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halcyone-of-the-sea · 4 months

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How To Adapt To Fire (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Fireman!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Journalist!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 5.6k

WARNINGS: Fire(s), intended harm, death/gore, murder, crime, corruption, arsonist mystery plot, pining, protective!Johnny, flirting, intense banter, fade-to-black, nudity, suggestive descriptions, dirty jokes, etc.

A/N: Taglist is full.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Johnny watches you slap another news clipping to the board he’d bought you for thirty-two dollars and twenty-three cents, tired eyes blinking slowly. Standing in his apartment’s living room in his boxers and an oversized shirt, he’d woken up to the sound of muttering, and it had been just that for the last week.

When he’d allowed you to live in his spare room until you could find a new apartment building to call your own, he didn’t expect you there to be so much grumbling. Like a little bug in his ear—not that he minded all that much. At least, if you were that bug.

“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” you groan, running a hand down your face. “How did he find me? How did he know I already knew so much about the case?”

He, the arsonist.

Your entire building had been a total loss—and, sure enough, the lock had been busted off of your apartment door just like the scene of the fires that resulted in casualties. You had been targeted, and it wasn’t just an accident. There was intent there; a threat.

Stay away from me, or else.

Johnny had sighed long when he read that in the report he’d gotten his hands on—there was no way in hell anything was stopping you except…well, except yourself.

While he had envisioned one day potentially asking you to move in with him, he hadn’t expected that to happen so soon. Certainly not before the first fucking date. He hadn’t even gained the courage to ask you out yet, and here you were—pajama pants polling at your ankles and Johnny’s baggy sweatshirt loose around your shoulders. The Scot stands with the heat of sleep and attraction on his skin.

He tried not to stare, really he did, but the way you looked in his clothes was too much of a distraction for his own good.

The man clears his throat, face burning.

“I’m beggin’ you to give it a rest, Dearie. At least five minutes.” Johnny sighs. “It’s not healthy.”

He doesn’t think he’s seen you shed a tear over your apartment—about your belongings. In reality, he was taken aback by it. Soap wouldn’t have blamed you at all…but you just seemed angry. It worried him, but the emotion was well within your right to hold. Just as it was within his right to try and keep you from rushing into danger.

“Not now,” you grumble. “Not until I know how he found out my room number.”

“You aren’t exactly unknown.” The fireman walks closer to your standing form, hand moving up to scratch at his back as he gunts. “Mostly everyone who would care to look into your career knows about you. It wouldn’t be hard.”

Johnny moves his vision over the board, pausing before he licks his lips.

“...They’ll be needing me in today, Hen,” he breathes.

Your lips tighten, and you glance over quickly to find blue eyes already looking. Snapping your attention back to the board, you push back against the burn of your face.

“It’s your job, I’m not going to tell you not to go in.”

“If you need me here, then I can—”

“John,” you interrupt, shaking your head with a heavy frown and turning his way. “No way. Go in.”

Johnny’s serious face doesn’t lessen, and you’re struck with how often those lines on his face are becoming commonplace.

You wouldn’t say that you were taking this well.

Forcing yourself to work; making your mind push back at the deep pit that seemed to be growing. Everything you’d worked for—everything you’d had. Gone. Up in smoke.

Two people had died in that inferno, and you can’t help but put that on yourself.

Fingers going up to tap at your chin, your attention goes back to the board, the heavy weight of bags under your eyes from lack of sleep. You’d tried to re-write what you had in your notes as well as you were able, but there had been a reason for making a physical board in the first place.

Johnny watches you, his brows tight and his fingers twitching. Sighing, he fixes his feet and lightly places a hand on the back of your spine, blinking quickly your eyes dart over before the tension begins to bleed from your muscles.

Your gaze begins to soften, but your voice is still a light firmness. “Stop that.”

The man blinks. “Stop what?”

“Stop being all…” You huff, sagging into his hand. “You.”

Johnny pushes a chuckle, shifting to stare at you fully and letting the smirk move over his lips. His fingers move along your back, rubbing tiny circles as the room goes airy—how quick it was that you could fall into this sense of attachment. To anyone outside of the apartment, it would seem the two of you were in a strange relationship, and that would be true to some extent.

Your face heats up, and Johnny’s large palm flattens. He moves and presses his nose into your hair.

“Now what’s that supposed to mean, then?” He grunts, and you can feel his flickering smirk as clear as day.

Leaning over into him, you sigh, glaring at the board as your heart patters.

“It means you’re distracting me.”

Johnny hums, thumb moving up and down over the knob of your spine. “Talk to me,” he mutters. “Let me help, aye?” He blinks slowly, face hot and his lungs palpitating in his chest. The man cared about you so much—his heart ached for what you’d been put through. Losing a home like that.

Your lashes flutter, a near purr emitting from your throat at the hypnotic movements of Johnny’s grip. Like a damn harpy, he was digging his claws into you; it had been happening for months. Of course, you’d let him touch you—how could you not? Even his sense of courage and justice was something that let you know his character, his honor.

This case was just as important to him as it was to you.

“Go,” you mutter, shifting your head so that you can stare at him. Johnny’s visage pulls back, his stubble moving with the worried angle of his lips; his skull tilts, almost like a dog cocking its snout. “We can figure something out later—if I get you fired I’d finally gain a conscious.”

Johnny sighs, looking you up and down. “...I’ll be making dinner tonight. Just,” he breathes, and as his hand leaves you, your body fights the instinct to shiver. “Wait for me, Bonnie.”

You take in the closeness between the two of you—how your bodies melt into one another as if on instinct. Something was startling about how easy it was to live in the same apartment as Johnny. It had almost been too easy. Sharing food, blankets, and looks.

Your eyes follow after Soap as he brushes your cheek with the back of his hand before turning and walking back to his room, bare feet padding over the floor. His legs move, small burns and scars all over before your vision travels up the broadness of his back; the stretch of his arms as he brings them up with a groan to itch at his head.

Licking your lips, the sight is enough to quiet your mind. Seeing how, like water, his clothes morph into the swell of his thighs and the…your face bursts into fire, and your head snaps away.

Clearing your throat, you blink quickly and try to re-focus on your board of suspects.

—

Johnny tightens the belt over his waist, huffing softly as he walks into the fire department’s bay door—passing the red trucks and patting the dogs as they come up to mob him.

“Yeah, yeah,” he chuckles, the clicking of little claws tapping over the concrete floors and the panting of hot breath. “Good to see you too, little rascals.”

The fireman looks around the area, seeing some of the boys mulling about doing repairs or fixing up the slight mess. Johnny motions a hand when he’s greeted, and before long he’s entering the main hub of where he wants to go—the kitchen.

Grabbing a cup, the Scot’s intention is to get some water before settling into his desk and diving into something that can take his mind off the woman living in his apartment. Licking his lips, Johnny gets momentarily lost in the remembrance of your skin—your determination.

He’s angry. Angry that someone’s done this to you; had disrupted your life so violently. A question was stuck swirling in his head as he began hearing the murmuring from the walk-in pantry.

What would have happened if you hadn’t been with him that morning?

“What do you mean ‘that was you?’” Johnny’s fingers freeze around the rim of a glass, blinking into his own smaller reflection. Brows furrowing, the Scot’s head swivels to the kitchen pantry and the barely cracked open door and the voice that emanates from it.

For some reason, the stagnant air after that sentence makes Johnny’s spine straighten. Blue eyes stare blankly, and fingers twitch as the same voice starts again.

“I thought you said it was over?! That the last one was,” a strangled word, a fast inhale. “We had a fucking deal.”

Heart slow in his chest, Soap stares the longer this seemingly one-sided conversation goes on. There was something off—the words seemed hurried; panicked, even. It wasn’t the usual emotions you had when having a talk with someone.

Taking a steady step back, the Scot remembered how fast your pulse had run when he had you at his chest a week ago—the fast slam and the whites of your eyes on full display. Even if you didn’t confess it to him, Johnny knew you’d been afraid of the fire. Fearful. He knew you weren’t sleeping.

Maybe the fireman was being paranoid, but anything that he didn’t understand made his hackles rise like a feral dog—certainly with you, technically, under his watch now. Everyone was a potential threat. Face stiff, Johnny begins walking over to the pantry with nearly silent feet, boots softly flattening to the tile floor.

Stopping outside of the door, his ears hone in.

“This isn’t right! There’s a difference between what you do and what I do! We stuck together, but this is it. I’ve covered for you—I’ve tried to smooth everything out, but this isn’t something that I can look past anymore. She wasn’t even involved yet!”

Johnny’s lips tighten, his eyes burning through the barrier until he lifts his hand and settles it loosely on the doorknob, not pushing even as the thin material shifts minutely. The alarms in his head were going off, and he didn’t like that.

Muscles tight, the Scot moves a bit closer, shoulder just beginning to touch the wood before—

Kurt Matthews, one of the rookie firefighters, shoves himself through.

Johnny strangles a gasp as the two men nearly collide with one another, only shoving out, what he hopes to be, a casual call of, “Hell’s bells. Careful there, Kid.”

The man’s wild eyes lock on him, stumbling back before Soap’s hands move to grasp his arm, a dark phone held lightly in Kurt’s hand. Johnny looks at it silently before he forces a blank chuckle. “Sorry, then. Was going to get some bread—you know how it is, eh?” Kurt looks frazzled, a sheen of sweat over his face; eyes tiny. “The boys never fill up the bread box after they finish a loaf.”

“What?” Matthews quickly mutters, before shaking his head and waving a hand. “Yeah, right, whatever.”

He swiftly moves past the Scot, brushing shoulders. The mohawked man’s nose pulls in, and blue eyes watch the disappearing individual.

Johnny’s throat swallows down saliva.

Kurt Matthews smells like gasoline.

—

You hear the sound of the TV and sniffle, pushing the heels of your hands into your stinging eyes.

It wasn’t a question as to why you had waited until Johnny left to let yourself feel the hopelessness that was sinking into your chest—you were surprised you lasted that long, though. Tiny tears dribble out over your cheeks, but you fight them with a growl.

“Keep it together,” you sigh harshly. “C’mon, keep it together.”

Your heart jerks when the front door of the apartment opens, and you’re quick to stand up from the couch where you had been sitting, clearing your throat as Johnny’s call echoes.

“Just me!”

You divulge immediately into your hurried sentences, waving a hand. The shake in your voice is obvious. “I have some of the names I remember writing down—it isn’t much but I—”

“What happened?” Johnny’s hands capture your face in a swift second; he isn’t even out of his work clothes before he’s over and touching you. It’s like he teleported over at the slightest hint of distress, not even a moment of hesitation. “Whoa, hey, hey,” he breathes a bit slower, softer. “What’s this then, Bonnie?”

Delicate movements of his fingers scrape your flesh, thumb running as blue eyes come into focus. Your lungs tighten up again at the sight of tense worry—Johnny’s face all hard with the lines of his forehead and the narrowing of his eyelids.

“Let me see,” he utters, tilting your head up so the brightness of your eyes is visible to him; the wetness of your flesh. “Hey, now.”

The man’s attention goes up and down on the off chance this is physical pain instead of the internal kind. But he knows better than that. So, Johnny stuffs down the hunch he had about the man in his own ranks and places all of his concern on you and your bitter tears.

Even when you try to grumble his worry away.

“It’s just stupid tears, MacTavish,” your voice cracks as he drags you to him, curling his arm behind the stretch of your shoulder blades in an addictive display that leaves your nose sniffling again. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Quit it,” the Scot pleads. “Jesus, Pencils,” he sighs, arms trapping you in just like before. “Just let me hold you, yeah? I swear, you’ll make my heart burst ‘fore I get you to admit you’re feeling something.”

Your glossy eyes flinch into a weak glare. “I’m not that emotionally constipated, jackass.”

Johnny’s breath moves over your scalp.

“You sure about that?” Your face goes to an annoyed sheen, and from the soft rest of Johnny’s chest, you look over at him. He’s trying a light smirk, but his eyes are still serious.

Letting yourself melt into him, you take in his scent and the heat he offers you, surrounded by the remnants of his life and future—this apartment that offers you a reprieve.

You close your eyes and let your hands shift up to grab at Johnny’s shirt slowly, your heart gradually easing. Unaware of the soft gaze watching every second; his own grip tightening.

“...You’re like a dog,” you whisper, tears drying. “Always running over.” Your pause lays out a beautiful scene. “I like it.”

Johnny’s cheeks flare to a bright red. He clears his throat, glancing away from your face. “I don’t know if I should be offended or not.”

“Hm,” you hum, shrugging and nuzzling your nose into his pulse. You hear it racing. “Up to you, I suppose.”

The man laughs, chest jerking.

The silence that falls after is like a blanket—settling thickly over the space as the last of your sniffles finally halt. You didn’t like crying; not in front of others. It was easier to just push through it, but Johnny’s presence made you soft, at the same time you can’t tell if that’s good or bad. But it did make your fear lessen, and maybe that was something you couldn’t overlook.

You tighten your hold on his waist, and he grunts, glancing down at you as his gut swirls. The man’s half-lidded eyes flutter, fingers flinching along your clothes. The room gets warmer, or maybe it’s just him.

