn’t a secret that you were his favorite- and the ministers of the Estate are coming straight to you to personally announce that the King was nearing. You’re nodding sagely.

You knew what that meant - as it always did after a battle - that Ryomen Sukuna was hungry. The more struck-down opponents, the hungrier. Not for anything to consume or to refresh, but rather a starvation much more carnal and deeper within—the primal taste for flesh against flesh.

You were sitting in perfect poise and your smile hidden as the door to the master bedroom slams! open. The sliding door splinters on one end- and you shiver as you realize that this was going to be one of those nights…he was famished. The King removes his sokutai robes and lets them drop to the tatami floor with a heave, and then his deep footsteps pad over to you.

“Master.” You start to bow-

“You are aware I have a distaste for when you do that.”

Before you’re peeking up at him with a sly grin. “I’m aware. I just like how it riles you up so much, Kuna.”

His second mouth opens in guffaw.

And Sukuna raises one pink brow, “And I expect you are well-hydrated? For this night shall be long and merciless.”

You smile even wider.

.

.

.

One round.

Two.

Three.

Four—

It was just one round after the other. So many and so often; so many vicious slashes of Sukuna’s hips that already made you lose count- again and again. Your hands cascade down his thoroughly-built front to hold on for dear life. The windows were pulled shut, though you could feel the glowing of daylight behind it. The King was laid back against his oak headboard and helping you straddle his hips - your thighs crushed against the muscular, ridged area of his obliques as his cocks drilled into you twofold.

They were one after the other.

Thrust after thrust.

Stacked on top of one another—the upper length was slightly longer than the bottom one. Numerous inches long. Tufts of dark-pink hair. Getting your inner thighs wet with globs of sweet, sweet cum that dribble out every time he’s pulling out-

And then ramming deeply back in again. Ravenous.

He’s been cumming so many times this night—but he still wasn’t done. He was still throbbing at his heavy balls, no matter how many puddles of sap swashed inside of you. He was still rock-hard and running on his monstrous stamina. 

So many times that you’re swearing you feel your eyes sprinting to the back of your skull-

“Ah ah-” One of his four hands lifts up to cup your gorgeous face…or so you think. Instead, Sukuna’s straightening his hand out and swatting the side of your face- jolting you back to your senses.

You’re whining as you’re pulled back. Nose crinkling in irritation, you’re looking at him: and oh—was it a sight to behold. Sukuna’s incredible muscles were pumped up to be even bigger n’ bulkier as he manhandled you on top of him, sweat dripped from in-between his pink brows, and his second mouth stuck his tongue out and laps at his cursed lips with them. Before moving to yours…

Fervent moans crack at the back of your throat as Sukuna’s tastebuds glide-glide-gliiiiide along the sensitive inner parts of your thighs. Before spreading apart your pussylips and rolling over your clit.

As you’re shattering on top of him - your nth high coursing through you like a tidal wave - he chuckles. Both greedy mouths. “Not givin’ up so soon, are you, brat? Do not be like all those other humans-” He spits it out like acid, “-I’ve had to defeat today.”

“B-but…” Babbling out stupidly. Your tears stream down your cheeks, your bottom lip quivers as his hips accelerate. “But I am, human—”

“With a distinct difference.” He answers.

A few more merciless strokes and you’ve given up all hope of attempting to meet his pace. His plap-plapping cadence. His hips against yours, causing such a searing sting that makes your spine arch into his sweaty body.

Into his cursed mouth that wraps its unbelievable length around one of your thighs and uses it like a lasso- tugs you closer to him. Like a ragdoll.

The very tip of his tastebuds start ticklin’ at your clit once more, and you’re feeling your body droop limply into Sukuna’s toned front. Your chin rests between his plush pectorals; and he reaches two beefy arms behind you to guide your hips. To perk you up n’ down, up n’ down, up n’ down—

And with a third palm, the King shuts your drivelling maw- “Besides your…slobber, you are above the title of just any human.” Those mean lips of his dip down to whisper into your ear, “You’re my human. And I expect you to be my future Queen- the future mother of my children.”

A fourth and final one of his hands comes down to press on your cumflated tummy. Just the slightest pressure enough to make hot, white seed foam out of your pussy- 

“This royal pussy shall have to drink my cum up until we have an heir, yes?”

And you nod- you nod. You’ve spoken on the matter with the King of Curses before - a somewhat surprising occurrence - and both of you knew you wanted this.

Both of you were weakly pushin’ your hips firmly against his to milk out whatever ropey ounces of cum he was giving. He was flooding your insides. More and more; orgasms crashing into one another—Sukuna cums deeply inside you again with both cocks and it still wasn’t enough for him. “B-but how will we ever…oh, how will we know it’s even taken, Kuna?” Sobbing.

You’re looking down and it’s just an utter mess of creamy cum n’ the glossed-over tufts of his pink hair. Both bulbous tips twitching as they rammed inside you-

Sukuna smiles as he answers, “Oh…good question. Heh.” The inches of his tongue probe between your legs once again, though this time you’re feeling the ridges of his tastebuds enter your stuffed hole instead of merely grazing over your cunt. That prickly sensation glues to the back of your throat. “If my counting is correct, this is about the 21st- ah, round.” Looking down at his muscular stomach for confirmation, his cursed mouth squelches! outward and hums in confirmation. “How about…”

“N-ngh—” And you think if you’re about to cum, your body prevents you from it. Too pushed to its limits, you can only whimper and writhe on top of him-

And as you’re cumming with a mere few twitches, Sukuna’s cum seeps something hot and sticky in the back of your cunt. “Human, milk your King until he can’t cum anymore.”

Until he’s cumming dry?!

Your heart races as you wonder just how many more rounds that would take out of you-

Just how much more stamina does the strongest sorcerer of all time have? How much could he possibly—

It’s as though he was expecting a far stronger fight from his sorcerer counterparts, so any and all pressure was being placed on your cunt now. With Sukuna’s driveling tips so hot n’ ruby-red—plummeting and plummeting between your swollen pussylips in search of drenching your pretty cervix white. He empties out a few more beads of pearlescent white before snickering, “Don’t worry too much for your mortality, brat…”

Your eyes flutter open- and he’s pulling you into a deep kiss. Through that, his reverse cursed energy courses through your own faltering body. 

“I’ll be done in one more round…two…five…” He murmurs, “Perhaps another twenty-one.”

♡ INO TAKUMA - 3.5 rounds.

“N-no, I promise…” Ino’s hiccuping hitches were just so cute- they interrupted him mid-sentence and made him sound as though he was pleading. “I promise- this time- now-”

“Baby, you don’t have to force it.” You’re cooing gently.

And he all but sobs- “No- no, no no…I promise I’m not too- hck! overstimulated to cum.”

Though…you’re getting the sense that he really was.

Your proud, stubborn boyfriend was on his knees and begging—his chocolate-brown eyes wide, his brows furrowed, his bottom lip quivering in just the slightest way that was just the cherry on top. Ino gasps as he fists his cock even harder, dragging his palm down its left-leaning curve; again and again.

And you’re peering down at the man as he grows more and more frustrated with himself- at the fact that no matter how many times he’s jerkin’ his cock off…he still refused to cum.

Or, at least, he did cum - just without the creamy white mess that’d usually accompany it.

Three (and a half) rounds and Ino was cumming dry. Cumming nothing. With his body kneeled before you, with his mouth hoverin’ over your glistening wet pussy—he’d been making out sloppily with your pussy- all slathered in wads of his seed from rounds prior. Clenching and warm. And it was just the hottest thing he’s ever tasted.

So you really couldn’t blame the guy for pulling on his reddened cock as he did so…but that was precisely when disaster had struck.

When Ino had quirked the edge of his thumb underneath his sopping wet slit - just how you do it - and out came…absolutely nothing. Absolutely nothing and he was devastated—

“I-I don’t understand.” He’s babbling to himself. His gaze flickers between his angry cock and his even angrier hand- not smeared with cum. “I don’t understand, I always…”

Softly placing a hand on his slim shoulder, “Baby, I told you s’okay.”

“But it’s not okay…” Ino mutters, tone practically a pout. He averts his face from your gaze, “I never last the rounds and rounds they do in books. And lately I’ve been going to the gym n’ everything more to increase my stamina, too.”

“Is that why you’ve been buying dumbbells for the house, too?” You laugh, “And here I thought you were on some strange decorating spree.”

He juts his lower lip out, “Don’t make fun of me, sweetness…”

“I’m not, I’m not.” You’re insisting. And without further ado, you’re holding either side of Ino’s sunkissed shoulders and helping him get up, standing his lanky body before you. He’s dragged to your every whim and want; as you’re taking him by the hand and guiding him to the bed- before long you’re laying back in it with Ino hoverin’ above you.

Wrapping your feet around his small waist, you let his blushin’ cockhead kiss your pussylips. He shivers. “Oh, fuck.”

“That’s what I’m doing.” Slyly, you’re letting him ease inside you- your poor boyfriend’s seeing stars at the sudden stimulation. His hips coming down to hammer his cock into you—

But you’re stopping him with a leisurely hand at his hips, shaking your head with a smile as he stares down at you with teary eyes. A plea on his lips- “Now now…” You’re cutting that sweet noise of his off with a tut, spreading your thighs apart even further n’ letting his rotund cock maze its way inside - sloooowly. “Take it easy, Taku. Easy—don’t worry, we’re gonna make you cum this round, m’kay?”

He’s nodding jerkily- uncertainly. “Y-you can really do that, pretty?”

“Of course.” Raising one brow, “Don’t trust me?”

And he’s hastening to shake his head. Urgent and alarmed. “What- no.” And as though to prove this point, Ino leaves his hips at a complete standstill. Painfully so - for him. “No, no—I would n-never not trust you, sweetness. I was just-”

“Shhhh, I know, Taku.” Soothing him. You push away a tuft of chestnut-brown hair from his sweaty forehead, “I know…”

Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, you’re both staring down at the place where you were connected. His throbbing cock. Your glistening wet pussy.

And then you’re breathing out in a tone that’s low and slow—practically hypnotizing him the more of his inches he’s sweepin’ inside. “Just need you to fuck me, baby.”

He’s shuddering as he bottoms out.

Deeeeeep; those inches are red-hot and vein-covered, massaging your walls as he’s sliding in. The crown of his cock is a circumference you could feel at your very throat- and Ino’s head throws back prettily as he’s hittin’ your cervix a few times. “Sh-shit—”

You’re holding back your giggle, “Everything alright, Taku?”

“No- yes.” And after a few more sloppy strokes, he whines. “No…”

Because how could he be? Less than a few minutes ago, he’d been ruttin’ against your calves and cumming dry into his fist. Right now, he was feeling as though the pearly gates of heaven had opened up wiiiiiide between your legs n’ was sucking his soul with every passing second- even the tiniest slurps of your pussy meant his brow was furrowing. 

The tips of his ears growing red, “I-it’s just…I feel like m’gonna cum again.” Ino babbles into your mouth- capturing it in a sinful kiss. “And I think m’gonna cum dry-”

“How’d you know if you haven’t done it yet, hm?” You ask, bouncing your hips up to meet his own. The smack-smack-smacking sounds between you two was all but deafening, “C’mon, baby. Cum inside- hah, fill me up again.”

“Shit- now m’really gonna cum soon…” He’s echoing out desperately. Pelvis rammin’ into yours- and it was already torturous enough for his aching shaft - pistoning deeper and deeper - without your body greedily pushing up into his.

And he feels his heart race as the grin stretches across your face, “Good.” Kissing the soft nape of his neck, it makes his tip ooze out just a little more milky drops of precum. They glue to the pulsating area of your g-spot. “Because I really, really—mmpf.”

And before you know it, your sorcerer boyfriend has reached behind you and clasped- at the discarded ski mask that he was usually known to make.

The soft, fluffy cotton of it glues your mouth shut. 

Muffling your lewd words to the back of your throat - you don’t have a chance to get out whatever it is you wanted to say. Whatever it is you knew would drive him over the edge. 

And yet, Ino Takuma was still completely and utterly ruined as he punctures his ravenous cock between your legs-

Over and over and over.

“Oh- ngh.” The cutest little whimper leaves his throat, and Ino turns his big, tearful eyes towards you. “O-ohhh, please…sweetness, m’really not joking. M’really gonna cum this time.”

“Mmmm—” Nodding fervently.

“I swear m’gonna do it.” Kissing your forehead in apology for the gag- though he could feel just how wet you were getting between your legs. The sheen of your slick soaks his pelvis, his v-line, and the upper parts of his own thighs. Burned slightly red with constant. “I s-swear m’gonna cum.”

“Do it-” You just barely manage out. Before getting cut off- with both the ski mask being pushed deeper into your mouth, and the squeeze of Ino’s slender fingers on your clit. 

Making you see stars-

Toes curling. Back arching. As though a feverish sensation is taking over your body, making your skin perspire and your head throw into the pillows.

And just as your orgasm rages through you, Ino’s does, too.

This time…he’s pumping and pumping his ruddied cock—dragging the luscious curve of it across every single sensitive spot and dip. Those bundles of nerves that he was mapping out. And it’s as if Ino was trying to milk himself - to drag out the wetness of his orgasm if it kills him.

And luckily for him, he doesn’t cum dry. 

Somewhat.

He’s beading out a single drop of seed that gets pushed right to the back of your womb- smeared by the rotund curve of his tip.

And then Ino looks at you with watery, content eyes. “I-I did it, sweetness.”

“That you did, Taku.”

“D’you think I can cum again?”

♡ GOJO SATORU - INFINITY.

“Honey, I’m home~”

Which would have been a completely ordinary greeting from your husband, of course. Which would never have made you think twice before you opened the door for him, of course.

Except…there was one little issue. 

The Gojo Satoru you’re married to was wide-eyed and crazed on your television screen; Mei Mei’s livestream of the Shinjuku Showdown was playing in 4K on your 115-inch TV. And from your standstill in front of the locked door, you could still see your husband’s black t-shirt starting to tear through once he increases his Hollow Purple to 200% and bursts it right in the direction of Ryomen Sukuna—or more like…the Ryomen Sukuna that was inhabiting the body of your honorary son.

But that was semantics. Or so you liked to think to keep yourself sane in here.

It had been Professor Yaga’s idea to keep you home whilst the battle raged on - there was no telling where the King of Curses would go or attack to gain an upper hand on his opponents. Evil never fought fair. And it was here - in the humble…but not-so-humble abode of your’s and Gojo’s penthouse apartment - that he’d cast the strongest veils.

Talismans and protective omens from far and wide. Around the world.

Over the years, Gojo had taken it upon himself to make your house the safest place in the world - a home for his home—you. He knew the burden that came with being loved by The Strongest, and this was the one thing he could do to alleviate it. 

And it was perfect.

But there’d be no home here without your husband. And your stomach twists as you watch the white-haired sorcerer break out in a grin when his compression shirt gets completely torn and his throat nearly slashed.

Sweat glimmers across his defined muscles, and you’re finding it so hard to look away. The battle was reaching a climax- you could tell by the wild look in Gojo’s eyes.

A blur of movements and another explosion of candescent purple- 

And then the door clicks! open.

This can’t be.

Surely, this can’t be.

Gojo was still on-screen.

Gojo was crouching over the King’s chosen vessel and watching as the marked tattoos disappear from what is now - and hopefully forevermore - just…Megumi’s face. He seems to be sleeping peacefully, and the victorious sorcerer on-screen presses two fingers to the poor boy’s pulse.

Brows furrowed in concentration- or concern?

Before a brilliant smile breaks out across Gojo’s face- and he nods to some of the others off-screen. Then you’re seeing the livestream falter on a sudden rush of white coats and stretches, a few of the paramedics reaching for your wounded husband as well—

Before you blink and he disappears. The only evidence of ever existing at the Shinjuku site being the bewildered faces of the doctors- and you.

And the fact that that very same Gojo Satoru was before you know.

Chest heaving. Those cloud-white tufts of his hair were messy - a far cry from his usual updo. 

And his eyes…oh, his eyes were harrowed.

Empty. Unfocused. As though his mind was still in the midst of battle- though his body’s natural instinct was to come to you. And though power still radiated off of him in waves, it’s nothing of the calm river of coldness that normally layered his body. This was a torrential rain—drenching your living room, drenching the entire apartment. 

Pure uninhabited cursed energy; the dam had broken now. The very space he enters drops a few degrees in temperature. 

The very same man you’d kissed goodbye before his battle- now with a simple layer of debris and dust covering him. It left him almost ghost-pale, and you wanted to brush it off as though discarding such an omen - he’d won.

With nothing but a few cuts on his brows and his lip, some already healing across his arms, he’d won. And he was standing right before you.

Unsteady on his feet. 

He slowly raises his eyes to the livestream behind you and comments, “Ah- that’s a little delayed.” And then his gaze drops down to you - finally, finally drops down to you - and he breaks out into a smile.

Brighter than any sun.

Gojo had escaped the arms of death and run straight to you. 

.

.

.

“Mmmm-mmpfg—” The blindfold muffles your mouth perfectly - which should be ironic, considering that all Gojo was thinking about during that damn battle was hearing your voice. At least one last time.

One last time.

And perhaps then, he could pass…peacefully. 

But he hadn’t; for who could be stupid enough to underestimate Gojo Satoru? Especially not Gojo Satoru himself. And so here he was: with his hot blindfold gift-wrapping your mouth, and his cock drivelling into you like he was a machine—

In the lewdest doggy position possible; and you only wanted more.

Unable to vocalize, you’re fisting at the sheets- then behind at Gojo’s toned body. Clawing at those rippling obliques of his to try and draw him even further forwards. “M-more…mmmpfore.”

Forwards and forwards.

Even deeper in. 

The sudden change in angle makes Gojo’s puckered tip kiss up at your g-spot - even harder than before. And by now you’ve memorized the exact length n’ circumference of him—the exact measurements that were swabbin’ aside your wettened walls and tumbling into every spot you loved so much.

He knew every single one. Every single one.

And he was welcoming himself back- he was making sure you’d never forget him again and again and again—

Gojo’s long since lost track of time- and he doesn’t care. Hours could have passed, days could have passed - but the only thing that really mattered to him was finally having his hands on you—and his cock glued to the back of your pussy. 

It was almost concerning how many times he’d stuffed your greedy orifice full - and yet, still kept on cumming. Cumming so long and hot inside you. 