“I guess,” you begin under your breath, voice muffled by his skin. “I could use your help. Officially.”

“Ooo,” the Scot whispers. “‘Officially’—look at that.”

You huff, lips pulling up.

“Well,” the man mutters, chin resting on top of your head as the sun outside begins to dip lower. “‘Officially’ I have some information that my Bonnie little boss might like to hear.”

Your smirk grows wider, your heart hammering faster as your pulse moves with fire.

“Oh?” Your nails drag his sides, and you feel Johnny’s breath hitch, a low purr emanating from his chest.

“Oh, aye,” a hand grips your chin, dragging you back until you’re once more blinking into his gaze head-on. His finger pets your flesh, your breath puffing out as he stares down at you. He swallows down the nervousness in the back of his throat, the urgency that instinct pushes away in this moment of anticipation as he watches your face. “But I’m having a moment, it seems—can’t think straight.”

“Why’s that?” You lick your lips and see cobalt blue follow them.

“Because this Hen in front of me has been a damn tease since I’ve met ‘er.”

Any snappy reply is cut short before it even can fully register in your head, and all thoughts halt the second his firm mouth is on your own.

You gasp, but there isn’t an ounce of yourself that pulls back, not when Johnny’s fingers play at your shirt-hem, or even when your own slide under his clothes. You don’t pull back when they hit the floor—don’t pull back when your bodies follow suit.

A dance of fire and ice moves with the writhing of flesh and the passing of heavy kisses; panting breath. Grunts and groans as if every pass of lips and teeth is a knife into supple skin. Tense legs and flexing arms—dragging fingertips digging into every latchable dip even as the dead of night grows longer.

It’s only after every desire has been satiated that you finally utter about the finer details of this mess.

Johnny’s hands move down your bare back, slipping to grip your waist and drag you into him as you sigh. Your thigh lifts to rest over his hip, leg hanging uselessly over as it brushes the ruffled sheets as lips find your neck, tiny nips and passes of skin mixing as your eyes flutter.

The fireman makes a noise of satisfaction in the back of his throat, hand sliding to hook under your kneecap, caressing.

“So attentive,” you murmur, and your fingers run through his hair, itching at his mohawk as the longer strands slip through. Johnny burrows closer, nose pushing your head upwards as he kisses the space where your neck connects to the underside of your chin.

He chuckles smoothly, stubble scraping along as you shiver at the sensation. The hard press of his pecs shove into you, and you lightly breathe; fingers twitching.

“How are we feeling?” Johnny grunts in between his worship.

“Energized,” you grin, half-closed eyes shimmering.

The man smiles widely, grip sliding downward slowly as he chuckles. “Yeah?”

“Not like that,” you groan, shoving his hand away as he laughs, rolling onto his back and folding his arm over his eyes.

“Ah,” Johnny’s chest jumps with his amusement, itching at his bare abdomen for a moment. “Worth a try, then.”

“Dog,” you roll your eyes. “You’ve had enough of a fill.”

“That’s all up to opinion, Dearie.” He smirks, peeking at you as your face heats up.

Shoving at his shoulder, he laughs again and pushes up, hands melting into the mattress beside your head as he looms above you as a large wall.

“I’ll never have enough of a fill when it comes to you and your wet c-”

You snap a hand to his mouth, covering it as you glare openly, sneering. “Finish that sentence and you’ll never have me in this bed again.”

Johnny’s glinting eyes stare from above your hand, and you feel his smile as clear as day as his face stays stuck close to yours.

A teasing kiss is leveled on your palm and you roll your eyes, pulling away to lightly push at his forehead. The Scot lets you shove at him, and you sit up fully as he grunts and rests his back on the headboard.

Shifting your body, you straddle his lap and grasp his chin.

“A few hours ago,” Johnny’s eyes are blown, and you feel his touch on your hips. He hums in question, barely listening above the squeeze of your legs. “You were going to tell me something—a lead.”

“Was I?” The fireman breathes, licking at your finger as it goes to rest on his bottom lip.

You cock your head with seriousness and a level of amusement in your gaze. “You were. Tell me.”

“You need to work on your pillow talk, Pencils.” Johnny sets a sloppy kiss on your collarbone and sighs.

There’s a moment where you both stare into one another, and the gravity of this begins to set in once more. Carnal desire and feelings aside, there was always an edge to the both of you—this need to be seen through whether for some sense of justice or care.

“Kurt Matthews—rookie fireman,” Johnny grunts, looking away for a quick moment. “Heard him speaking on the phone, got a bad feeling ‘bout it that I can’t place. Might be nothing, but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t tell you.”

“Kurt,” you breathe, brows pulling in. There’s a long pause. “Kurt Matthews…that sounds familiar.”

Hopping off Johnny, the man groans softly, a slightly needy look following after as your bare body slips away. He knocks his skull against the headboard, side-eyeing your backside as you hurry off to your board. A light smirk makes itself known before your voice snaps him out of his memories. “Stop looking at my ass, MacTavish!”

His face goes beet red as he grunts, quickly snapping his eyes away.

You wrap yourself into one of the blankets that was on the couch, letting it hang off of your shoulders as you snatch one of the papers on your mess of information.

“A fireman,” you mutter to yourself, finger running down names and brief descriptions. “An inside job? No, that would be…” Your eyes spark to life as Soap shuffles in, running through his hair. “That would be one hell of a story.”

Attention locked in, your eyes instantly stop on your own chicken scratch—the name at the bottom of the page.

Kurt Matthews. Witness to fire on the fifth; one dead.

“Off duty? Or not hired yet?” You ask, lips tightening. “Why was he at the scene? Johnny,” your curious voice calls to him, and he slips up behind you, flattening his front to your back. You lean into him, showing him the paper. “When did he get taken on into the department?”

“Month ago,” Johnny’s face pulls, frowning. A name catches his attention, and he tilts his head. “Why’s Duncan on there?”

Your attention moves to the scribbled title. Johnny continues as you read, your stomach sinking.

Duncan Ballard. Employee of Warren Electrical. No involvement.

You wave a hand. “He has nothing to do with this case. That was back when I was looking into the money laundering—”

“They’re cousins.”

Your body twists, face confused. “What…?”

Johnny blinks, glancing at you and then back to the paper, he vaguely gestures to the two names. “Duncan and Kurt—they’re cousins. Met him at one of the department cookouts. Strange bloke, but I never thought much about it. Just thought he liked the profession a bit because Kurt was getting involved.”

You stare at him, a million thoughts dashing from behind your eyes. “Duncan was the man I interviewed about the Warren Electrical case. He was cleared by the police,” you stutter, looking to the side. “He was the only employee of the company that didn’t confess or implicate someone else. There was no evidence to…”

You trail off before your spine tightens. Your body pushes itself out of Johnny’s hold, rushing to his computer and opening it like a bat out of hell.

“Give me the name of one of the fire victims.”

The Scot watches after, hurriedly forcing out, “Mike Lane.”

An article pops up—one that you hadn’t written but that another journalist had. Warren Electrical Employee Exposes All.

“Another,” you breathe, eyes stuck on the screen.

“Kit Cannon.”

Warren Electrical Employee—

“Johnny, one more.”

“Hadden Taylor.”

Warren Electrical Employee—

Your throat closes for a moment before you force out in the middle of Soap easing out another name, still not sure where you’re going with this. “He’s trying to kill off anyone who snitched.”

Johnny pauses, coming over to look as he thinks—as he looks over the articles you show him with a grim face, he tilts his head.

“Even then, why were you a target? All you did was interview him. And why now?”

“He knows I have all of the resources,” you begin. “If anyone can catch him, it would be me—I interviewed him when he was in temporary custody. It would have seemed like he didn’t have a choice unless he wanted to keep his appearance of innocence.”

Your mind struggles through the potential answers. “But you’re right—why now? Is it because of the trial coming up? And how does this connect with Kurt?”

“He smelled like Gasoline when he walked past me,” Johnny adds, rubbing at his chin; itching at his scar. He spares you a look, mulling over the words that he’d heard in the pantry. “...I think he’s trying to cover his cousin’s crimes with his own. Make it seem like they’re all a part of one damn scheme.”

“He’s the one going for the abandoned buildings,” you agree, nodding a few times, looking over into Johnny’s eyes. “Kurt Matthews and Duncan Ballard. Okay. We have our leads.”

Before the Scot can speak on it, you’re rushing past, grabbing clothes from the floor and shoving them on. His face moves in, confusion overtaking his building shock.

“What are you doing?” You shove into your pants, not sparing a look before you button them.

“Get dressed, we’re going out.”

Johnny’s left in the middle of the room, naked, watching after you with a slack-jawed expression of disbelief.

“...What?”

—

You hang up your phone with one of the many people you know in the city, dropping it to your side as you and the fireman stand in front of your car. You have an address for Kurt’s home—not one for Duncan, but that can happen later. With what Johnny had said not moments before, Matthews was expressing hesitation. Go for the weaker link first.

The streets are lit up. It’s still night out but the long hours are beginning to thin into morning; it can’t be later than three AM. Vehicles rush past, and, occasionally, people walk to wherever they are off to. The city never sleeps, just as you don’t.

“Woah,” Johnny grabs onto you before your hand can latch onto the driver’s seat door. He waves his other hand and stares at you heavily. “We can’t just go into this with our dicks in our hands, Bonnie.”

“Thankfully, I don’t have one of those,” you huff. “That’s why I keep you around.”

“That isn’t,” Johnny sighs aggressively, shaking his head. “I’ll not have you in danger. We need to pass this along the chain.”

“The chain,” you grumble, “hates me. We’re the best bet right now.” Raising a brow you point a finger under his nose. “If I recall, you asked to be involved.”

Johnny frowns heavily, looking unimpressed until he takes a deep breath. He rasps out, “You’re lucky you’re damn near a goddess—”

His phone goes off in his pocket, and not a second later, he’s answering as you mess with your satchel. Taking out a piece of paper, you try not to show how much his little comment made you want to float into the air, giddy, nearly, as you write down Kurt’s address sloppily.

“MacTavish,” Johnny grunts out, turning slightly away.

You open your car door, but a hand moves out and keeps it closed enough to a point where you can’t slip inside, you pout and Johnny raises a brow as he listens. Your eyes notice how his jaw clenches, and he lets off an aggressive sigh like a boar when he registers the words being said from over the line.

Your heart drops when you watch his shoulders sag, hips moving as they situate themselves.

“Right. I’ll be over.” Cobalt eyes snap to yours when the call ends, deathly serious. “One of the boys had to run out tonight during his twenty-four-hour—family emergency. I was on call for him.”

You open your mouth to speak.

“No,” Johnny points at you, digging out his own keys from his pants as he backs up. He shakes his head. “No—you’re not going alone. Don’t even ask it, Pencils.”

Your loud scoff echoes. “I didn’t even mention it!”

“You fucking thought it,” he grunts, glaring. “Get your pretty arse back inside the apartment and we do this together tomorrow.”

“Oh, yes,” you wave a hand, stepping back onto the sidewalk as the Scot moves to his vehicle only two cars down, sarcastically monologuing. “All naked and waiting to be ravished by your brutish body. Whatever will I do without you, my brave firefighter?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Soap mutters to himself, and just as he unlocks his car and opens the door, you’re there at his side. A light kiss is pressed into his flesh, and he freezes.

“Be safe,” you mutter, and he melts—tension loosening. He smirks and glances over, carefully grabbing your face before connecting his lips to yours with a low groan.

“Maybe you should be naked and waiting for me—”

“Go!”

Johnny chuckles against your lips. “Keep your head on for me, Pencils. I’ll be back soon, and we can find the fucker that did this, eh?”

As he gets into his car and drives away, you watch after him and bite at your lips. And then as he turns the street corner, you jog over to your car and slip inside.

—

The home was run down.

It wasn’t a place where you would want to raise a family, and neither was the neighborhood. In fact, barely anyone seemed to live on this street, and even if there were entire rows of houses, there weren’t even any lights on—nothing illuminated the streets except the lamps, and you were parked under one with your satchel in your lap.

Experience didn’t mean you never get nervous.

You feel the clamminess of your palms as you flex them, replaying Johnny’s words in your head over and over. You knew the house was here, so, you could always just…come back later. There was no harm in it.

Yet, your eyes narrow, and your rage builds.

This fucker was related to the man that burned down your apartment building—was potentially covering for him so you wouldn’t break the case on Duncan killing off the snitches for Warren Electrical’s schemes. But all because of an interview with him? All you’d done was sit down with the guy; why did he feel the need to track you down? Breaking into someone's house and lighting it up with matches was personal—incredibly personal.

Duncan had given you a warning to keep away, and you hated warnings with a fiery passion. If anything, it had just set you on his ass more.

“Okay,” you huff, and reach inside of your satchel, flicking on the recorder you stuffed inside and stating your name, age, and important information.

And then you open the car door and exit.

Speed walking to the door, you look down the dark streets and hunch into yourself, the calls of crows and the wind moving the overgrown grass. Cracked concrete hits the ground as you kick pieces away, and at the two steps leading to the front door, you think that perhaps this might be a bad idea.

Bad ideas are what make good articles.

You hum, face innocent. “Johnny’s gonna fucking kill me.”

Knuckles raising, you send three firm knocks into the paint-speckled wood, and wait. And wait.

And wait.

Your face tightens, your legs shifting minutely as the seconds draw long. A part of you is somewhat relieved until you hear a small creak just when you’re about to walk away. You freeze, and your eyes move slowly to the glass of the side window in a gradual glance.

Your eyes lock onto a face staring back.

Gasping, your foot takes a rapid step backward, but before you can rush away, Kurt rips open the door and pleads in a tiny voice as he grabs your arm. You flinch, raising up a heavy fist. But his words stop you from sending it forward.

“No! No, you can’t be here!” Your eyes blink rapidly, stuttering through your initial panic.

“What?”

“Leave!” Kurt snaps, eyes wild. “While he’s still asleep—he can’t see you here or he’ll—” There’s a splash of liquid and you shout. Kurt lets go of you quickly as he looks down at himself as his clothes get flooded from behind.

The sharp smell hits you before your ears twitch to the sound of a lighting match.

Kurt screams, snapping around as you fall backward off the steps, slamming into the ground with a panicked flinching in your lungs. A large shadow stands in the doorway. “I didn’t say anything—I didn’t—!”

Kurt Matthews goes up in flames, and in the fire and the rabid screams of sizzling flesh, you’re left shouting in pure fear. Duncan’s familiar face was illuminated by an orange and red inferno and he watches you blankly with a box of matches in his right hand.

You run off so fast, your heels get kicked off in a flurry of a chase.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

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paper-mario-wiki · 2 months

Note

you do such a good job passing! any tips?

thank you, i appreciate that! i dont have a ton of tips since ive only been at it for a little over half a year, and im kinda flying by the seat of my pants cuz i dont have a lot of people i talk to day-to-day about presentation. pretty much everything ive figured out by myself and with youtube tutorials. regardless, heres a few i can think of:

don't be afraid to go to a makeup store and ask for advice. i brought a picture of myself i put through faceapp to give me makeup, and i showed it to the ladies at sephora, who were able to get me exactly what i was looking for. theres a world of difference between a face full of makeup, and a face full of makeup that's slightly the wrong shade, and it's good to get the opinions of experts.

try to look at the other women in your family and see how they style themselves, or do their makeup, or even how they speak or carry themselves. finding a look that works isn't somethin that you can fall into super easily, you have to go searching for it. try to model yours after the people who literally share your genes and therefore your features. (note, the opposite is equally usable for transmascs, look at your brothers, fathers, and uncles)

spend time in the mirror seeing what looks right. comb your hair in different directions, part it in a different place, put a clip in, dye it a different color, etc. put on makeup and then take it all off, then put on way too much and only take half of it off. learn the muscle memory of holding a liquid eyeliner pen in your non dominant hand and tracing it across the eyelid on the opposite side of your face without twitching your eye. nobody will see you, you're in your own bathroom. with the resources you have, treat the Bathroom Fit Check like you're customizing a character in a videogame.

look for your angles! i wish i could look good at every angle, but i don't, and vanishingly few people actually do. i spent a lot of time looking at myself in my front-facing phone camera from different directions and thinking "fuck im never going to pass, i really dont look great. is this even worth it?" and no matter how much doubt i had, in the long run the answer ended up being yes, it is worth it. that's kinda how hard things are: they suck until they don't anymore.

this one is really simple and may not apply to you, but fix your posture. seriously. when i started standing up straight for a few weeks i noticed an change in how i looked and carried myself (and my back doesnt hurt as much now)

come to terms with the fact that a lot of women look like men, and a lot of men look like women. the idea that all men look one way and all women look the other is an propagandstic invention of the state that should not be taken seriously. (note: this tip works only inwardly as a facet of self actualization. no matter what, you will always run into people who buy into the propaganda. to the best of your ability, pay them no mind.)

im sorry i cant give you anything more, but thats kind of a big question to answer, so i hope this helps!

#anon

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urfavskzlvr · 5 months

Text

whoopsies?

SMUT UNDER THE CUT

MINORS DNI

Bangchan x GNreader 😻

you really didn't mean to. it was an accident. you didn't mean to find your best friends Onlyfans.

You were just on your couch on Twitter scrolling through. You came across a small clip of a guy teasing if he would take his shirt off. you could see his large bulge through his black sweats. you couldn't see his face but you still found it hot. you watch the video twice and you're turned on. fuck. it wouldn't hurt, would it? you click the link in the caption and it brings you to his onlyfans. $45?! Who does this guy think he is? well, he is really sexy... and you are horny... and you got paid yesterday... what's the worst that can happen?

you put in all the information and hit confirm. it unlocks a whole world of jack-off videos, whimper audios, and a plethora of boyfriend roleplays. holy shit. the fucking jackpot. which one do you choose first? you scroll aimlessly until something catches your eye. "Jack off instructions" goddamnit, it's perfect.

you click the video and it starts. you slip your hand into your pants.

"Hey love." you shut off your phone. what the fuck? it can't be. why did that guy sound like Chan? God no. you're just mistaken. you have to be. you open your phone again and press play again.

"here's a new gift for you. I know sometimes you need a little hel-" You shut it off again. it's him. it sounds exactly like him. his accent, his tone, it has to be him. what are you supposed to do? you just spent $45 on your best friend's Onlyfans.

just ignore it until it goes away, that works. But you are still really horny. no you wouldn't. but you just paid $45, might as well put it to good use. HE'S YOUR BEST FRIEND THAT'S WEIRD. but he's so sexy. what if he finds out? but what if he doesn't? what he doesn't know can't hurt him. fuck it. you open your phone and continue to watch the video.

"I'm only here to help you feel some relief. if you're not already, go ahead and start touching yourself, slowly. you can listen, right?" shit. you feel your face starting to get hot. this is your best friend and you are currently jerking off to his voice, on his Onlyfans.

"you're doing so well. such a pretty look for you. do you want a little more? go ahead, go a little faster." why are you listening? why are you doing this? you feel so gross, but so incredibly good.

"you want to cum? hm? go faster, baby" you let out a small groan as he says baby. you listen and go faster. fuck. it's so good. you feel yourself being embarrassingly close.

"you can hold out for me, can't you, love? or maybe you can't. such a greedy baby." holy shit. your body shakes as you inch closer and closer. "i guess you've been good enough to cum. go ahead. cum for me, baby" your body jolts forward as you finally go over the edge. your legs shake wildly and you feel like your heart is about to jump out of your chest.

"you did so good, baby. look at you. so needy for me." he chuckles. you lay there looking up at the ceiling while trying to catch your breath. you can feel your arousal in your underwear. how the fuck did you just cum that hard? you feel embarrassed and ashamed. you just came the most you have to your best friend's voice. you want him to come and lick it up. WHAT? don't be thinking such things.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

heyyyyyy

sorry if it seems short or unfinished. i hope you liked it either way <3

Pt. 2? 👀👀

reblogs, comments, and ASKS highly appreciated <3 (please leave me asks i love doing them so much)

Okay. love you bye <33

#skz hard thoughts #stray kids smut #stray kids hard hours #skz smut #stray kids #skz #bangchan smut #bang chan #bang chan smut #bangchan hard hours #christopher bang #bangchan x reader #bangchan x gnreader #bangchan skz

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st4rb3rr13s · 2 months

Text

Grin

Eren and his grin.

Warnings: Doggy, bondage, blindfold, rough, tell me if I’m forgetting anything!!

I’m back again!! 😍😍

“Babe.” You muttered.

Eren had one of those silly grins. The type of grin that anyone else would find cute but you knew it was something. It had to be with Eren. He always had something up. And when you say always, you mean ALWAYS.

And you know what? You were exactly right. Pink handcuffs on the bed with a pink silk blindfold next to it. Right next to it, it was pink lingerie on the top of a darker pink bow. Was it cute? Yes. Was it even sexy? Hell yes.

You knew he meant business with the way he whistled his way out of the room, not before slapping you ass. Your head turned as you watched your boyfriend walk out the room, leaving you and everything he bought you.

He knew that you knew exactly what to do. Quickly strip away your clothing, leaving your skin in the barely covering lingerie. Tying the blindfold, just tight enough to stay on but lose enough to pull up and down. And of course, the handcuffs clipping right onto your wrists.

Quietly, you laid down, ass up, waiting for your boyfriend. You listened as he walked around the house doing god knows what. You knew he was teasing you. Waiting for your pussy to soak up the lingerie. Til your knees ache even though he hasn’t done anything. He wanted to rile you up, and it was working.

You hummed, feeling the beating of your clit. When you first met Eren, you were never that horny. Yes, you did cum here or there but you never felt this bad in your life. Slowly waiting for his presence.

As you felt a cold hand on your ass, your body shook with anticipation. Although you didn’t realize Eren was there, your body did. Before you could do anything, he quickly moved the blindfold so you were able to see anything.

The cold hand pierced through your body. You wanted him to touch you so bad. Wanted his thick fingers to plump you inside while his thumb rubbed fast circles. Or maybe his tongue. His beautiful pierced tongue, that presses against your clit before lapping your juices. You sighed as his tip slowly rubbed against your folds.

“Fuck.” Eren muttered. You felt as his body went down to you, one of his hands on your waist while the other was jerking off his already hard dick. “You want it, baby? Want it so bad, princess? Huh?”

“Eren.” You sighed, feeling his dick rub on your clit. The two of you moaned. “Yes, please fuck me. Fuck me so hard, Eren.”

As soon as you said that, Eren pushed his dick inside of you. Your mouth created an o-shape, while your eyes rolled back into your head. Although you’ve been with Eren for a long time, you can never get over how big he is. Your nails clung onto the bed, taking fast breaths.

“My sweet girl.” Eren muttered, giving your ass a quick spanking. Your lips hummed before feeling yourself become wetter.

He pulled out, just to full force slam his dick back into you. A loud moan echoed through the room from both of you. He quickly did it again, not wanting the euphoric feeling to end. He took a deep breath, before making a faster pace.

Chants of his name were called out as his dick went in and out of you. You felt the tightness of your fingers go numb because of how good he’s fucking you. Your eyes tightly shut as the wet sounds came through the room.

The ripples of your ass being slammed back into him made his dick feel even harder. The wet ring that he’s already created had his eyes closing for a second, not being able to hold back the moan let out.

Your pussy kept pulling him back in. His dick hit that one spot making your stomach twist. Your moans quickly turned pornagraphic as you felt the pressure in your stomach starting to build.

You wanted to turn your head, see yours boyfriend’s sweaty face as he pounds you. Wanting to see the way his hand pulled onto your hair, making you scream out a moan. His hand slapping your ass a couple more times, knowing he was going to leave a red mark.

He leaned his body onto yours, still fucking you as thought he was in the same position. You could hear his every moan, every gasp, every breath. Your pussy creamed all over his cock, his name being screamed for anyone to hear. His thrusts became sloppy before feeling his cum inside you.

You two took deep breaths. Your mind had saw stars, drawing blanks around it. Your head slowly turned to hear him slowly regaining consciousness. Before you knew it, the blind fold was pulled back up for you to see your sweaty boyfriend.

And there’s that grin again. That grin you knew all too well.

“Well, second round?” Eren grinned.

❥ Hope you enjoyed!

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seravphs · 9 months

Text

ੈ♡˳·˖✶ — IDOL! GOJO x ROCKSTAR! FEM READER

Gojo loves the untouchable. You’re an off limits rockstar who thinks he’s an idiot. The only thing he can do is take that as a challenge, right?

wc — 6.8k

tags — non detailed mention of idol industry EDs, pride and prejudice type energy tbh, reader is a little superior about being in a rock band and not “selling out”, Gojo has an annoying habit of pointing out their hypocrisy, sneaking around because you’re public figures, nsfw jokes, minor nongraphic blood

Gojo’s not your usual type. He’s too pretty for that, with those long lashes like a doll’s. They’re stark against his pale skin when he flirts with you, peering alluringly at you through half closed eyes like the cheap tricks that get his fangirls to scream will work on you.

He’s too easy to break for your taste, but from what you hear on Twitter, that’s why people like him. There’s something charming about the gap in his image that draws people in. People are dying for a taste of vulnerability because he's so cocky, but it's easy to make him beg.

There’s a million clips all over the internet of the moments he’s caught off guard, carefully hoarded instances in his career where a genuine embarrassed flush comes over his cheekbones, made into gifs and Tik Toks and YouTube videos.

That’s not your thing.

You like people with tough hearts and tougher reputations. People who could take the beating of public opinion without a flinch, not some soft spoken idol who needs his management to hold his hand through an apology. You like your fans, but they know their limit with you.

It’s not love, not like with an idol. It would never be, you made sure of it. You’d quit before you ever issued an apology for dating someone.

You hate to be a stereotype almost as much as you hate the idea of becoming a pushover, but you’ve dated a string of bad boy exes who were all exactly what you would expect for the lead singer of a rock band. A little rough around the edges, dark and smoldering. Men who would wear your red lipstick marks like a badge of honor. People who had never even heard of something like an idol image.

Maybe that’s why no one saw it coming. You were safe, established. Gojo was out of your usual pitch.

It’s too bad for the fans that you’ve always been a bit of a daredevil. Trying new things has never scared you. You’ve always been willing to test your limits to find the gold in the muck. That’s how you grow.