“Oh…mmm.” Moans muffled. Lashes flickering shut. And your hamstrings ache with fatigue he couldn’t feel because of his training - the man had just fought history’s strongest sorcerer, for heaven’s sake. 

And yet, Gojo wasn’t feeling the slightest bit of lethargy as he loops one forearm underneath your hips and scoops your droopin’ hips back up. Plastering them against his own. Sweat and slick sizzles between your clashing bodies—and Gojo’s voice cracks just a little as he asks. “More…?” Breathless. Higher than usual. Your husband’s eyes were wide and piercing- begging you for an answer.

His red-hot tip was just so ready to explode, and that syrupy white cum was already beginning to drivel out. To smear. To stuff inside. “T-tell me what you want, sweetheart.” He gusts his breath down your spine; absolutely scorching. “Is it more—?”

“It’s more- it’s more-” Sometimes, you wonder if he could read minds. And at the state that Gojo was in right now - you wouldn’t be surprised. Just barely, you’re managing to utter coherent words through those merciless restraints, and oh, how he loved watching you gagging on his blindfold.

Filthy.

Tears flooding your gorgeous eyes. Your spittle cascading down in two streams- either side of your mouth.

Hot cum spills between your legs, and you’re still begging for more.

Hah…Gojo can’t help but plant a loving peck on the side of your messy face. Humming, “Then m’gonna give you more.”

“Yes—” Nodding, you plant your hands on the patch of mattress before you. Attempting to haul yourself up just a lil’ so that you could at least try and match his ramming pace-

“Nuh uh, sweetheart.” Had this been anyone but Gojo, then you would’ve found that smug tone of his oh-so-irritating. Just then, Gojo’s leaning his hefty weight over and pinning you down even further onto the mattress—rubbin’ his blossomed cockhead across every inch of your cunt.

You’re getting cut off mid-gasp.

You’re fucking collapsing. And Gojo’s just colliding into you from behind.

Tangled up into such a mess; he’s drunkenly buckling on top of you and crashin’ and crashin’ his hips into you from above. Nose-deep into the crook of your neck. Mouth parted with constant sensual grooooans—“Wh-whatever my wife wants…” He’s easily massaging your g-spot back and forth a few times, and then pulling all the way out with a resounding pop! “-your husband- The Strongest is gonna get it for you.”

“Yes- yes, Toru…”

“M’serious.” He says in a jagged tone. “You wanted more?” The sudden confrontation of his words make you startle- and you’re giving him a quick nod. To which Gojo runs his buzzing fingertips between the sopping crevice of your folds, “Then m’gonna give you more. Hah, careful not to squeeze too tight.”

At that exact moment, you feel the air…stiffen around the two of you.

It was the same sort of tension you’d felt when Gojo had first entered the apartment: the presence of the world’s most powerful cursed energy. It coiled around your bodies and set your skin alight- before focusing on one particular spot—

Shockwaves run up your spine. And your husband reaches down to pat your stuffed pussy- “Unlimited void.”

You freeze. “M-mmpmf…?” You’ve already talked about such uses of Gojo’s powers with him before - you just didn’t expect it now—but you sure as hell weren’t complaining. 

It seems as though Gojo’s cursed energy was coursing through every axiom of him and supercharging it - he didn’t control it. You didn’t know if he could. It was seeping from his body into yours, and turning your slick channel into…that. Whatever it was. Something he could reel his hips back from and rut n’ rut and rut - without it ever getting stuffed too full.

Instantly - and because of the overuse of his powers - Gojo’s feeling his warm tip dribbles out a few more ropes of cum.

And it’s almost like a…challenge at this point: just to see whether he could properly fill that gaping hole of yours. Gojo’s catching his pretty rose-pink lip between his teeth when he gazes down between those tremblin’ legs, “Fuck- see?” Voice growing more ragged by the second, “See—?”

Nodding and nodding. 

“Th-this pussy wanted more, and n-now she’ll never get full. Now she’s flooded with me right down to the womb-” Pressing his second palm on top of your stomach. “-and she still wants more. Hungry girl. Now she can take so much more that- hngh.” Getting cut off with a ruinous moan himself - he’s pumping out pearlescent webs once more. Another orgasm. 

“That?” You’re choking out.

Breathed between clenched teeth, “That you’re gonna milk The Strongest dry, sweetheart.”

“O-oh…” A jolt of pleasure runs through your body at the notion- or maybe it was just Gojo’s slender fingers tightly grasping your clit. Those digits of his were coated in so much thrumming cursed energy that it drove you mad—“Is that even possible?” That expensive blindfold finally loosens its restraint ‘round your mouth, the constant jostling to and fro causing it to unravel. 

“Hmmmm?” Jackhammering hips. Interest piqued. Bolts of lightning shooting from the edges of his eyes as he smiles.

Again and again and again, his shaft scours your insides and stirs every sweet spot up. “I just mean-” Making you feel lightheaded. “How many rounds has it- oh, already been? Are we even sure you can cum dry, Toru?”

“Dunno.” He answers, and your jaw drops. 

Just then, you’re sure that he’s hit with another orgasm—and you are, too. 

Yours starts out in-between your legs with a sudden twitch- before suddenly the pleasure’s setting your body alight. Your heartbeat thrums in your ears, and Gojo’s humming softly to himself as he fucks you through it.

As he’s letting a few sloppy draaaags out before gritting his pearly-whites and dropping his head forwards. Deeper into the crook of your neck; Gojo lets out moan after moan as he dribbles out squelchin’ cum for the nth time tonight.

One after the other.

Loooong and luxurious. Those satiny ropes are emptied out into the deepest depths of your channel, and he was so thoroughly overstimulated by the charged euphoria that he sobs-

And a lightbulb bursts in the distance.

“M’not cumming dry yet.” Gojo’s heavy balls twitch once he’s plasterin’ them to the forefront of your pussylips. And you can feel them swelling and throbbing after every trickle- “But we have the whole night for that, don’t we?”

“Night? I think s’been days.” You retort, sneaking a glance at the daylight-shimmered curtains. 

“Ah, semantics~”

♡ HIGURUMA HIROMI - 5 rounds.

“I just don’t understand, angel.” Higuruma leans back in his faux leather-bound chair and sighs, his gold-tipped pen coming to tap between his eyebrows as though searching for some button hidden in there - one that would preferably jumpstart the rest of him into normalcy. He continues, “This Fujiwara case has just made me lose all my stamina.”

Because it’s always a long, hard day in the courtroom.

And Higuruma Hiromi knows that - he’s the best defense lawyer Tokyo ever did see. There’s a reason he graduated at the top of his batch, there’s a reason he started his own law firm at around half the age that most of his colleagues do. 

There’s a reason that Higuruma Hiromi, criminal defense attorney, makes the tension in courtrooms thicken until they’re almost stifling the second he walks through those polished pews.

But this case…

It was the usual- some poor sap blamed for a white-collar crime that he clearly didn’t do. And though Higuruma had half the brain to eye his bosses strangely, the nature of this case also meant that the prosecuting team was the best of the best—being that they knew how to twist their words.

And Higuruma was left haggard after a single session. Not that he didn’t think he stood a chance - he knows he does, he knows that guy’s getting out scot-free after this - but it’s just that…he had to do this for months.

He had to walk into the courtroom and feel his mind becoming more n’ more fossilized by the second- that damn prosecuting team was abhorrent. 

And so here he was.

11:41PM. Cooped up in his office room at home; Higuruma was slumped down at his desk, whilst you stood concerned beside him. As he lets out another prolonged sigh, you’re stepping behind the chair and starting to massaging his firm shoulders - surely knotted to hell and back. 

Higuruma shoots you a grateful smile, “It’s awful. I had to sit there and try not to throw my chair at those prosectors for-”

“Five hours.” You’re finishing his sentence.

He’s gazing up at you lovingly, “And even for lawyers they’re insufferable- and that’s coming from me.”

You’re furrowing your brows in humor, “Hey—you’re only half-insufferable.”

That makes him let out a laugh, “But I’m telling you, angel-” And almost as quickly as it came, it disappears. Higuruma’s pinching the bridge of his handsome nose for the nth time this night, “I’m not at that age just yet, but it seems I must work on my stamina. Today was absolute hell.”

“Five hours, huh?” Even saying it out loud made you feel weary, “Y’know how long that’s about?”

“Hm?” He looks at you, “How long?”

Leaning down to whisper in his ear, “That’s about as long as a…” And even before you’re saying the words, you’re sensing the goosebumps that skitter down Higuruma’s neck and even further down his collar. Just how far…you wonder. “-marathon that we have, hm, Hiromi?”

“Yes…” He breathes out. Long, dark lashes nearly shuttering.

He’s been so caught up with that damn case lately- so caught up, he hasn’t had enough time to spend with you. And just the mere mention of it…of being between those pretty legs n’ fucking you for hours and hours is enough to leave him a little heated.

And Higuruma’s meeting your eyes like two magnets that have finally met- first, his lips are on your neck. Then he’s tugging you onto his lap.

.

.

.

“Yes—” Higuruma hisses out- voice pitched into a tone so utterly unlike him. Something so botched in his words, something so ruined—

He’s been fucking your perfect cunt for hours now, and was showing no signs of stopping.

Your attorney husband has a steadfast hold on your hips; from the luxurious chair you’ve moved onto the edge of his desk. Pressed on your front over the mahogany table, hands clawing out haplessly in front of you, ass archin’ up into his vicious thrusts.

The skin ‘round Higuruma’s pelvis has turned red by this point, and he was hissing between his teeth every time his hips came in contact with yours—smack! 

So hard that you’re flinching just a little bit.

And that makes a few streams of cum dribble out from between your clenched pussylips- the pure-white sheen of it coating your thighs. Higuruma doesn’t let a single sweet ounce of it go to waste before he’s snaking a hand down and thumbin’ off just a few drops.

And then you’re finding it stuffed between your lips- “M-mmmm…” Your tears form a lacquer down your cheeks, “Hiromi, you’re so filthy.”

“You married me for it, didn’t you?” He grins. Head tipping back just a little once you’re clenching your sopping wet walls in confirmation, “F-fuck, ngh—keep doing that. Just a little tighter, sugar.” And if you were in any clearer of a state of mind, then you’d have noticed that his husky tone was cracking—voice breaking at the tail end of his sentence.

Higuruma was feeling his sanity drip away every time he entered your pussy- but so were you.

You moan, “Need more-” 

He pats at your pussy adoringly, feeling the wetness of your slick mixed with his clingy white cum. “More, huh? Sure you can handle it, angel?” Darting a look at the clock, “We’re already on…a few hours. Round five.”

Nodding and nodding. 

And you’re all but keening for more as you feel him edge his ravenous cock away - just a few inches. It honestly wasn’t even a movement that should impact the sheer carnal streeeeetch he was bestowing upon you.

But with your needy senses, you’re turning your head over your shoulder. About to mouth off to your husband about pulling away when you were hungry for him the most when-

When you’re seeing that he’d been reaching for that scrap of fabric thrown over his chair.

A stray discardment in the heat of the moment earlier.

His tie.

Your restraints now.

Because in a split-second, Higuruma loops the jet-black fabric around your dangling wrists. It doesn’t take him long to fasten it and tighten it—testing it just by giving it a little pull- he finds himself grinning as your body’s able to be lifted and moved ‘round just by this.

Perfect.

The semi-coarse cloth was strangely sensual against your skin- almost biting. 

Higuruma himself leans down to give a small nip at your right shoulder, before he’s leaning back and hauling you—inches off the table. Two hands clasped around your wrists, the cold hiss of his wedding ring matching yours, the red, rotund head of his cock swipin’ inwards and making your walls bulge with the size of him. “O-oh, fuuuuuck-”

His dribbling divot navigates straight to the bottom of your pussy. “Yeah- yeahhhhh, you’ve got this.” Higuruma whispers as your orgasm wracks through you - and his own fifth one was nearing ever-closer. “You can take it. You can take me-”

“Should I be concerned about the- ngh, amount of space I have left?” In unison, you’re snapping your head down at the area between your legs. Limp.

“Concerned?” 

Cum was seeping out of you in what looked like bucketloads- in all the physical stamina that Higuruma was determined to prove that he still has. And he sure does - or at least your thoroughly-stuffed pussy seemed to think so - but your husband was still pumping away even harder. 

Rougher.

Splatterin’ patterns of syrupy sap on your skin- where contact was being made constantly. Higuruma laps at the gentle leaking with his thumb once more, “Sugar, this pussy was made to take my cum.”

Manhandling you backwards using the restraint of his tie, and slammin’ a final French kiss into the back of your cervix. You feel him start to twitch—in the way that Higuruma always does before he’s about to coat your walls with a layer of cum. “I-inside…” You whine. “All of it- inside.”

“Mhmmm, your husband has you, angel.” And then he’s holding you close- 

Tip thickening at the very flared edge, the crown of it, he’s pouring out a few glittery ropes of…nothing. Absolutely nothing. Higuruma’s dark eyes shoot open as it sinks in: he was cumming in every way, shape, sensation, and form—except for the absence of cum. The absence of gooey white cum seeping out his shaft- and he’s feeling it. 

But he isn’t drenching your pussy in the way he’s expected to.

And Higuruma seethes- “Angel, I…” Lower lip trembling as he takes in the cum that’d frothed out of you and was now being pushed back, “I-I believe I didn’t-”

“Hiromi, did you cum dry—?” Wonderment seeps into your tone. “I didn’t even know you could do that-”

“I didn’t, either.” There was something akin to…disappointment in his tone. Something akin to sadness, something akin to determination- “I can’t believe I…angel, my stamina is fucked-”

“Baby, you just went five rounds without stopping-”

“And if I don’t cum on the sixth…” That ruby-red tip rubs up against your g-spot, ready to splurge out cum at least this time. 

“Mhmmm?”

“Then I’m not Tokyo’s best lawyer.”

A/N. Something something something milkshakes-

Plagiarism not authorized.

[satoruslovey]

We're married, no?—G.Satoru

synopsis: Principal Yaga assigns you and Gojo Satoru a mission: investigate a cursed inn—as a married couple.

He’s delighted. You’re horrified,but with couple-only train cabins, one bed, and a honeymoon suite with a private onsen, there’s no room to keep your distance literally. Gojo teases. You resist. The tension builds. Until you decide to play his game and he realizes he was never ready for you to make the first move. So what happens when he finally gets a taste of his own medicine?

Pairings: g.satoru!×f!reader

Words: 4.8k

warnings:fake marriage,mutual pining, slow-burn, heavy sexual tension,smut,p in v,feral gojo,no protection,yukata tying, candlelight dinner tension,grinding in the mirror, possesive satoru,soft confession ,emotionally charged intimacy, flirtation-turned-serious,,undercover couple dynamic, one bed trope, private onsen scene, soft domestic vibes, “we’re married, no?” energy.

pt1. pt2.

The power’s out.

You step into your shared room first, wrapped in only a damp towel. The hallway behind you is dim, flickering softly with the orange glow of candles placed thoughtfully along the walls by the staff. It's quiet—just the distant hum of cicadas outside and the occasional rustle of the wind brushing the paper windows.

The room is warm from the onsen steam still clinging to your skin, and scented faintly of hinoki wood and mineral water. The air feels charged, as if it remembers what just transpired between you and him beneath the surface of the hot spring--your teasing voice, the way you walked away, that mischievous look in your eye when he couldn’t speak.

You close the sliding door behind you with a soft click and pad across the tatami mat barefoot, the fabric of your towel clinging to your damp body. You kneel near the windowsill and strike a match, lighting a small emergency candle. It flares to life with a quiet hiss, casting golden light across the room.

Shadows stretch and flicker. Your silhouette dances against the paper walls,soft, feminine, unguarded.

Gojo steps out of the onsen behind you, still catching his breath.

It wasn't just the heat of the spring that left him undone,it was you. The way you turned the tables on him, the way your voice had gone syrup-sweet, your eyes dark with mischief.

He's walking slowly, his robe clinging to him, hair tousled and still damp, droplets running down the side of his neck. The soft slap of his bare feet on the hallway floor is the only sound, and he doesn't rush. He can't. His body is betraying him in every way.

When he finally slides open the door to your shared room, the sight that greets him just about knocks the wind out of his lungs.

You’re facing away from him, wearing nothing but a towel, still damp from the onsen. Your skin glows in the candlelight, soft and golden, as you lean slightly forward to light another small candle on the windowsill.

Water trails in delicate rivulets down your spine, disappearing beneath the towel's edge. Your hair drips lazily over one shoulder.

He stops in the doorway, frozen.

You don't look, but you feel him behind you.

You don’t look. You feel him.

His presence hits the room like a shift in gravity.

He’s standing there in the doorway, backlit faintly by the hallway candles, robe loosely tied at his waist. Damp strands of his snowy-white hair cling to his forehead and temples, the rest sticking up in unruly tufts. His chest rises and falls a little too fast, still not recovered from what you did to him in the onsen.

And yet... he looks divine.

Water glistens on his collarbone, trailing down the exposed part of his chest, disappearing into the V of his loosely fastened robe. His lips are parted slightly, pink and damp, like he’s halfway through a breath he forgot to finish. But it’s the look in his eyes,like he’s seen something holy and sinful all at once,that really gets you.

His gaze falls on you,kneeling in a towel, bathed in candlelight, back bare and wet, hair dripping slowly onto your shoulder.

He’s not breathing.

You pretend not to notice the way he freezes in place or the flicker of his throat as he swallows hard.

You lift your yukata from the nearby stand, and with no particular rush, begin to slip it on. The towel drops from your body in a single fluid motion, and for the briefest second, the flickering candlelight kisses the silhouette of your bare form before the soft fabric of the yukata wraps around you.

His breath stutters.

You turn slightly, still not facing him fully, your tone laced with honey,

“Satoru… I can’t tie this properly. Could you help me?”

His hands twitch at his sides. He says nothing at first, only steps forward, like a man pulled by a string. His feet are silent against the mat, but his breathing gives him away.

You hold the yukata closed at your chest, the sash dangling from your fingers as you hand it back to him over your shoulder.

He takes it with a shaky breath, fingers brushing yours. The contact is barely there, but enough to send a tremor through him.

He kneels slightly to wrap it around your waist, his chest brushing your back as he leans in closer to knot it. His fingers are trembling,subtle, but you notice.

You don’t move, don’t breathe, as you tilt your head to glance at him from over your shoulder. The candlelight flickers between you, casting your faces in soft shadow, but his expression is unmistakable.