That’s how you ended up here, sitting thigh to thigh with the boy wonder of the idol industry.

“Aren’t you playing a dangerous game here?” You ask as he nudges even closer to you, far beyond what you’re sure his fans will permit. You’ve heard horror stories about the lengths people will go to if they see their idols even look at someone of the opposite gender.

“Why, you scared?”

“You wish. You’re the idol here. It’s your reputation on the line.”

He smiles at you, saccharine sweet. “I don’t like letting other people control me.”

That earns your begrudging respect, even if his bony knee is knocking into yours. He’s so lanky it makes you a touch concerned. Shoko’s girlfriend is an idol, and she’s constantly sneaking her food under her manager’s notice.

That’s another reason why you could never be an idol. Letting someone else dictate your life like that sounds like hell. It was hard enough to convince you to be here in the first place.

Your band doesn’t do promotion, least of all you. It’s all homegrown talent and homegrown fans, but you’re in stasis. Your growth has plateaued. Like all artists, you’re beholden to bills to pay to keep the music going. You’re big enough to know when you have to make sacrifices.

It’s nothing personal. That’s just the industry, from pop stars to idols to bands like you. If nothing else, you all share the solidarity of giving anything for the music. You just think you have a harder limit for anything than idols do.

The host kicks off the segment before you have time to do further analysis.

“Welcome back to Hot or Not, the variety show where we pit your favorite internet heartthrobs against each other! Please welcome today’s guests - they may not be the duo you expect!”

The camera pans to you and Gojo. His smile is instant, soft and natural, as real as if he were genuinely overjoyed to be here. You have to give him props for that, at least. He’s good at his job.

As soon as the camera pans to you, his expression flickers and returns to bored disinterest. He yawns, his teeth pearly white. Veneers, maybe. His tongue flicks around the sharp tip of one canine, his smirk nearly fanged. There’s the feature he’s so famous for, the one that has him edited into cat reaction memes all across the internet. Kitty Gojo and his kitten fangs.

He’s a grown man. You think you’d jump off a building before you let your teenage girl fans put cat ears on you and coo at you.

To each their own, you guess. Gojo didn’t seem that perturbed by it. To be fair, he didn’t seem perturbed by anything.

“Let’s start with Gojo! Remember, if you don’t feel like answering a question, we’ll put you in a surprise challenge with your partner.”

“Sure,” he says easily. “I’m an open book.”

“Let’s start easy. What’s your favorite song off your new album, Blue Spring?”

Gojo makes a face. “Pass.”

“Sorry, maybe you didn’t understand the question-“

“No, I got it. That’s boring,” he says. “Give me the challenge.”

You’re amused despite yourself, and fighting not to let it show. There’s the troublesome personality you’ve heard so much about. He wouldn’t be half so popular if he wasn’t so pretty, but that attitude and that face made for a dangerous combination.

The host is trying to salvage the situation with an easygoing laugh. Backstage, you hear someone mutter, “Gojo is gojo-ing again.”

It’s all so funny until you realize he’s dragging you into his mess as they set up the challenge.

Your host explains the rules too quickly for you to catch in their entirety, but it’s something along the lines of a staring contest. You’re supposed to do everything in your power to make the other lose a straight face, with words or actions.

“Are you allowed to do this?” You joke as they start strapping the electrodes on you to measure your heart rate.

“What do you mean?” Gojo’s mussing his hair up so he looks more artistically roguish.

“You know, just being an idol and all. I figured you wouldn’t be able to do things like this without your fangirls jumping on you.”

“Ah,” he says, scooting his chair closer to you. You’re knee to knee as they finish the last details of fiddling with machine. “You’re one of those types?”

“And that means?”

“You think I’m an idiot because I’m an idol.”

“I didn’t say that,” you protest, watching the monitor to make sure your heart rate isn’t jumping with your words. It’s just a game, but you’re competitive.

“No, but you’re thinking it. What else? Maybe you think idols are also soulless grifters?”

You wince. It’s not that you think so terribly of idols, per se, you just understand and recognize their need to please their company. They’re products before they’re people.

“I got it right, huh?” He’s pleased with himself.

“Am I wrong?” You retort. “You’re really going to tell me you love singing your overproduced pop music for the tween girls who will buy anything you put out as long as you’re pretty enough?”

“Aren’t you here too? Lot of talk for someone who’s sitting right next to the sellout. You know what they say about birds of a feather…”

It’s all in a whisper, so no one else hears - or sees your startled reaction to find out the pampered show dog has a little bite in him. You could retaliate, but if you’re being honest?

This makes you respect him more.

He’s right, anyway. You did sell out by being on this show.

The machine beeps. He smiles, slow and sweet - or at least it would be if you didn’t already know there was an edge to it. “I win.”

“Wow!” You’ve never found the host more annoying. “That got heated at the end, didn’t it, folks? Do you mind sharing what Gojo said?”

You smile at the camera in a way that feels more like you’re beating your teeth. “It’s a secret.”

You’re not mad at him. If anything, you’re impressed. The person you’re really disappointed with is yourself.

So he’s not what he thought you were. So he challenged your biased preconceptions on idols. So what?

It doesn’t mean anything, but you can’t get him out of your head.

The rest of the show is an easy and welcome distraction from your inner turmoil over the possibility of maybe potentially tolerating an idol. Throwing out witty answers and being neck to neck with Gojo in winning mini games is much preferable to having to experience emotions. It’s only when it’s over that the problems start.

You watch as he gets up, biting your lip and debating to yourself. It’s only when he’s halfway out the door that you make your decision. You’ve always been a do or die kind of girl.

“Hey. Want to get dinner?”

You just want to make sure he’s eating. No other reason.

His manager frowns behind him.

“We’re in a weird spot,” he says. “The only thing around are convenience stores.”

“That’s fine,” you say. “We can get instant ramen.”

“I’ve never had instant noodles,” Gojo says.

“Seriously?”

“No, not seriously,” he scoffs. “Just what kind of lives do you think we lead?”

“Deprived ones,” you toss over your shoulder as you lead him towards your monster of a customized car.

“Oh, no,” his manager is beginning, but Gojo is already sliding comfortably into the passenger seat. His poor manager looks nervously at you as you turn the keys. “Are you sure that thing is safe?”

“Don’t worry,” you tell him. “If this thing crashes, I’m in here too.”

You don’t think that reassures him, but your own manager will handle it. You pull out of the parking space and head for the road.

Gojo’s impatient. He tries the handle almost before you’re done parking. You’re like that too - always ready to move. This time, you’re one step ahead. You lock the door before he can leave. He gives you a startled look and glances outside again, clearly weighing his options.

“Relax,” you say. “I’m not a crazed fan. Put these on before we attract an actual stalker of yours.”

You toss him a hat, sunglasses, and a mask. You’ve started keeping them in your car ever since you’ve been hanging out with Shoko and her girlfriend, who was famous enough to get recognized in the street for her autograph. He wrinkles his nose but obediently puts them on.

It doesn’t do much to hide his overall air of Gojo-ness. He steps into the store like he owns it, which he very well could.

The steam rises from your bowls and coats Gojo’s sunglasses. You’re surprised he can see inside, but he has no trouble navigating. He tells you he has 20/20 vision.

One thing leads to another and suddenly he’s bragging about his perfect grades when he attended school. He’s a natural genius, which isn’t really a surprise.

“I thought you were supposed to be a bad boy,” you tease. His glasses are slipping down his nose. You reach out to push them back up before anyone notices. His eyes are rather remarkable, after all. Anyone would be able to tell who he was at a glance.

“Me?” He gives a choked laugh. It sounds nice. You’ve haven’t heard it before, not during the show. He was more polished then. The ways in which he rebels against being an idol show up unexpectedly. “Nah. That’s all Getou. He’s the one with a hidden face. You wouldn’t believe what he’s like when the cameras are off.”

“Somehow I don’t believe you,” you joke.

“I’m serious,” he whines. “I’m pretty sheltered. Grew up rich, you know?”

Who doesn’t know? The Gojo name is pretty famous. One of the biggest conglomerates in the entire world, it broke major news outlets when the heir chose to be an idol instead of the next president.

He’s always been in the public eye, but kept separate like art at a museum. You have a nasty tendency of wanting to ruin things that you’ve been purposefully warned away from. It’s sort of a thing of yours, a bad habit you haven’t put too much effort into breaking. The more impermissible something is, the more likely you are to try, like a cat knocking a glass of water off a table.

Corruptible isn’t the exact right word, but it’s what comes to mind. You want to mess him up a little. Put your grubby rockstar hands on him and leave smears behind so his fangirls see his tainted reputation. You don’t, of course. It’s just a passing thought that you wouldn’t risk actually jeopardizing his career for.

It would just be nice to see him live a little more freely.

The temptation clears with the last of your noodles disappearing into your mouth. There are things that are off limits for both of you. Those are just the sacrifices you’ve made for your dreams. That’s all there is to it.

It’s so good you sigh at the loss of it, mourning your empty bowl. Gojo’s almost done himself. The minute he finished his noodles, he lets out a breath to mirror yours, then laughs once he catches himself.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s get you home.”

You think that’s the end of it. There’s no reason to go any further. You met an idol and he obliterated your previously held prejudices. You’ll never meet again.

That’s not quite how it works out.

When your manager offers you another chance to see Gojo, it’s nonchalant. “Remember that idol you were partnered with on that variety show? I know you don’t like those types, but you seemed to tolerate him well enough. There’s another-“

A yes flies out of your mouth so quickly it’s embarrassing.

Your manager pauses. His eyes narrow. “Didn’t expect you to be so eager, but okay.”

Your face burns with embarrassment. This isn’t like you at all. Even with your exes, you had been cool and level headed. Always the prize, never the one to give chase.

He’s interesting, you try to rationalize it to yourself. You like interesting. Life was mind numbing without a kick, and he was the latest thrill. It didn’t mean anything more.

It’s another variety show. Apparently the two of you had been so popular as a pair that they wanted more.

Gojo’s in the makeup chair when you arrive. The artist is scolding him for blinking while she applies his mascara. He’s whining about his dry eyes.

“Don’t be a baby,” you say, dropping into the chair next to him.

“But that’s what I’m best at!”

“You’re so weird,” you laugh.

The makeup artist groans. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Only Gojo would take that as encouragement. He rolls his eyes and receives a light swat across the shoulder for his troubles. You play around on your phone while you wait for her to be free, but soon grow bored. Instead, you watch her swipe powder across Gojo’s face and dab cream onto the apples of his cheeks.

“Stop staring,” he says.

“How do you know I’m staring? Your eyes are closed.”

“I can feel it.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

“You’re such a bad liar,” he says, and you know he’s just messing around at this point because you’re an incredible liar. It’s your best quality.

Falling into banter with Gojo is as easy as breathing. It’s no trouble at all to replicate it on the show. From the shadow, your manager gives you a double thumbs up. Dork.

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that you’re doing this to drum up popularity for your tour. You’re not the only one having trouble. Gojo pulls you aside after filming wraps up to give you his personal number on the phone he’s not supposed to have.

At night, you get an alert that you’ve received something from Gojo. It’s not a message. It’s a notification that you can save three tickets to your digital wallet.

A speech bubble pops up.

Come to my concert, he says. I got you VIP seats.

Gojo’s impressed you, but you still don’t know about the rest of his band. You’re not sure you want to watch pretty men lip sync and grind on the stage for two hours, but when you tell Shoko, she offers to bring Utahime. That’s conveniently three, so you might as well.

VIP seats don’t include backstage, so you’re surprised when security comes to retrieve you. There’s no backstage pass for this concert, actually, confusing you all the more.

Shoko flaps her hand dismissively at you, encouraging you on. By her side, Utahime is trying to feed her snacks. Satisfied that they’re comfortable, you follow the guard to Gojo’s dressing room. He leaves you there without a word.

After five minutes of waiting for something to happen, you knock. Instantly, Gojo’s voice invites you in.

He’s sitting in front of the dresser, fiddling with his earrings. You’ve noticed seven piercings in total - three on his right lobe, two on his left, and one conch on either side. Before you knew him, you would’ve been surprised an idol would be allowed to get so many. Now you know he bends the rules whenever he’s able.

“Pass me that?” You hand him the disinfectant. “Thanks. I didn’t think you were coming.”

“Then why’d you send me tickets?”

“Thought my roguish good looks and natural charm would win you over,” he says with a smile that says he’s only half joking.

“You’re insufferable,” you say as you bat his hands away from his ear. “Let me do that.”

His hair is soft as cygnet down as you brush it behind his ear. There’s something innocent about his expression like this, watching him from above. His eyes are closed, breaths soft and even as he waits for you.

The silver pools in your hand as you thread it through his ear, a waterfall released when it hooks on. He wears a lot of silver, you’ve noticed. His stylists favor colors that should wash him out but only make him look more angelic. Pale blue silk trims his form, encrusted with embellishments to make him look prince-like. There are sparkles in the inner corner of his eye, soft blush on his cheekbones to make him look sweet.

He’s anything but when his eyelids flutter open and he notices you watching. A smile almost cruel tugs at his lips. His hand reaches for you as if-

There’s a knock on his door for the last curtain call.