Eyes dark. Lips parted.

You murmur, lips close enough that he can feel your breath on his skin

“Thank you.”

You move slowly, turning in his hold. You’re now facing him, only inches apart, the candlelight caught between your bodies, your breath mingling in the charged space between.

His hands are still on your waist.

Your eyes meet his.

You tilt your chin up, just a little,like an invitation or a challenge, he can’t tell. Your lips part softly. His gaze drops to your mouth.

You can hear it in the silence between you,he’s going to do it.

And just as he starts to lean in, as if he finally can’t take it anymore--

KNOCK KNOCK.

“Apologies for the inconvenience Mr. and Mrs. Gojo!the power will be back shortly.Your dinner is ready , please enjoy it in the meantime!"comes a muffled voice from the hallway, cheerful and oblivious.

The tension shatters like glass.

Gojo steps back like he’s been slapped with cold water, hands pulling away from your waist reluctantly. His chest rises and falls too quickly, lips parted, the moment torn away from him like a page ripped mid-sentence.

You, on the other hand, smile sweetly,composed, unaffected.

You're already walking towards the door, about to slid it open when you say "come, let's eat" but it doesn't go unnoticed by him when you murmur to yourself, laughing softly,as if it's a joke within yourself,

"he'll need the energy tonight"

You step out.

He doesn’t answer at first. Just makes a strangled little noise in the back of his throat.

“Hmm.”

As he follows behind you.

_

The dining room is styled like everything else in this inn,classic, minimal, achingly intimate. You and Gojo are seated at a low lacquered table on tatami mats, kneeling beside each other instead of across, separated only by a few inches of warm floor and unbearable tension.

There’s no one else in the room, just the soft clatter of dishes and the low hum of cicadas beyond the open shoji screen. Dinner has been laid out carefully,grilled river fish, steamed vegetables, fragrant miso, and tea—but the moment you both settle into place, the food becomes the last thing on either of your minds.

Gojo is already struggling. He’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet where he’s forcing every molecule in his body not to look,at your neck, your chest, your bare legs tucked under you. The way the hem of your yukata rides up when you shift slightly. The way candlelight flickers over your skin like a lover's touch.

He clears his throat and picks up his chopsticks with shaky hands.

You? You’re calm ,as if this is a normal routine for you.

You sip your tea slowly, lazily, as if the heat doesn’t touch you. Then you lean in closer, reaching for a piece of grilled fish,your sleeve slipping just enough to show the full line of your forearm, then further,just enough that the edge of your breast peeks from beneath the loosened yukata.

“It’s warm tonight, isn’t it?” you murmur, voice low and laced with mock innocence.

His chopsticks falter midair.

“Y-yeah. Little warm,” he mumbles.

You sigh softly and reach up to untie your sash just a little, loosening it at the waist. You don't even look at him as you do it. The sound of the fabric shifting is somehow louder than anything else in the room.

Your yukata slips lower around your shoulders. You let it. It’s still perfectly in place--technically. But the neckline now dips just enough to reveal more skin than modesty allows. It’s all shadow and suggestion and barely-there sin.

Gojo coughs quietly.

“You okay?” you ask sweetly, looking over at him with the faintest smirk. “You’re turning red.”

He shoots you a side eyed glare that’s all you’re evil and I’m dying, then downs half his tea like it's holy water.

You pretend not to notice how his legs shift under the table.

It sure is fun to relentlessly tease The Strongest. Turns out he's not very strong at keeping his composure when it comes to you-

Then you stretch your leg out,just slightly, and your toes brush his ankle under the table. He twitches. Doesn’t move. So you slide your foot a little higher. Up his calf.

He freezes.

“You sure you're eating?” you murmur without looking up, casually lifting a bite of rice to your lips. “You're awfully quiet.”

“I'm--” he clears his throat again, struggling. “--trying.”

Your leg moves again, sliding higher beneath the folds of his robe. His knees shift. You press your thigh just gently against his under the table, close enough now that if you leaned just an inch, your chest would graze his arm.

He’s not touching his food anymore.

His breathing is shallow, jaw tight, eyes fixed on his bowl like he’s praying it’ll save him.

“We still have dessert, don’t we?” you ask, your voice a whisper now,so low and intimate that it brushes the shell of his ear. “Or do you want to save that for later?”

He turns to look at you, and the expression on his face is utterly feral,shaky restraint, tension so thick it pulses, and that look in his eyes like he wants to take you right there, on the floor, on the table, doesn’t matter.

But you just smile at him like you said nothing unusual. Pick up a piece of sweet simmered daikon. Chew it slowly. Then sigh.

“Mmm… I love soft things that melt in your mouth.”

He chokes.

Actually. Chokes.

You glance over and tilt your head like you’re concerned.

"Careful,” you murmur, barely hiding your grin. “Did it go down the wrong way?”

“Yeah,” he croaks, glaring at the table like it personally betrayed him.

You shift again beside him, and this time your knee brushes his thigh. He flinches.

You know he's hard. You know he's holding himself back so tightly it's painful. You know he’s trying to respect the setting, the mission, you--but you also know he’s crumbling.

When you take your final sip of tea and set it down, you glance at him sideways, gaze slow and sultry.

“We should freshen up before bed, don’t you think?

He doesn't answer with words. Just gives a strangled nod, stands a little too fast, and keeps his robe strategically held in front of him as he follows you out.

The candle flickers as you stand, and your yukata slides a little further down your shoulder.

You don’t fix it.

_

The bathroom is quiet when you both step in, the only light coming from a candle on the corner shelf. It flickers against the mirrored wall, casting slow, golden ripples across the tiles and the fog-slicked surface.

You turn on the water.

Steam curls up quickly, dancing into the air like silk threads, and the temperature begins to rise. The room smells faintly of hinoki wood, soap, and him.

You undo the last knot of your sash,with the front of your yukata now completely undone,all the skin underneath, now exposed entirely.

You don’t look back as you lean toward the mirror, rubbing your fingers across the fogged surface to wipe a streak clear. Your reflection blurs slightly,backlit by candlelight, warm and glowing, skin dewy from the heat.

Gojo stands behind you, just inside the doorway, so still

You see his silhouette in the mirror,robe loose, hair a tousled silver mess, his chest rising a little too fast. He hasn’t said a word.

You pretend not to notice as you've been for the entire day.

Instead, you shift your hips just a little, adjusting your yukata, pretending to tighten it as you arch slightly toward the mirror. Your back curves. The hem of the towel lifts just a breath.

“You okay back there?” you ask casually, reaching for your toothbrush, lips curled around the question.

He clears his throat, voice rough.

“Yeah. Yep. Totally. Just… watching.”

“Mm.” You apply your lip balm slowly, eyes flicking up to meet his in the mirror. “Like what you see?”

His eyes darken.

“You know I do.”

You hum,pleased. Then you lean in slightly, wiping the fog again as you press your chest closer to the sink, which in turn shifts your hips back,closer to him.

You know exactly what you’re doing.

The distance between your bodies disappears. You feel him pause,his body heat suddenly grazing your back, the hem of your towel brushing his thighs. You sway, just barely,your hips rolling gently back against him.

Your voice is soft. Dangerous.

“Oops. Bit crowded, huh?”

He groans under his breath.

His hands come to rest lightly on your hips, fingers twitching like he wants to grab harder,but doesn’t. He holds back. Just barely.

“You’re driving me insane,” he mutters, voice husky against the back of your neck.

You arch again, ever so slightly,grinding back against him just enough to feel it.

You don’t need to see to know he’s hard. He’s been hard for hours.

He grips you a little tighter. You can feel the tremble in his fingers.

“Please.”

You turn , letting his hands slide around your waist until you’re facing him, only inches apart. The candlelight hits his face just right—his lips parted, eyes blown wide with hunger, hair wild, robe loose enough to tempt you right back.

But you don’t lean in.

You just lift a hand to smooth your towel across your chest, deliberately slow, before trailing your fingers down your collarbone—right in front of him.

“We should get to bed.”

He blinks.

“Wha—?”

And then you step past him,slow, soft, brushing your shoulder along his chest as you go. Your skin brushes his thigh again.

“Come on,” you whisper over your shoulder.

You don’t look back.

He stays frozen for a second longer,shaking with restraint,then follows like a man chasing salvation.

At this point you can almost see his cursed energy buzzing around him.

_

You step out of the bathroom,

The hallway is dim, still lit by candlelight. Shadows dance against the wooden floors. You walk slowly, yukata now untied and clutched to your chest ,not for modesty, but because your skin feels too hot to be exposed. Your legs feel heavy. Thighs pressed a little too close together.

You’re not teasing anymore.

You need him now, and the awareness of that sits thick and low in your belly.

Behind you, you hear him. Quiet footsteps. Slower than yours. He’s walking like he’s afraid he might combust the second he touches you again.

You enter the room.

The futon is laid out neatly. The bedding looks soft, inviting. Too soft for what you both need.

He doesn’t speak. Neither do you.

You drop the yukata .

Let it fall to the floor silently, like the last bit of control between you.

Your back is to him. You hear the sharp inhale,the sound of a man trying not to break. But you can feel it in the air,he’s gone. He’s not holding back anymore.