“That’s me.” He stands up, brushing his lap off without a trace of anything other than professionalism. He’ll leave you wondering what he was going to do. It’s terrible how good he is at this, though you suppose it’s his job to leave people wanting more. “Keep an eye out for me on stage, will you?”

It’s hard not to. Your eyes are polarized to him. Even when something else catches your attention, like fireworks or confetti, he pulls it back. Greedy, that one.

You’re not the only one. The crowd lives for him. There’s something electric about him on stage. He naturally draws attention with that height and attitude and face, but what happens when he’s performing is inexplicable. You’d call it a religious experience if you believed in a god.

Fate has never factored into your life, but now you’re starting to consider worship. Gojo performs like he was born to be an idol.

Keep an eye out for me, he says, as if you’d have any trouble. You’ll dream about him tonight. The way his mouth fits so sensuously over the words of a love song snags your thoughts like a fishhook. Sick desires run through your blood, each more depraved than the last.

You want to watch him shed his beautiful silk skin for you, become nothing more than man again. You must retract your prior confession. There’s no longing for the altar in you, only a love of sacrilege.

Gojo asks for coffee easily, as if you’re two normal people and not celebrities with a lot to lose if you were caught together. You can’t let him outdo you, so you agree. These are the reasons why your manager curses your recklessness. Shoko calls it bravery, when she’s feeling sweet on you.

The second message comes a second later.

Gojo Satoru 11:25 I only said it to see if you’d agree Here’s my address lol can’t believe you said yes Attachment

You think he gives his address out too freely for a man worth 30 million. The feeling only intensifies as you get out of your car and thank your driver. His gates are pearly instead of the standard matte black, a stark declaration of wealth. He’s practically asking for an incident to happen.

Security buzzes you in. Someone in a white dress - an honest to god maid - leads you to a mini kitchen where Gojo’s waiting. His hair is wet and dripping down his back where his powder blue shirt is darkened to a navy. You thought you had gotten used to overblown displays of money after your first three years in the music industry. Clearly, you were mistaken.

He looks up as you enter, reading a trashy tabloid as he stirs whipped cream into a tall glass of something that looks more like a sugary heart attack than coffee.

You’ve never seen his bare face, you realize. Even that moment when you had walked in on him and the makeup artist, he had been nearly done. He looks practically the same without makeup. People with genetic good looks like him only need to enhance their appearance the tiniest amount.

What really strikes you is how earnest he looks, soft and open-hearted, though that might be because you’ve caught him in his home. This is what you wanted - him without his skin on, naked and without pretense. He’s wearing cotton pajamas and white slippers.

“I thought you’d come later,” he says. “Sorry I got started without you. I was feeling something sweet.”

“I’m early, though?”

“I’m always late,” he says with a one shouldered shrug. “Thought you might be too. Guess you’re not my perfect girl after all, huh?”

You shove his arm off the armrest of his chair to perch on it, ignoring the perfectly good chair across from him. This is better, anyway, easier to talk to him. “Don’t be absurd. I’m everyone’s dream girl.”

Gojo chuckles. “I like confident women.”

There’s been a question on your mind for a while. You knew his group was popular, but all this? Maybe you should’ve become an idol after all.

“Where’s the rest of your band? I thought idols shared rooms.”

“Some do,” he says. “Not so much when you make it big. But this is my family home, so none of that applies.”

Gojo Satoru of the Gojo conglomerate. How had you forgotten? It shouldn’t be so easy to ignore something like that.

Gojo shifts the conversation easily, but you notice. So he doesn’t like the connection, then. “How was the concert?”

“Don’t fish for compliments,” you say, stealing a sip of his drink before it reaches his mouth. It’s too sweet for anyone’s standards. You spit it back into the cup. He takes it from you, eyes it consideringly, and takes a sip anyways.

Your mouth drops. “You’re so gross.”

“Only for you, baby,” he moans, humor like a teenage boy. “Call me names again.”

You roll your eyes at him.

“It’s fine, it’s just saliva. Now tell me the truth. You couldn’t take your eyes off me, could you?”

They’d probably sooner pop out of your head and roll away than leave the sight of him, but you can’t tell him that after all you’ve said about idols. Instead, you push off your seat to go rummage through his cabinets. He has a fully stocked coffee cart in this room and the very latest espresso machine, all to choose his diabetic monstrosity instead.

“You don’t need to respond,” he says cheerfully. “Your silence tells me everything I need to know.”

“Do you think you know me that well?” You shoot back. His fridge is so big you think you could fit into it. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’ve registered that he’s moved from his seat as well, and now stands just behind you.

“Of course I know you,” he says. “I understood you the moment we met.”

“You’re very confident,” you note.

You have a weakness for confident men.

“So you liked my concert. Can I come to yours?”

You imagine Gojo in a mosh pit for a second. It sends you into a laughing fit while he stands there, bemused. You can’t shake the incongruous picture of him, with his face like a carefully crafted porcelain doll, getting rowdy and wild with your fans. Ridiculous. Never in a million years.

“We don’t have VIP seats,” you warn him.

“So?”

“So it can get dangerous.”

“Aw, you do care about me.”

“I care about the fat lawsuit your company’s going to send me when their moneymaker breaks his leg at my concert. It’s not happening.”

“You scared?”

“No, but maybe you should be.”

“Come on,” he says. When had he gotten so close? It’s distracting. “I know you’ll take care of me.”

Gojo had invited you to his concert. It’s only right to return the favor. An idea starts forming in your head, though you’re not sure it’s a good one. You tell him anyway.

Usually when soundcheck is over, you have a little bit of downtime to relax backstage. You’re expecting someone tonight, however.

A rough knock on the door announces Satoru Gojo, spoken in your security guard’s rough voice. Well, he really introduces him as pretty boy idol, but you can guess who it is.

He looks discomfited, a rare occurrence, as he closes the door behind him.

“What’s with you?”

“You’ve got groupies,” he says, looking rattled.

You fight a smile.

“Don’t laugh,” he pouts. “They’re insane. One of them tried to chase me here.”

You can’t help yourself. A giggle bursts out of you. When he tries to leave, you pin his hand to the handle and coo reassurances at him so he won’t.

When you head out the door, he surprises you by grabbing your hand. It’s as nonchalant as anything he does, so you rise to the challenge he sets by refusing to react to it. You only separate once you reach the stairs; him to the spot you’ve made for him behind the barricade, you to the stage.

This is one of your favorite venues, moody and atmospheric. The lights are dimmed to your preferred setting, but your eyes adjust quickly. Your crowd is restless tonight, shifting on their feet as whispers follow raucous laughter through the crowd. Noise on noise, the way you like it.

The wood of the floor is a little sticky beneath your boots as you walk. That’s history gumming the soles of your shoes, generations of artists before you. You’re starting to feel it now, the electric thrum of pure joy in your blood.

Shoko is strumming light tunes on her guitar to warm up, her eyes closed. You hope she doesn’t take it too hard that Utahime couldn’t make it tonight, though you know if she’s upset, she’ll channel into her music.

The crowd settles as the hour draws closer. Shoko’s fingers are liquid now, running through chords effortlessly. You wrap the cord of the microphone around your hands, letting the tension build mindlessly. A stage is like home to you. The crowd plays in the palm of your hand, energy ebbing and flowing as you will it.

It starts with a guitar solo from Shoko. By then, the crowd is already burning with excitement. The first burst of sound from the speakers has them roaring, cheering even though there’s no lyrics to it. The smallest smile touches her lips as she plays to the crowd, showing off exactly why she’s lead guitar for the greatest band in the world right now.

You step in on her heels, your voice rising over the music. Back before you knew how this felt, you almost quit singing, annoyed by the sound you were forced into. This is more your tempo. The almost guttural curl to the ends of your words, the rasp of your hoarse voice - this is beautiful to you.

The crowd is yours. Anything that goes on is within your jurisdiction, higher than any judge or god. You notice everything in your realm.

People are starting to move now, their bodies falling victim to the music. Their mouthes form the vowels and consonants of the lyrics as their bodies shudder and jerk, chained to the rhythm. Bodies ricochet off each other, love taps of respect for your aggressive voice, soaring above it all.

In the corner, there’s a violent eye of a storm. You think it’s a particularly enthusiastic dancer - perhaps a circle is about to form - before you realize what’s actually going on.

A fight is breaking out. You catch a glimpse of snow white hair, realize it’s near the barricade, and your stomach drops.

It’s Gojo and another man, ignoring the security guard trying to separate them. You try to stay professional and play through it, but then you see red.

Gojo’s hand flies to his face, his nose dripping with crimson. He doesn’t look any more injured than that, but you’re angry enough to step in now. Shoko stops as soon as you hold your hand out, the music veering into a screeching crash.

“You, in the black tee!” You realize you should’ve been more specific when what looks like the entire crowd looks down at their equally black shirts. “No, the one that just punched Gojo Satoru. Yeah, you, asshole! No fighting at my gigs! Especially not my guests!”

He had the audacity to yell back. “I was just showing him a warm welcome!”

You climb off the stage. Gojo didn’t show any fear while he got hit, but there’s concern in his eyes now as you drop to the ground by him.

“Wait,” he says, “wait, wait. I don’t think you should-“

“Shut the fuck up,” you snap, pushing him behind you until his back hits the stage. “Let me handle this.”

You get in the man’s face. His eyes are bloodshot - drunk, probably. “Who do you think you are, starting shit at my shows?”

“You’ve sold out,” he slurs. Definitely drunk. “He doesn’t belong here.”

“You don’t get to tell me who can or can’t come to my goddamn show,” you snarl, vicious and low. “Get out.”

“You can’t-“

“Get out before I make them drag you out.”

When he doesn’t move, you motion security over. “Does anyone else have any complaints?”

The crowd is eerily silent for something that was moving like a beast with one mouth before, singing in unison. You clamber back on stage, turning around to grab Gojo’s hand.

“What?” He says.

“Up. Now.” Your tone brooks no argument. You haul him up with you. He stands awkwardly as you drag him towards your mic stand, your arm slung around his shoulder. There’s still blood on his face.

“Gojo Satoru is a very dear friend of mine,” you announce into the mic. You see the confused looks in the crowd. Even Shoko seems wary. This wasn’t on the schedule. “If you're a real rock fan, you'd know that music is more than genre. I get it! I didn’t think idols were anything more than corporate shills either-“

“Harsh,” he whispers under his breath, unable to control himself even now.

“But he proved me wrong. He’s a real performer, just like I am, and I expect the same respect for him that you give to me.”

This is your crowd. They listen. Someone whistles.

You sit Gojo down, right by your feet. He gives you a bemused smile as the concert starts again, you moving around him like one of your props. He spends most of the concert lounging back, watching you through half lidded eyes.

It might’ve been enough excitement for one night, but you’ve always been the type to push your boundaries. When the idea springs into your head, you act on impulse, not giving yourself too much time to think about it as you pull Gojo to his feet.

You’re really manhandling him tonight, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He’s only a little startled as you pull the mic away from your face to get into his space.

You misjudged the distance. Your forehead knocks into his, just enough to sting, but not really hurt. “Do you want to try something?” Your voice is a whisper to not get picked up by the mic.

“Give it to me,” he says, and his smile is a bloody thing.

When you angle the mic towards him, you’re careful about not hitting him this time.

His voice works surprisingly well for rock. You weren’t sure he could pull off such a sound change, but he surprises you every time, matching you best for beat.

When he pulls back, your hand snakes into his hair and yanks him towards you and the mic again. He sings wholly at your command, being jerked around by your desires. It’s an inferno on stage, sweat pouring down both your faces. Behind you, the crowd is screaming so loudly it nearly deafens you.

Not a bad encore, you think as you towel off in your dressing room. Shoko left for a cool down with a bottle of ice water right before you, her post concert ritual, but the look she shot you says that you need to talk. You’ll deal with the consequences later.

For now, it’s enough to have Gojo shaking with leftover adrenaline against you as you sit him down in your chair. You press a bottle of ice against his face, watching him shiver. He’s still pretty with all the blood. Prettier, somehow, like some teenage wet dream of a vampire from a young adult novel.

You want to lick the sweat out of the hollow of his collar bones. Instead, you talk to him to rid yourself of your insane thoughts. It’s always a little crazy in your head after a good stage.

“Well?” You demand. “How was it?”

He tilts his head, considering. It makes you nervous. Now that you know how good of a performer he is, it almost feels like a test to receive his judgment.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he says, slowly.

“That good, huh?” You smile, trying to ignore the aching pressure behind your ribcage. You shouldn’t care so much what he thinks. Why does it matter?

“Yeah,” he says. “When are you free? I gotta plan our date.”

“Huh?”

“That was so sexy,” he says. “I was thinking about taking it slow, but I’m not going to last if I wait. I want to date you. I want to marry you.”

He’s starting to worry you. “Did you have a heat stroke or something? That’s really fast. Really, really fast, Gojo.”

“I’ve never been more clearheaded in my life,” he says. You only believe him when the medic clears him of any injuries, even the nose.

“We can talk about marriage later,” you say. “Why don’t you tell me about the date for now?”