You kneel at the edge of the futon, breath unsteady, hair damp against your skin. You don’t have the strength to play anymore. You’re pulsing with heat, trembling with it. And when you glance over your shoulder, his eyes meet yours,raw, pleading, ravenous.

He takes a single step forward.

And that’s when you say it.

“Satoru… I was thinking."

His eyes flicker. He’s barely breathing.

You turn to face him, completely bare, and your voice soft and gentle, you mean it.

“You’ve been so good, haven’t you?.....you should come get your reward"

He breaks.

His robe is off in seconds.

“Please, I need you. I need you now.”

You pull him down with you.

“Then take me."

The moment the words leave your lips—

“You’ve been so good, haven’t you?”

his eyes darken like a storm rolling in.

The air in the room shifts, shudders. It’s not candlelight anymore,it’s wildfire.

And then he moves.

He’s across the room in a second, dropping to his knees in front of you like he’s praying. Like he’s home.

His hands find your waist and pull you to him like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice wrecked.

You cup his jaw.

“You’ve been good, Satoru.”

That’s it.

He snaps.

His mouth is on yours,hot, bruising, breathless. His hands roam everywhere at once,palming your thighs, sliding over your hips, grabbing your ass like he’s wanted to do it since the moment he saw you walk into that damn onsen.

“Mine,” he pants against your lips, barely pulling back.“You’re mine. Mine—fuck, I’ve waited-”

You don’t get a chance to answer,he’s already pushing you back gently onto the futon, crawling over you with the kind of reverence that feels like worship and the kind of desperation that feels like devouring.

His mouth trails kisses,wild, open-mouthed, uncoordinated--down your neck, over your collarbones, down your chest. He sucks a mark right above your heart and moans into your skin like he’s never tasted anything better.

“You don’t know-” he murmurs between kisses. “How long I’ve wanted you. How bad it’s been. You don’t fucking know.”

“Satoru,” you whisper, breath shaky.

He pulls back, just for a second, hands still gripping your thighs.

“Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.”

He grunts—low in his throat,and drags his tongue down your stomach like he wants to lick every inch of you until you’re trembling.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he murmurs against your skin. “You tease me, you make me wait, you pretend you don’t want me but I know you do—”

His fingers dip lower finally.

“Fuck--look at you,” he gasps.You’ve been wanting this the whole time, haven’t you?”

You nod. Whimper.

“Use your words, baby,” he whispers, voice turning soft but possessive. “Tell me.”

“Yes, Satoru. I need you.”

That’s all it takes.

He devours you. His mouth is on your neck, your chest, your stomach,leaving wet, sloppy, desperate kisses. He bites down gently on your inner thigh and moans like he’s tasted sin and can’t stop now.

“You smell so fucking good,” he groans into your skin. “You’re soaked. Fuck, baby, were you like this all through dinner? When you were teasing me? Were you dripping under that yukata, acting all innocent?”

You whimper, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause. He’s between your legs now, spreading you open like a gift, tongue already dragging slow and filthy over your folds.

“Satoru—ah—!”

He groans. Loudly. His hands grip your thighs, fingers bruising, holding you in place as he eats like a man starving,so sloppy, hungry, possessive. He moans against your cunt, lets the vibrations travel through you until you’re squirming under his grip.

“You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted,” he mumbles, lips shiny. “I could live here.”

He sucks your clit gently, then hard, and you cry out, back arching. Your hands twist in his hair, tugging desperately.

“Please, please-don’t stop--”

He doesn’t. He drags two fingers through your slick, slow, and slides one inside,then another,curling them just right. He watches you fall apart, mouth still latched to you, as you grind against his face, messy, panting, ruined.

You cum hard. Fast. The pressure explodes, your thighs shaking around his head as you cry his name over and over. He doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, like it’s not enough, like your orgasm is the opening act to what he really wants.

“Satoru, please,—”

He finally pulls away, face dripping with your slick, lips swollen, eyes completely gone. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and smirks--but it’s not cocky. It’s feral.

“I’m going to fuck you so good, you’ll forget teasing me ever again ”

He’s so hard it’s almost painful. You reach down, wrap your hand around him over the fabric of his robe, and he chokes on a moan.

“Let me make you mine,” he whispers against your lips. “Not pretend. Not fake. Just us.”

You don’t answer with words,you shift your hips and pull him down to you, legs wrapping around his waist, and that’s all the permission he needs.

He doesn’t waste another second.

He presses the head of his cock to your entrance, slow at first. Just the tip.

“Look at how wet you are,” he mutters, stroking up and down your slit. “You want me inside you this badly?”

You nod. Whimper. Try to pull him closer with your legs.

“Beg for it.”

“Satoru—please—I need you inside me. I can’t—please.”

He slides in with a deep, guttural groan.

Thick. Slow. Endless.

You both gasp when he bottoms out, fully seated inside, his hands planted on either side of your head like he’s trying not to collapse.

“You feel—fuck—you’re so tight, baby,” he chokes out. “You’re gripping me like you don’t want to let go.”

His hips pull back--then slam forward again, sharp and deep. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the room, along with your gasps and his broken curses.

“You gonna take all of it?” he pants. “Take everything I give you?”

“Yes—yes, Satoru—harder!”

He snarls,actually snarls,and starts pounding into you, deep and rhythmic, hitting that spot inside you that makes you sob his name.

His hands grab your wrists, pinning them above your head, mouth against your ear as he whispers,

“You’re mine. Mine. Say it.”

“I’m yours—Satoru—only yours—”

“Say it louder.”

“I’m yours!”

His hips slam into you harder, rough and fast now, the kind of thrusts that make your entire body jolt with each one. You feel yourself falling apart again,so much stimulation, too much pleasure.

“You’re close, huh?” he whispers, lips brushing your jaw. “You gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?”

You nod frantically, moaning. Tears prick your eyes.

“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me feel you.”

And you do.

You shatter around him with a scream, body spasming, thighs locking around his waist. You’re soaked, trembling, begging,but he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going.

"Fuck—I'm close—where do you want—"

You look up at him with lidded eyes and smile as you say "inside!— we're married right?"

That sends him over the edge

“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Wanna see my cum dripping out of you. Mark you. Make sure no one ever forgets who you belong to.”

“Yours,” you cry. “I’m yours, Satoru, I’m—”

He thrusts once, twice--then stills.

Buries himself deep.

And cums inside you with a raw, broken moan, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his whole body trembling as he pulses inside you over and over.

You both stay like that,connected, shaking, ruined.

He’s still inside you, his weight resting on his forearms, skin sticky and warm against yours. His breathing is slowing, but the tension in his shoulders hasn’t eased,not entirely.

He’s not looking at you

You can feel the weight of him on top of you,not just physically, but emotionally. Like he’s still holding on for dear life. As if pulling out would mean pulling away.

He blinks down at you.

Eyes soft. Lips swollen. His silver hair clings damply to his temple, his face pink from exertion,and something far more vulnerable.

“Satoru…” you whisper.

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just stares at you like he’s memorizing this moment. Then slowly, he shifts, pressing a kiss,so soft, it barely counts as a kiss,to the corner of your mouth.

Then your cheek.

Then your jaw.

And then he says it. Quiet. Breathless.

“I love you.”

You blink.

Your chest tightens,his words were so small, like they’d slipped out before he could catch them. His voice shakes. Not from fear, but from honesty.

You search his face, stunned.

He doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t try to laugh it off.

He just presses his forehead to yours again, eyes closed, voice barely a murmur,

“I love you,” he says again. “I know I joke around a lot. I know I tease. But I’ve been gone for you for so fucking long, I didn’t know what to do with it.”

You touch his cheek.

He leans into your palm like it’s the only thing anchoring him.

“I love you when you ignore me,” he whispers. “When you act like I’m just some annoying idiot who’s too loud in meetings. I love you when you’re cold, and when you’re soft like this. I love every version of you, and it’s been driving me crazy because I thought I was the only one feeling this.”

Your eyes burn a little, but your smile breaks through.

You thread your fingers through his hair and pull him down into a kiss,slower this time, deeper. No more teasing. No more tension.

Just feeling.Just truth.

When you pull away, you whisper against his lips,

“I love you too.”

And the noise he makes is soft and wrecked, like he just came all over again from that alone.

He smiles.

That rare, gentle smile,not the cocky one. The one only you ever get to see.

“you make me feel fucked up” he mutters,kissing your cheek again. “I want to marry you.”

“You’re literally still inside me.”

“Yeah,” he grins, nuzzling into your neck. “Perfect time to say it.”

_

Bonus:

The mission is over.

The inn is behind you, and now you're walking through the front gates of Jujutsu High as if nothing happened.

As if you didn’t share a futon.

As if he didn’t make you come more times than you could count.

As if he didn't whisper I love you's into your skin

But Gojo?

He’s radiating.

Like he just hit the jackpot, well he did.

He’s whistling as he walks beside you, hands in his pockets, sunglasses on despite the cloudy sky. He’s humming something upbeat, too happy, too relaxed.

You elbow him gently.

“Tone it down.”

“I’m not doing anything,” he says with a stupid smile.

“You’re glowing.”

“Am I?” he grins. “Maybe I exfoliated.”

You groan and roll your eyes, just as the rest of the squad comes into view across the training field.

Yuji spots you first, waving both hands like an overexcited puppy.

Sensei! You’re back! How was the mission?”

“Oh, you know,” Gojo says with a breezy stretch, “intense. Steamy. Very hands-on.”

You whip your head toward him in horror. His grin only widens.

Nobara eyes the two of you carefully,arms folded.

“You look... different,” she says slowly.

“I got a haircut,” Gojo lies instantly.

“You didn’t.”

"Emotionally I did."

Shoko walks out onto the porch with her cigarette already between her lips, watching the two of you like she knows everything. (She does.)

She exhales smoke, tilts her head.

“Didn’t expect you two back so soon,” she says. “You get the job done early?”

You nod stiffly. Gojo nods too, much too cheerfully.

“It was a very thorough... investigation,” he adds.

Shoko’s eyes drift lazily down to the faint pink mark on your collarbone that your jacket just barely covers.

She smirks.

Nanami walks by at that exact moment, gives one glance to Gojo’s smug expression and your shell-shocked silence, and does a full 180 turn.

“Nope,” he mutters. “I’m not dealing with this.”

“Love you too, Nanamin~!” Gojo calls after him.

Yuji squints.

“Wait. Are you two... like... together now?”

You open your mouth to deny it. But before you can, Gojo casually drapes his arm around your shoulders, tugging you in close, and says,

“What gave it away?”

You stare up at him, smacking his chest lightly as everyone groans, cheers, or just walks away muttering.

Gojo leans down toward your ear, voice soft this time—just for you.

“They were gonna find out eventually.”

“Still,” you mutter. “Do you have to look this smug about it?”

“You’d look smug too if you had what I have.”

He presses a kiss to your temple before walking ahead.

You stand there, flushed, lips twitching despite yourself.

And behind you, Nobara says flatly

“Yup. Definitely fucked.”

note: this took me so many hours to write, and I've never written smut before so please spare me if it's not that good, also thank you for the amazing response on this fic!!!😋tell me how this is okay.

[satoruslovey]

We're married,no?—G.Satoru

synopsis: Principal Yaga assigns you and Gojo Satoru a mission: investigate a cursed inn—as a married couple.

He’s delighted. You’re horrified,but with couple-only train cabins, one bed, and a honeymoon suite with a private onsen, there’s no room to keep your distance literally. Gojo teases. You resist. The tension builds. Until you decide to play his game and he realizes he was never ready for you to make the first move. So what happens when he finally gets a taste of his own medicine?

Pairings: g.satoru!×f.reader!

Words: 2.9k

warnings: fake marriage,mutual pining, slow-burn, heavy sexual tension,suggestive content, lingering touches,emotionally charged intimacy, light flirtation-turned-serious,Gojo Satoru down bad, unresolved tension,undercover couple dynamic, one bed trope, private onsen scene, soft domestic vibes, “we’re married, no?” energy.

pt1. pt2.

“Married?!”

The word jumps out of your mouth before you can stop it,sharper than intended, too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

You blink once, then again, unsure if you misheard,or if reality has just decided to mess with you today.

Yaga doesn’t even flinch.

“You’ll be going undercover as a couple. A married one, yes.”

You whip your head toward him.

“Excuse me?!"

Across from you, Gojo Satoru shifts in his seat, casually slinging one long arm over the backrest of his chair. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink.

He smiles.

Not his usual cocky grin. No,this one’s subtle. Crooked.

The kind that looks like he’s already imagined this exact scenario a dozen times and is thoroughly enjoying it.

Principal Yaga, unfazed, sets a folder on the desk and folds his hands.

“There’s been a steady spike in cursed energy around a private inn in the mountains,” Yaga says, completely unfazed. “It’s quiet, remote, and completely cut off from Jujutsu surveillance. We’ve confirmed multiple low-level disappearances tied to curse activity. Possibly something nesting. You’re to investigate.”

You open your mouth, close it again.

“But what does that have to do with--marriage?!”

Yaga flips a page in the mission file.

“The inn accepts couples and honeymoon only"

Silence.

You stare at him.

Then, slowly, your gaze shifts

To the man sitting across from you, entirely too relaxed.

Satoru Gojo looks like he’s just been handed the key to paradise.

One leg crossed, chin balanced in his hand, sunglasses lowered just enough to reveal the glint in his eyes.

“I mean…” he says, voice smooth as ever,

“It’s about time, don’t you think?”

You glare at him.

“You’re enjoying this.”

“Absolutely.” His grin grows. “This is the best day of my life.”

“It’s a cursed inn.”

“And a romantic getaway.Two birds, one bed.”

You ignore the heat creeping up your neck.

“Can’t I go with someone else? where's Nanami?”

“On a mission in Okinawa,” Yaga replies.

"Maki?"

"injured"

"Anyone else?!"

Yaga exhales, tone flat.

“You and Gojo are the only two available with the cursed energy capacity to manage long-range detection, combat, and concealment. Statistically, you have the highest compatibility. You’re the best choice.

He pauses for a bit then says,

"and frankly, “Out of everyone, you two have the most… natural chemistry. It won’t be hard to sell the illusion."

Gojo lets out a quiet, pleased hum like Yaga just announced your engagement.

You exhale sharply.

“So my only option is him?”

Gojo lifts one hand to his chest, mock-offended.

“Him has feelings, you know.”

“Stuff them into your infinity.”

He chuckles--low, and far too pleased with himself.

“So, honeymoon suite? Or do we request the one with the heart-shaped tub?”

Yaga cuts in before you can hurl the mission file at his head.

“You leave at sunrise tomorrow. Train tickets are booked. Report back within 72 hours or earlier.

You stare down at the folder in your hands.

Your cursed energy practically vibrates with frustration.

Gojo stands, stretching his arms with a hum, like he’s already picturing the trip.

“We should work on our backstory,” he muses, sidling up beside you. “Do we call each other babe,or,oh wait, sugarplum? Cupcake? Mrs. Gojo?”

You shove past him without a word.

But he doesn’t stop smiling.

_

The next morning comes too fast.

You barely sleep. You’re still scowling as you drag your bag down the platform, half hoping the train derails before he arrives.

No such luck.

“Oh good, they got us the window seat.”

Gojo’s voice is too chirpy for 6:42 AM.

He drops into the aisle seat beside you, stretching his long legs out with a pleased sigh, like he’s boarding a first-class honeymoon cruise.

“Don’t talk to me,” you mutter.

“Rude. Married less than a day and already ignoring me in public.”

You turn away, staring out the window with a deep inhale and deeper regret.

The train hums to life, soft vibrations shivering beneath the floor. People around you are already murmuring excitedly about mountain air, hot springs, romantic getaways.

Gojo leans in, just enough for you to feel his voice ghost against your ear.

“This is pretty realistic so far, don’t you think? The whole spouse vibe.”

You don’t even flinch. You just keep your eyes forward.

“I will divorce you mid-mission.”

He chuckles,quiet, amused.

Doesn’t press further.

The ride is long.

You scroll through the case file again just to keep yourself from staring at him.

The train hums beneath you, steady and rhythmic, and the quiet murmur of other couples in the car seeps into the background-laughing softly, hands brushing, heads tucked together.

You refuse to play into it.

You fold your arms tightly and focus out the window.

But it’s impossible not to notice,

Gojo’s leg is stretched out beside yours, long and warm and stupidly close.

The side of his thigh bumps yours with every shift of the train, and he doesn’t move away. Doesn’t even pretend to give you space.

Your knees knock once.

Then again.

Then… they just stay like that.

And his arm, draped casually across the back of the seat-

It’s just barely grazing your shoulders, the fabric of his sleeve brushing the back of your neck each time he breathes deeper, leans just a little closer.

You try not to lean into it.

But your body,traitorous and tired,starts relaxing anyway,like it’s used to his presence,like it knows his warmth,like this has happened before.

You shift away an inch.

He shifts closer without even thinking.

Not intentionally. Not obviously.But it’s there.

His scent clings to his hoodie there's warmth and something just distinctly him.

And no matter how many pages you flip in the file, you’re aware of every breath he takes beside you.

The heat at the edge of your ear.

The slow, subtle way your body drifts closer anyway.

You hate how natural it feels.You hate how you don’t hate it.

He’s quiet for a while. Eventually, you glance over and find him leaned back, head tilted, hair a soft mess and mouth slightly parted.

Asleep.

You scoff under your breath and go back to reading,until, somewhere between half a page and one blink too long…

Your head tilts.

And rests on his shoulder.

You don’t notice when it happens.

Only that it feels… warm.

Solid. Like your body gave up before your brain did.

And you certainly don’t notice the way he shifts slightly,barely there,so your cheek fits better against him.

Or the way his lips twitch.

_

The train gives a sudden jolt, you're awakened from the movement.

Your eyes flutter open slowly, confused, heavy with sleep,until you register warmth beneath your cheek.

Soft cotton. A steady rise and fall.

A shoulder.His shoulder.

You jerk upright a little too fast, heart lurching in your chest.

Your bag nearly tips off your lap.

Gojo turns to you, his voice still low and rough with sleep,

or maybe amusement.

“Morning, sunshine.”

You blink at him, dazed.

“Did I-?”

“You did.”

He stretches like a cat, obnoxiously casual.

“Whole nap. Right here. So cute.”

You press your fingers to your temple, mortified.

“How long?”

“Thirty-five minutes.”

He taps his phone. “You even sighed in your sleep. Pretty sure you said my name.”