Two weeks later, you’re Gojo’s plus one to his first movie premiere. It’s his debut as an actor, and it couldn’t be a better one. He escaped most of the negative pushback that usually comes with transitioning between those two industries, being naturally good at everything. Still, he had worked hard, and you’re proud of him.

It feels like you’re the only one, because the man himself doesn’t even care about his accomplishment. He’s too busy being delighted about hiding in plain sight. The cameras flash at you as you walk across the red carpet, arm in arm with Gojo. Your stylist had coordinated with his. It could almost pass for a couple’s outfits.

“You know,” he says conspiratorially. “When you defended me at the concert, I got hard.”

“I didn’t need to know that.”

“It was really hot.”

“You know there are people who can read lips, right?”

“I wish they would figure out what I’m saying.”

“Alright,” you say, rolling your eyes. “Let’s get inside.”

Dating Gojo is nothing like what you’d expected and everything like you’d expected. He keeps surprising you, doing wild things to get your attention that you never thought an idol would be willing to get their hands dirty with. He might be even more of a daredevil than you are, constantly pushing the boundaries of what you both can get away with before you’re found out.

In a way, it’s almost like you’re asking for it. You’re both straining at the bit to claim each other. It doesn’t come as a surprise when it does happen, then.

“Huh,” Gojo says over ramen. “We got papped.”

Utahime, understandably, freaks. “What? That’s not funny.”

“Oh yeah?” You say. “Are the pictures good at least?”

“You know we always look good. Could’ve gotten a better angle, but whatever.”

Utahime’s working herself into a minor tizzy in the corner. “Guys, I need you to be more serious about this. This is bad! This is so bad!”

Shoko looks up from her phone and chips on the couch, lying flat on her stomach. “Hate to agree, but she’s right. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “What’s the point? There’s nothing we can do about it. They have the evidence.”

It had been a good run. Two blissful months of peace and quiet. Sneaking around had been fun, giving you that thrill you loved every time someone failed to recognize you and Gojo behind your stupid sunglasses. Still, it was bound to fail at some point. You’re honestly surprised it lasted for as long as it had. You can’t be mad. Two months is more than you could’ve asked for.

“Well,” Gojo says. “Wee-llll.”

“Spit it out,” Utahime gripes at him.

You take another bite of ramen, content to let them argue without you.

“There is something we could do,” Gojo hedges.

“You’re so annoying,” Shoko says.

“No one thinks you’re funny,” Utahime chimes in.

“Hey! She thinks I’m funny!” Gojo frowns. “Tell them you think I’m funny.”

“Sorry, babe. I never lie to my girls.”

“Whatever,” Gojo sighs. “Guess you don’t want to hear my genius idea then.”

“Don’t be a brat,” you tease, knuckling his head. He loves it when you roughhouse with him.

“What if…” The hesitation is real this time. You can tell the difference between when he’s faking it or not. He’s a good showman, but you know him. You place an encouraging hand on his knee.

“What if we went public first?” He says it all in one breath.

You take a moment, turning the idea over in your head. It would wrest back control of the narrative to your team. Even if you might get backlash, it wouldn’t be at someone else’s hands, beholden to their mercy. You like it.

“Sure,” you say.

Gojo gapes at you. ‘That easy?’ His thoughts are written all over his face.

“Why not?” You offer him one of your easy smiles. “I’ve always wanted to say you were mine, anyway.”

#sera writes #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader #jjk x reader

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just-jordie-things · 9 months

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[part twelve] to build a home - gojo satoru

word count: 5.1k warnings: !!manga spoilers!! swearing, jjk-verse style fighting series summary: when (y/n) (y/l/n) catches wind that the notorious sorcerer killer, toji fushiguro, has children, she makes it her personal mission to find them. the catch being she couldn't tell a soul about them- the risk of the zen'in clan learning about them was too great. keeping the secret isn't the hard part, it's lying to her friends, shoko ieiri, geto suguru, and of course gojo satoru, that she struggles with. especially when satoru has suddenly become so keen on keeping an eye on her lately.

series masterlist

[part twelve] : “Those Who Regret, Those Who Deflect, and Those Who Defect” ___

Today was Wednesday.

(y/n’s) fingers drummed against the surface of her desk as she stared at the notebook before her. Today the entire page was filled with notes, but she hadn’t heard a word Yaga spoke as he blathered on with his lesson. The notes, dates, and ideas she’d written today were to help clear her overworking mind of the mess she’d gotten herself in.

Bus tickets? She wrote in small letters in a clear space in the corner of her page. She could probably afford two, at the least. But could she really send two kids off to who knows where?

She quickly crossed out the idea, hoping to forget it completely. There was nowhere she could send Megumi and Tsumiki that the Zen’in Clan couldn’t find them.

Her eyes flicked up to the front of the class, feigning attention. There was only twenty minutes of class, if she could just make it that long without getting called out for her lack of participation, then she could bolt out of there and work somewhere in private for the rest of the day.

Fake deaths? She wondered briefly how difficult it would be to fake a death. If we set fire to the house and flee the country, could that buy some time, at least?

She made a mental note to do a deep dive on how to get away with arson.

To her luck, Yaga had always been more of a lecturer of a teacher than one who encouraged participation. So as he droned on, it was easy to act as though she were diligently taking notes. But he was the only one in that classroom that hadn’t noticed (y/n’s) odd behavior. Or appearance, for that matter.

When she’d arrived, Shoko had already been in her seat, and her quiet greeting died in her throat as she eyed her friend up and down in pure concern. She’d never seen (y/n) so disheveled.

Her uniform was wrinkled, and the top few buttons of her collar weren’t even fastened. Not to mention her hair was clearly unwashed, thrown up with a clip secured at the back of her head- and she didn’t even seem to have the energy to do that properly. Some strands stuck out awkwardly, and some weren’t even scooped up by the plastic claws of the accessory.

Shoko hadn’t commented on it as she watched (y/n) take her seat and instantly pull out a notebook and pen, as though she had a massive workload to catch up on. The brown eyed girl chalked it all up to her mission. She wasn’t even supposed to be back to class today, so she must have been wiped out from the assignment, right?

Even though Shoko decided this must have been the case, she still gnawed on the inside of her cheek with anxiety every time she cast a glance (y/n’s) way during class. Something in Shoko’s gut told her she wasn’t trying to focus on her studies with the way she scribbled away in fervor.

Satoru had also noticed the storm cloud over (y/n’s) head as soon as he’d shown up to class. By the time he’d strolled in, his usual whole minute late, she’d already been hard to work in that notebook of hers. (y/n) wasn’t exactly a stickler for a perfect uniform and appearance, but she was never… messy.

His eyes trailed from the disheveled girl, to Shoko, who was already looking at him with a worried expression. It clearly told him something was wrong.

Sure, he knew that, he could see that, clear as day. (y/n) obviously wasn’t trying to hide it. And sure, seeing her in such a disheveled state was alarming enough to make his sour heart weaken for her. But when he sat in his seat and noticed Shoko still staring at him, as though asking him to do something, he shrugged his shoulders lamely, and avoided glancing in either of their directions for the rest of the day.

He had other troubles on his mind today, with his best friend being MIA.

It wasn’t surprising to Satoru in the slightest when (y/n) was out of the classroom as soon as Yaga had wrapped up his lesson for the day.

Satoru was next to rush for the door, but was stopped by a short statured Shoko, holding her books to her chest, and staring up at him expectantly, as if she wasn’t the one that got in his way.

He just sighs, and waits for her to speak her piece.

“This is crazy,” She gives in. “I can’t take all of this anymore. I mean, with Suguru, with (y/n), I’m going to lose my head” The admission comes out in a sardonic tone, but the look on her face tells him she’s about to cry.

“Shoko, I really don’t want to talk about the rumors. They’re just rumors” He tells her, and attempts to walk around her, but she’s quick to slide into his way again.

“Fine. Then let’s talk about (y/n),” She says, placing her hands on her hips.

Satoru fights the urge to groan and throw his head back. This was the last thing he wanted to do, but if he blew off Shoko he’d only upset her, and he was quickly running out of friends. So instead of pushing around her- which he could do with ease- he stays put and gives into the uncomfortable conversation.

“Look, she finally talked to me and… and I get it, okay?” Shoko’s voice turns soft with empathy. “I get that you’re upset, and just so you know, I do not support this either. I don’t know how she got caught up with the Zen’ins or why but-”

“Woah, backtrack,” Satoru held up his hand, which was enough to silence a now confused Shoko. His eyes are wide, and every feature of his face unmoving. Hearing the Zen’in name be brought up in a conversation regarding (y/n) made his blood run cold before freezing altogether. His mouth dried, cementing in the sour taste of bile. A minute passes, the two of them standing there staring at each other, each as shocked as the other, and neither knowing what to say now. “You didn’t just say Zen’ins, right?”

Blinking, her mouth opened to confirm, but as Satoru’s eye twitched with blossoming irritability, Shoko opted to nod her head instead as she fumbled to explain.

“Yeah… I thought… you didn’t know?” She failed to form much of a question at all, her brows furrowing.

“You thought I knew what she was up to!?”

His voice raises, not in anger with the girl in front of him, but with the one that had hidden some seriously detrimental information from him. Shoko’s flustering in front of him, having believed his fight with (y/n) was about the Zen’ins. Apparently, her best friend had finally picked up a knack for lying. Or maybe Shoko really wanted to believe that this time, it was the truth. Before she gets the chance to start over and explain the whole thing, Satoru’s ranting.

“Hell, Zen’ins?” He mutters, shoving his sunglasses into his hair as he pinches the bridge of his nose. “What fucking business does she have with them? And why wouldn’t she just come to me for help? God, she’s the most infuriating person, I swear when I find her-”

“Wait, Satoru,” Shoko’s shaking her head, her eyes blown wide in fear.

And also an unease that pumped straight from her heart and through her veins, realizing she now had to break to him.

“She’s not in trouble,” She says, only furthering Satoru’s confusion.

With his brows drawn together and his lips parted in disgusted confusion, he couldn’t think of a single explanation for how she couldn’t be in trouble. Business with the Zen’in Clan was certain trouble, that much was common sense.

“She’s…” Shoko starts, but trails off, too upset to be the bearer of bad news.

“She’s what?” Satoru nearly snaps at her, but fights the instinct to do so.

Shoko chews on her lip, wishing now that she’d never approached Satoru.

“She… she told me that this is what your fight was about,” She admits instead. “And it made sense, I’m so sorry, Satoru, I thought you knew. I thought she told you”

“Told me what?” He’s not usually one to beg, but he’s ready to get on his knees and plead with Shoko to spit it out already.

His eyes are piercing into hers with an intensity she’d rarely gotten to see up close, and she had to admit, the usual pretty cerulean was intimidating. Even to her.

“She’s seeing one of them”

It’s a whisper, as though she still couldn’t believe the news, even after almost a week of it keeping her up at night.

Satoru’s so still, she’s not sure he’s even heard her. He doesn’t so much as blink. He just stares at her.

Unsurely, and uncomfortably, Shoko clarifies.

“They’re courting her, I suppose,” She says, trying to speak louder, more clearly, but her voice refuses to rise above a whisper. “I guess for the last couple months-”

“No”

It’s the only thing Satoru says, and it seems he’s under the same curse, as it comes out under his breath. He shakes his head in a small motion of disbelief.

He’s reminded of the way it had felt when (y/n) had removed her hex from him, that small but distinct buzz of her cursed energy vanishing at her will. He remembered feeling empty once it was gone. As though it had nestled into a spot in his soul, and when she’d removed it, it left not a mark, but a hole. He’d lied about the sensation, as not to hurt her feelings. He wonders now if she’d offered the same pleasantry to him, lying so as not to hurt his feelings. If only she hadn’t been such a shitty liar.

Shoko’s eyes fill with tears as she watches in real time as he processes this information. Her heart breaks for him. Her heart breaks with his.

“I’m- I’m so sorry,” She stammers over her apology as tears burn in her throat and eyes. “I didn’t want to tell you like this- I- I really didn’t know that you-”

“Don’t be sorry,” Satoru cuts her off, his hand grabbing her elbow reassuringly, so that she knew he wasn’t upset with her.

She knows he means it, but the emotions swirling in his eyes were so bitter, she can’t help but frown. He’s taken on more bad news than he should have to bear, and she knows he’s strong, the strongest, but even the strongest could only carry so much. And besides, did being the strongest mean he deserved to take on all of this suffering? Did being the strongest mean he had to take on all of this pain?

“You didn’t know,” He says. “Thank you, for telling me”

With blurred vision, Shoko nods at him, before hastily wiping the tears from her eyes.

“We got in a fight because she didn’t want to take the Brazil assignment,” He finally confesses. “She didn’t have a good reason, and (y/n’s) always been a shit liar, so I figured it had to do with, well, that, I guess,” He mutters towards the end, but shakes his head again and keeps going. “She completely lost it. I’ve never seen her so mad, and I- I guess I didn’t help, but… but I just…” He sighs, taking the sunglasses off his head so he could run a hand through his hair.

“I know,” Shoko chimed in softly. “I was worried too”

“Why… why couldn’t she just tell me?” He asked, knowing there wasn’t an answer. Not one Shoko could give him anyways.

“I mean… it’s not like we’re taking this well” She half-jokes, but even the chuckle she attempts dies in her throat with an awkward croak.

“No, I’m upset, I’m… I’m pissed,” He admits. “But.. but if way back then she would have just said something…”

“I still would’ve been pissed,” Shoko says with confidence. “I don’t know who it is she’s seeing, I don’t know any details at all but I don’t need to,” She shrugs her shoulders limply. “I know she can’t possibly be in love with the guy, I mean-”

Before she can finish her thought, Shoko shuts her mouth immediately. Satoru didn’t need to hear her opinion on who was or wasn’t right for (y/n). It wasn’t important now, since she’d made her choice.

And it was almost as if she could see the heartbreak, the disappointment, and the jealousy in his eyes, mixing into a dangerously depressing cocktail.

“Sorry,” She mumbles sheepishly. “But… just so you know, I was rooting for you guys,”

Satoru blinks, his expression going blank with perfect precision of his microexpressions. Shoko and Suguru had spent a lot of time teasing him for the way he spoke about (y/n), or treated her, and sometimes even the way he looked at her. But he’d never actually admitted the way he’d felt about her, not out loud.

Clearly no matter how much he’d brushed off their comments with an eye roll or a joke, Shoko had seen through the act.

Or maybe she was only saying this now because she could see the way this news was hitting him directly in the heart. Had he really become so vulnerable, that he would be that easy to read? Was he really becoming this weak?

Shoko’s eyes are sad as she’s the one to reach out to him now, placing a hand on his shoulder and offering the tiniest of smiles.

“I really thought that you were growing into each other… you know?” She tells him gently. “She cared- cares,” She corrects herself quickly, and pauses to make sure she doesn’t make a mistake like that again. “She cares about you a lot, she needs you, you know”

There was a time when hearing this, Satoru might have gotten a little lovesick. Maybe he would have even done something about it, too. He could have sworn, somewhere between the playful banter, the nights he spent in her room, the alone time they had started sharing more and more, that she had felt the same way. He could have sworn. It couldn’t have all been in his head, it couldn’t have been fabricated, because she was there.

She was there when he took her to breakfast, and they strolled through the shops in Tokyo all day, laughing, chatting, and maybe even flirting. She was there when he’d wake her from her nightmares, holding her, comforting her, cooing to her until she’d fall back asleep. She was there for all the banter that ended with a gleam in her eye, for all of the times that he’d peek over to her only to find her eyes already locked on him. Whether or not she harbored the same feelings for him that he had for her, almost didn’t matter, because when those feelings of his would arise, she was there for it, so she had to feel it on some level, right?

Was it really all just a trick? None of it had been real?

“That’s not what she told me when she told me to fuck off,” He finally grumbles in bitterness. “I think it’s pretty fuckin’ clear just how much she-”

“Talk to her again” Shoko cut him off, her words quiet, but encouraging.

His brows furrow at her, silently asking her if she’s crazy.

“She doesn’t-”

“Try,” Shoko speaks over him again, pleading now. “Please, try. I can’t lose any more friends, Satoru. I can’t have you two fall apart, it can’t be like this forever,”

A tear slips down her cheek, and Satoru watches as it catches on her jaw and slides to her chin. By the time it drops, more tears are spilling from her eyes.

“I need us to be okay, I need us to stick together,” She admits, her whimpering voice cracking, but she doesn’t care about keeping her composure anymore.

All she could think about was how this choice (y/n) had made seemed to affect every single one of them, even though she’d chosen to keep it private. How much it had hurt her, and how much it was hurting Satoru now. If Suguru were here, Shoko was sure he would be upset about this predicament as well. The privacy, the lies, it only made things worse. Shoko didn't know where she stood with her anymore.

“We’re best friends,” Shoko mumbles. “Right?”

Satoru nods, and pulls her hand from his shoulder, only to reach his arms out and hug her tightly. Shoko wrapped her own arms around him in the same motion, clinging onto him and hoping he could feel every ounce of comfort and kindness she could possibly pour into the hug.

They don’t say anything. ___

As soon as (y/n) was in the privacy of her dorm, where she could lock her door and put the outside world on hold for a minute, she made her way to her desk.

Pulling open a drawer and lifting the mess of papers to reach underneath, she sighs as she pulls out the hidden envelope. There wasn’t much of a reason to be digging for it now, seeing as it’s contents were seared into her memory like a white hot brand, but something drove her to opening it once more.

The wax seal with the Zen’ins’ crest stamped into the fold of the envelope was still intact, but no longer keeping it glued shut. Any stickiness it once had was now worn away from overuse.

(y/n’s) fingers worked on muscle memory, her eyes shut as she pulled out the letter inside, unfolding it and smoothing the creases between the pads of her fingers. When her eyes opened, the same message was before her.

No matter how much she hoped it would change, it hadn’t. No matter how many times she's read it, it still held all the same letters, all the same punctuation, all the same slant of the crosses through the t's. Still, she wished it hadn't. She’d rather accept schizophrenic delusions than what this letter contained.

The sigh she let out racked through her whole body, bringing her into a slump over her desk.

Like clockwork, she scanned through the words. Hoping to catch something she hadn’t seen before, even though she’d given up sleep to read and re-read this letter, until her morning alarm had shocked her from her stupor.

Still, it remained the same.

It’s come to our attention that the child of Fushiguro Toji is being harbored at this household. If the boy has developed his cursed technique, he is to be returned to his proper place with the Zen’in Clan at once. Failure to do so will be treated as an act of defiance- and anyone involved will be punished to the fullest extent of Jujutsu Sorcerer Code. We expect him returned and in good health by three days.

Otherwise, we will take the matter into our own hands- and we will collect him.

- Naobito Zen’in

The amount of times her eyes have burned the image of his words into her mind is unknown to her, but after a few minutes she folds it back up neatly at it’s creases, tucks it back into it’s envelope, and carefully places it in it’s hiding spot at the bottom of her desk drawer.

It dawns on her that no amount of plotting and running would ever work. The Zen’ins were smarter than any plan she could come up with, no matter how thought out, no matter how perfect, they would always catch up to her. She alone wasn’t enough to outsmart them.

And even if she did, where did that put her? On the lamb with two kids that she could barely afford to support- who weren’t even hers, which was a whole other load of risks- and she’d have to say goodbye to being a jujutsu sorcerer. Best case scenario she works two jobs to pay bills, put food on the table, all while having to keep an eye over her shoulder for any sign of threat. This was all assuming the Fushiguro kids would even want her to do this.

It reminded her that she still had to decide what she was going to tell them about this letter- or if she was going to tell them about this letter. They weren’t nearly old enough for the whole truth, and if (y/n) was honest with herself, she wasn’t ready to tell them the whole truth.

Hell, I couldn’t even tell them their Dad was dead. They had to come to assume that on their own. Not that this news seemed to shock them, or bother them in the slightest.

Leaning over her desk and grabbing fistfuls of her hair, she tried to focus on one thought at a time. But with a mountain of issues and only three days to figure out how to get out of them, the anxiety was beginning to consume her more than ever before.

Running away wasn’t an option. She couldn’t win if she ran away. And besides, it wasn’t her style, she was never one to run from a fight.

This secret of yours, is it worth your life?

When Suguru had asked her this, she didn’t have an answer. When she’d returned to the Fushiguro household after her overseas assignment and had been overcome with relief that they had been safe in her absence, she was certain she’d do anything to protect them.

Now that this letter had found it’s way to her, she had her answer in mind. Crystal clear. In a void of anxiety, rage, and paranoia, it was a certainty she could anchor herself to.

This was worth her life. Megumi and Tsumiki, they were worth her life. She didn’t know it three months ago when she’d found them, that they would become such an important part of her life. She didn’t know it when she’d overheard the Sorcerer Killer briefly mention something about children- that she would be their sole provider and that she would step into the shoes he left at the door when he’d abandoned them. She never knew that deep down, there was a part of her that knew Tsumiki and Megumi were hers now.

(y/n) didn’t know that when she’d begun her search for them, eight months ago, that it had come with a vow to protect the both of them as if they were her own, and now it was time for her to keep her word, and do she had to in order to protect them.

Her feet moved on their own accord, it seemed, as she flew through the corridors and sidewalks of Jujutsu Tech’s campus towards the gym, concerning the few scattered underclassmen who hung around in the courtyard during their freetime.

The run was winding, but it was only a warm up compared to the rigorous training she was going to have to put herself through if she had even a chance of taking on the Zen’in Clan. ___

The swords strapped to (y/n’s) back never felt heavier.

In fact, until now, she’s not sure she’s ever noted their weight on her back. Maybe when she had first started practicing with them as a First Year. But it felt like ever since she’d first picked them up, she’d never felt a desire to put them down. With her cursed technique being difficult to master and not always reliable on an assignment, her weapons were her greatest strength, and she wielded them with a tremendous amount of comfort and confidence.

They were an extension of her. Like an extra set of limbs, her swords were something she could control on muscle memory, with no real though, no second guess, they swung through the air on their own accord. The moment she’d picked them up during her first year, they’d been her most prized possession.

Now, as she walked back to her dorm from her rough training session, she was all too aware of their weight.

Her hair that had been neatly tied up at the beginning of her workout was starting to come undone, messy strands falling around her face, a few sticking to the sheen of sweat that covered her forehead. No matter how many times she’d pushed them back, they’d fall again. Eventually, she gave into the minor annoyance and let the loose strands stick to her face. She was heading straight for the shower in her dorm, anyway.

Despite her heaving chest and aching muscles, it was a good session. Her assignment in Brazil had humbled her, reminded her that she had been avoiding training, instead spending most of her free time sneaking into town, and the rest of her free time trying to convince everyone around her that she wasn’t up to anything shady. That had been exhausting enough. Now she was going to throw her substantial and detailed training routine back into the mix.

With a groan, (y/n) rolled her shoulder, hoping she hadn’t actually pulled a muscle, but had just overworked one that hadn’t been properly used in a while. She brought her hand up to the junction between her arm and shoulder, feeling around as she stretched and rolled the tired limb, trying to gauge for herself if she’d need heat, or ice first.

It was a familiar holler of her name that pulled her from her internal debate, and she glanced toward the voice to see Yaga across the yard with his arm raised to get her attention.

Beside him, leaning against the wall of the building of now empty classrooms, was Satoru.

Both of them had their usual sunglasses perched on their noses, but only one of them seemed to be looking her way.

Puzzled, she slowly made her way over to them, wondering what business Yaga could have that involved the both of them. Satoru only went on solo missions these days, and there was no chance her teacher was shoving another assignment on her plate when she hadn’t scrubbed away the eye bags from the last one.

(Sure, she hadn’t done herself any favors, but he didn’t have to know that)

“I’m glad I caught you,” Yaga greeted when (y/n) was in earshot. Her eyes briefly shot from her teacher, to Satoru, who still wasn’t paying her any attention, and then back to Yaga. “Although I’m sorry to say it’s not great news I have for you two”

(y/n’s) brow furrowed in the slightest, at a loss with guessing what this could be about.

“Bad news?” She mumbled, more to herself than to either of the people beside her.

Yaga speaks, and (y/n) hears him. She takes in the words he says, follows the movement of his mouth and the microexpressions of his face as he speaks. There’s no background noise that he has to speak over, and his tone isn’t quiet. It’s clear, and certain. There’s no reason she shouldn’t register every word he says.

But he stops, and her ears are ringing, and her heart is beating so hard, so loud in her chest, that she finds herself mumbling, “what?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Yaga sighs, and it doesn’t sound harsh like the words might imply. He sounds defeated. (y/n) can see in his face that he truly doesn’t want to repeat himself. With every fiber of his being, he doesn’t want to speak it into existence, thus acknowledging what he was saying was true.

Again, when he speaks, (y/n’s) expression remains frozen. Her eyes are wide, her jaw is dropped open, and at her sides, her hands are curling into fists. Any thought of her swords being heavy on her back have left her mind, as there is no physical weight greater than learning of the horrors someone you once loved was capable of comitting. It’s as though the rest of the world is disappearing little by little, and it’s just the three of them here, experiencing the same earth shattering revelation.

“Suguru fled after killing everyone in the village,”

(y/n) wants to turn to Satoru, maybe to gauge his reaction, maybe to reach out and offer some semblance of comfort, she’s not sure. It doesn’t matter, as she’s unable to move in the slightest. Her feet are glued, her arms are stiff, and the only movement on her entire body is a slight twitch at the corner of her left eye.

“Suguru’s parents’ home is vacant as well,” Yaga continues, and it’s clear that he’s doing everything in his power to keep his voice even. “However, from the bloodstains and the residuals… it seems he might have done the same to his parents”

He pauses, the heavy words hang in the air between the three like a poisonous gas. It’s thick, suffocating, and a devastating slice of reality that just couldn’t be true.

(y/n) had just talked to Suguru. It’s the first thought that skitters across her darkening mind. It’s just as quickly replaced with a drop in her gut, which could only be her heart plummeting to it’s untimely end.

Everything he’d told her that day replayed in her memories. And suddenly, all the odd things he’d said appeared to her as red flags. The unsettling feeling that had crept down her spine that day now came back in a full body shiver.