You gape.

“You're lying.”

He leans in, voice pitched just for you--

“Sure I am,sweets”

You grab your bag and storm off the second the train doors open, not looking back.

But you feel him behind you.

All smug.

Still warm.

And worse,you can still feel the shape of his shoulder against your cheek.

_

After a long walk through the quiet mountain path,cobblestone streets, warm golden light, and distant wind chimes,and ofcourse, gojo pestering you to let him carry you, you finally reach the inn.

It’s quaint, charming, and just barely not tacky.

The wooden sign above the door reads:

“Love’s Retreat — Couples Only.”

You exhale.

“Seriously?”

“Don’t be shy,” Gojo grins beside you, bumping your shoulder. “Our love deserves the best.”

“I will push you into the nearest koi pond.”

You’re just about to step inside when the paper screen slides open, and an elderly woman steps out onto the porch. Her silver hair is tied neatly, her yukata a soft blush, and her entire face lights up the second she sees you.

“Ahh! You must be the newlyweds!” she beams. “Mr. and Mrs. Gojo!”

Your brain short circuits.

Gojo, of course, doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s us,” he says, warm and easy, placing a steady hand on the small of your back.

But this time,it lingers.

Just a second too long.

His fingers spread slightly, thumb brushing softly against the fabric of your top in a motion so natural, so practiced, it feels like he’s done it before.

You tense, but you don’t move.

Her eyes sparkle.

“What a stunning couple! So in sync. You just radiate love.”

Your face warms instantly.

You'd have corrected her if it wasn't for the mission, Gojo on the other hand doesn't miss a beat.

“We hear that a lot,” he says, glancing down at you. “She gets all flustered when people notice.”

His gaze lingers, like he’s watching your reaction too closely.

“She’s shy.”

Your jaw clenches.

“So shy,” you mutter, without meeting his eyes.

He smirks.

The old woman beckons you both toward the reception desk, where a delicate wooden charm dangles from a heart-shaped key.

“We’ve prepared the honeymoon suite especially for you,candles, rose petals, and the most breathtaking view of the mountain onsen.”

Gojo hums, pleased.

He leans in as you pass her, voice brushing low and soft against your ear.

“Mrs. Gojo has a really nice ring to it, doesn’t it?”

You don’t answer.But your steps falter.

Just slightly.

And his hand doesn’t leave your back.

You step on his foot a second later, just for balance.

Or that’s what you tell yourself.

He doesn’t flinch,just laughs softly behind you.

Like he knows something’s shifting.

Maybe,because it is.

_

The staff from the inn leads the way into your room,

The room is soft and warm when you step inside,golden light spilling through rice paper, the faint scent of hinoki and rose petals in the air.

Your eyes land on the futon first.

You freeze in the doorway.

One futon.

Laid out dead center. Covered in soft white sheets and a gentle scatter of pink petals like the universe is mocking you. One bed. Two people.

You sigh.

“There’s only one.”

“How romantic,” Gojo says, sauntering in behind you. “Should we use it now or after the onsen?”

“You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“I don’t see a couch.”

You gesture to a floor cushion in the corner.

“Improvise.”

He places a hand on his chest like you’ve broken his heart.

“You’re really gonna make your husband sleep on the floor? On our honeymoon?”

“You can line it with your ego. That should cushion the fall.”

He laughs, easy and bright, throwing himself back onto the futon like he belongs there. Limbs everywhere. Shirt riding up again. Stupidly perfect.

“You’ll miss me when I’m gone. When you’re cold and lonely in that big empty bed.”

“I’ll manage.”

“You’ll cave.”

e says it with that lilt,that confidence, like he knows you always eventually do.

But this time?

Something in you coils.

He doesn’t know that you’ve already decided you won’t make him sleep on the floor.

He doesn’t know that you’ve already caved.

And worst of all,he thinks he’s still winning.

You set your towel down, tight-lipped. You're about to walk away when he shifts on the bed, rolling onto his side. Head propped on his hand, bare forearm flexed, blindfold still slung loose around his neck.

“Unless…”

His voice dips, teasing,

“You just want me close tonight, huh? That’s why you’re making a fuss. You want me to beg.”

You look at him.

And in that moment-something snaps.

Not visibly. Not dramatically.

Just… an internal click.

You’ve had enough.

Of his mouth. Of his touches. Of him looking at you like he owns the upper hand.

He wants to play? Oh you'll play.

He stretches back, smirking at the ceiling.

“I’ll be in the onsen. Don’t keep me waiting too long, wifey.”

He says it like a joke.

Like he doesn’t expect anything.

And that’s his mistake.

_

The onsen is dimly lit, steam curling around the rocks, moonlight pooling silver in the water.

Gojo’s already in.

He’s leaned back against the smooth stone wall, arms out along the edge, hair wet and slicked back, collarbones gleaming, eyes closed in total smug satisfaction.

Until the door slides open behind him.

He doesn’t look.

“Changed your mind?” he calls over his shoulder. “Couldn’t resist me, huh?”

“Care to join me, wifey?” he drawls lazily, not even opening his eyes.

He doesn’t think you will.

He never expects you to take it that far.

But you do.

Silently, you untie the towel around your body, letting it slip down with a soft thump against the wood.

You don’t answer.

The sound of it hitting the floor is quiet.

But not quiet enough to miss.

His head snaps toward the sound,and when he sees you, standing at the edge of the steam, bathed in warm light and nothing else-

And when he finally turns and sees you...

It knocks the breath from his lungs.

You’re stepping into the water slowly, bare skin glowing in the light, steam kissing every inch of you like it’s lucky to touch you. Your body is all soft curves and smooth lines, thighs glistening, collarbones gleaming, hair pinned messily up so the heat traces down the nape of your neck.

And your eyes. Calm. Eyes slightly lidded.

The moment he sees you, he stills.

Completely.

You don’t stop.

You wade toward him, bare and composed, eyes locked on his like you’ve been planning this. And maybe you have,maybe somewhere between his shoulder brushing yours on the train and his smug grin on the bed, you decided,

You’re going to break him.

You reach him with a soft splash of water, skin glowing in the golden light, lips barely parted.

His hands twitch against the ledge.

“Y-You…” His voice is low. Shaky. “You actually came in.”

You hum softly, like you hadn’t noticed the wreckage in his expression.

“You invited me, didn’t you?”

Your voice is honey.

“It’d be rude not to.”

You place your hands on his shoulders,hot skin against his, your fingers smoothing over damp muscles.

He tenses instantly beneath you.

But he doesn’t stop you.

He couldn’t, even if he tried.

You lower yourself gently onto his lap, slow enough to feel his breath hitch. Your thighs spread, your knees bracing against the stone ledge behind him, your bare skin sliding over his.

And then you settle.

Chest pressed to chest.

Your cheek brushing his.

Your lips a whisper from his own.

You feel his heartbeat hammer beneath you.

You feel every inch of him,tense, aching, desperate.

“You’ve been teasing me all day, Satoru,” you murmur, breath soft against his jaw. “You thought I’d stay quiet forever?”

His hands finally rise,hesitant at first, then desperate, grabbing at your hips, pulling you closer like he might die if there was even an inch of space between you.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he rasps. “You’re—fuck—you’re actually gonna kill me.”

You smile against his cheek.

And then,you move.

Not much. Just a roll of your hips.

A shift.

But it’s enough to make him groan, low and wrecked.

His head falls back as your mouth brushes up the side of his neck, not kissing,just there, hovering, letting your breath tickle along his damp skin.

“You’ve had your fun, haven’t you?” you whisper.

“It’s my turn now.”

Your arms wrap slowly around his shoulders.

Your chest presses flush against his.

Water sloshes softly as you adjust,your thighs now firm around his waist, and your lips brushing his, just enough to taste the heat of him.

He’s breathing ragged now.

His hands are everywhere,your back, your waist, sliding over your thighs like he doesn’t know what to touch first.

“Fuck- baby just one—”

And then-

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK-

Sharp. Sudden.

“Room service! Fresh towels, Mr. and Mrs. Gojo!”

You go completely still.

Satoru? Flinches.

The tension snaps instantly, like a curse seal unraveling beneath his ribs.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

And he looks ruined.

Flushed. Panting. Needing.

You laugh,soft and sweet and far too pleased with yourself.

“Oops.”

He stares at you like you’ve just burned a hole through his soul.

You climb off him, slow and graceful, every brush of your skin against his a punishment.

You step out of the onsen, glancing over your shoulder, water dripping down the line of your back.

Satoru doesn’t move.

He Can’t.

“Also, Satoru,” you say, wrapping the towel back around your waist.

You turn fully to face him, water running down your neck, eyes soft but unreadable.

“We can share the bed tonight.”

You pause,let the silence hang.

Then you smile.

“We’re married, no?”

You say with a wink.

Yeah,His soul leaves his body.

note: this actually took me more than five hours and I've thought of this for so long, I actually really like this,let me know what you guys think and if this deserves a part two...yk🤭

[greenlabcoat]

im not a "good boy" im nuanced. also i hurt strangers for no reason sometimes

[squeakitties]

[inquisitorgrand]

[just-illegal]

i HAVE [remembers that suicide jokes are bad] no choice but to revolutionize the world

[vivisnefertari]

[returningagainstmywill]

*whistles disrespectfully*