It’s the first noticeable movement she’s made since Yaga had broken the news. Satoru’s eyes land on her due to this, and they remain on her as their teacher continues to explain the situation. Although it seems he doesn’t have much more information.

“Satoru… (y/n)...” The man sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in a desperate attempt to keep his composure in front of his students. “I also… have no idea what is going on”

There’s not much more for him to say. He apologizes to them both afterwards. But he can’t stand there and watch as tears gather in (y/n’s) eyes and rage begins to seep into Satoru’s facial features. So he tells them the higher ups will do the best they can, and then leaves them.

Logically, (y/n) knows she should be having a panic attack right about now. Not just from the news alone, but the guilt that had crashed over her and was now pumping through her bloodstream. Suguru had laid out what he’d been going through right in front of her, and she hadn’t been able to pick up on the obvious signs because she’d been so focused on her own issues.

With a shaky hand, she covered her mouth, afraid that she might break into a sob if she didn’t physically stop herself.

She hadn’t turned to Satoru yet, hadn’t noticed the way he was carefully watching every moment of her grief processing. If she had, she might have seen the way his hand was inching forward, his body having a mind of its own when it came to her.

Even if he had reached out to her- taken her hand or pulled her into his body and never ever letting go- Satoru doesn’t think it’s a good idea. With the bomb that had been dropped on them both, he couldn’t possibly try to calculate how such an action would cause (y/n) to react.

The last time he’d watched grief strike her, she had barely been consolable for days. He couldn’t have her shutting down, not right away, anyways.

Her phone rings, the sudden break in the heavy atmosphere causing both of them to flinch, just a little bit.

Instinct tells her to decline it, but seeing it’s Shoko, (y/n) swipes right to answer and she has the phone to her ear in seconds.

“Shoko, thank god, listen, I need to-”

“(y/n),” The girl on the other line cuts her off, and the grave tone in which she says her name is enough for (y/n) to shut her mouth. “You need to find Satoru, and you need to come meet with me. Right. Now”

They don’t exchange more than the location in town that Shoko had been, the lack of context filling itself between the gaps.

(y/n’s) hands tremble as she secures her phone in her pocket and turns to Satoru. He notices her jaw is also trembling, in the slightest anxious movement. She doesn’t have to explain the escalating situation, he’d been right there, he’d heard the whole thing, but still, she finds herself stammering over her words as she tries anyway.

“Shoko- she’s- I think she’s with him- at- somewhere in town- um- outside-”

Satoru steps forward, closing a significant amount of space between them. (y/n) stops talking immediately, and doesn’t try to explain herself again.

For a brief moment, but finally, they look at one another.

Her eyes are full of tears, but somehow she’d kept herself from actually letting herself cry in front of him. Her lip wobbles and she looks like she desperately wants to say something, but the words just don’t come out. He holds her gaze, and every bone in his body is screaming at him to comfort her. To say something to do something just to make sure she won’t cry.

But he’s just as lost as she is, and he knows all too well that there were no words that could put her at ease in this moment.

Instead, he reaches out and takes both of her hands in his, holding on tightly as what comes next wasn’t exactly pleasant for the person he brought with him.

Teleporting alone was as easy as breathing, almost second nature. Being a sort of carry-on to someone else who was teleporting always seemed to bring on a wave of motion sickness.

(y/n’s) hands squeeze his to prepare herself for the oncoming discomfort. Even though what came after the dizziness would be much, much more sickening.

“I’m taking us right now” Satoru tells her. ___

a/n: no suguru don’t defect ur so sexyyy ur prolly thinking right about now that i only want to see my readers suffer. and ur right. i do. :3

taglist: @whats-humanity-lol @malinq-ashida @mor-pheus@bekahtaylorgriggs@pookiea@megumimind@thealchemical@pearlstiare@niallerhere@96jnie @purpleguk @peqch-pie@yukinemaroop@makis-girl@sadtoru @kamikokii @nerdiel-has-no-braincells @googlesheetshoe @vzleria

xoxo ~ jordie

473 notes · View notes

chuuyascumsock · 10 months

Text

My Pride, My Poor— Dwindling Pride. || Minors DNI

Summary: I’ve never felt so utterly stressed out writing dominant men. Here’s your cake so you can eat it too, you filthy animals.

Tags: Chuuya Nakahara/Reader, Afab reader, Top Chuuya, Bondage, Fingering, Orgasm Denial, Brat Taming, Throat Fucking, Hair Pulling, Rough Sex, Lowkey Hand Kink, Ok— Highkey Hand Kink, I Don’t Hold Back With Obscene Descriptions Now Because I Don’t Care Anymore And All My Friends Know I Have A Pegging Kink Already So Fuck It, I’m Pulling Out The Big Guns.

You knew exactly what you were getting into when you made your way into executive Chuuya Nakahara’s office with a bitter expression on your face and a fussy attitude. Taking it even further— you knew exactly how vexed it made him when you threw a stack of files upon his desk with some less-than-savory comments spewing past your vulgar lips. You wanted to take it out on someone and you didn’t care who fell victim to your sour mood. You hardly even remember what you said, so peeved off that you could barely think.

But it must’ve been directed forwards Chuuya with the twisted look of perplexion and irate on his face.

You don’t even spare him a look as you turn abruptly to leave— only to pause when hearing the gritting tone of Chuuya, “Excuse me? Who the fuck do you think you are coming into my office like that?” He seethes, thin brows furrowing into his glabella.

Teeth clack into a clench as you spin on your heel to face him, face scrunched up with frustration. With your mind too jumbled of the earlier events of your teammates detrimental fuck up on the recent mission you just got back from— you keep quiet with a glare. Anthracite eyes glare back at you, a fire beginning to kindle and burn behind his gaze.

If you had been anyone else, surely you wouldn’t have been standing for any longer than three seconds unharmed after disrespecting Chuuya in such a way.

But your relationship with Chuuya was a strange one.

“Have you forgotten your status? Because you have some nerve coming in here, throwing shit on my desk, insulting me under your breath, and then thinking that you can just waltz out like you own the goddamn place.” Chuuya snaps, his left hand gripping his pen that’s now visibly bending from his wrath. His right hand is clenched into a fist by his papers.

Your eyes linger on his gloved hands for a moment before trailing back to his eyes. You also note the way his hat that he normally wears is sitting on a nearby hat-rack. It seems the tension and festering anger were planting small thoughts within your mind. Thoughts that were meant to be kept outside of work when no one else was there to witness a different side of the man in front of you.

You had a new plan than just to piss off anyone who came across your path.

“Whatever.”

All it takes is a clipped— one worded response, and you know his patience that tenses against a string thins to its last thread.

There’s a suffocating pressure that constricts your body before you drop to your knees. You find yourself unable to move as Chuuya stands from his desk chair, legs screeching against the hard floor. “Are we really doing this right now?” He walks around the desk, his shoes clipping the ground brutally as he comes to stand in front of you. “Is this how it’s going to be today?” His chin tilts downwards to look you in the eyes sternly as his arms cross over his chest.

You don’t say anything in return, merely biting the inside of your cheek as you debate whether he was on the same page or genuinely about to kick your shit in. You take the chance and snarkily reply, “Yeah, what are you going to do about it?”

Chuuya swipes his tongue across the bottom row of his teeth in exasperation as he glares in borderline amusement at your attitude and his arms fall to his sides. “Apologize.”

A short laugh slips past your lips before you spit out, “No.”

His glare only hardens and his fingers clench into the palms of his gloves tightly, “Apologize, now.”

“Make me,” You tilt your chin up to stare directly at him with a challenging look.

You note the burning stare that pierces back at you in utter disbelief and silence from your words, his lips parting slightly, “… What did you just say to me?”

Your eyelids lull with mirth, “I said— make me.”

There’s a moment of stunned silence before his bray laughter spills throughout his office as if he had been delusionally imagining the whole interaction and your blatant audacity. It wears off quickly into a grinning scowl as you’re manhandled off the floor and thrown to bend over Chuuya’s desk. Various papers, files, and pens fly off and scatter to the ground as you choke out a breathless gasp and attempt to catch your breath. There’s not much room to struggle with the effects of his ability pinning you down in place.

One of Chuuya’s gloved hands splay across your wrists to clasp around them tightly, his leathered fingers biting into your skin. He releases his ability as he leans over you, his front pressing tightly against your back.

“I am going to fucking ruin you,” His voice rasps into a growl.

You hiss through your teeth with each struggled breath before biting into your lower lip as he continues, “I’m sick of your prissy fucking attitude today, if you want to act like a damn brat— I guess I’ll just have to fuck it out of you, huh?” He grits out as his body weighs down further into your backside, giving you the feel of his strained bulge confined in his slacks against your ass.

Your breath hitches before falling into heavier sighs as your heart pounds against your rib cage and your thighs rub together in anticipation.

Chuuya notices and a scoff escapes him, “You can’t be serious.” His lips twitch indecisively as he doesn’t know whether to frown in annoyance or laugh at your absurd reasoning behind your antagonistic actions. “That’s what you wanted? Un-fucking-believable…” He chuckles softly before it gradually grows sinister and then trails off, “You have quite the mouth on you— always rambling those pretty lips away any other time just fine. But you couldn’t use your words to ask me to fuck you? You just had to rile me up— c’mon now, Doll, you’re better than that.”

You breathe in and out through your nose heavily a few times as your voice comes out strained from the pressure in your chest, “You… I… You’re hot when you’re mad.”

Chuuya’s brows arch at your revelation, his eyes scanning over how you try to squirm under his grip. It doesn’t take long for what you said to settle in and an arrogant grin crosses his lips, “Am I now? Huh, I‘ll remember that for next time then… For now…” His grip on your wrists tighten and the other comes down to your stockings, ”Why don’t I remind you of your place that you’ve seemingly forgotten?” His fingers dig into the nylon fabric of your pantyhose under your skirt before the tearing of fabric rips through your ears.

“You dick..! Those were my only pair!” You yelp and wriggle, kicking your feet at his shins.

Chuuya ignores you, continuing to speak over your struggles, “You know, you should be on your knees sucking my dick for forgiveness right about now,” He sighs, “But as usual— you’re spoiled and I can’t help but indulge in your wants for the moment.” A gloved finger moves your underwear to the side before easily sinking into your slick pussy.

A whine escapes your throat, toes stretching your body forward in an attempt to escape the teasing and unfulfilling touch of one finger. His other hand keeps you pinned and from moving anywhere as his finger slides in and out tediously as a means to drag on your frustration and need.

“Maybe it’s my fault for giving you everything you’ve wanted, and even till now,” Chuuya growls the last part to himself as another finger stuffs itself into your sopping cunt. “Y’know— you’re so fuckin’ lucky I can’t help myself when it comes to you, or things would’ve went a lot more differently today.” He huffs, mindlessly dragging and scissoring his leather clad fingers against your soft walls. “I get enough shit from the other bastards who think they have enough balls to even turn their noses up in my direction.”

“M’sorry, Chuu—“ Your voice pitches off into a moan as his digits curl and press into a familiar and sensitive spot.

Chuuya chuckles and goes back to slowly thrusting his fingers in and out, “I don’t care now, I know what you really want— but use your words next time instead of makin’ me think I did somethin’ wrong to deserve your attitude, ‘kay, Doll?”

You nod in return, though it’s subtle with how much you’ve already melted under his touch. Your eyelids flutter and you mumble about how you won’t don’t it again before your body tenses and a short, soft cry slips out from the sudden change in pace of his fingers that piston into you.

“Don’t think that you’re not going to be punished for your little stunt earlier just because you said sorry, though,” He clicks, pulling his fingers all the way out and slapping his wet digits against your clit. “You’re going to have to put that mouth to use for a proper apology.”

Blood rushes to your face and up the nape of your neck as a whimper creeps through, turbulent jolts of excitement flip in your lower stomach at his actions before hearing the subtle noise of his belt clinking. You only grow restless further as he nearly rips the belt from his pants to wrap the leather around your wrists, keeping them bound to your back. Chuuya slips an index finger into the loop of the tied belt, tugging you to stand up before you’re spun around and pushed by the shoulders to fall to your knees.

Your eyes set on his hard cock in front of your face, pre-cum weeping from the tip down his length. He wraps a gloved hand around his girth, stroking himself slowly as a smug grin presents itself on his face. His chin tilts down to look at you, index finger and thumb digging into your cheeks to unhinge your jaw.

“Open wide for me, Doll.”

The taste of his bitter cum has your mouth watering, tip gliding along your tongue until it nudges past your uvula and bullies the back of your throat softly. Your throat convulses around him before you gag, tears gathering in the corners of your eyes as you breathe through your nose.

Chuuya groans, his hand moving from your jaw to weave through your hair, tugging the locks to strain against your scalp. He pulls you forward until your nose is buried against the happy trail leading down his lower stomach to his groin. “Fuck, if only you could see yourself choking on my cock right now,” He shakily breathes out as his eyes burn the image into his mind.

You pant heavily through your nose— or at least you try to— finding it hard to breathe with his cock stuffed half-way down your throat.

It isn’t until a few seconds later that he draws his hips back, allowing air to fill your lungs for a moment before bucking into your throat once more as he holds your head in place. Your fingers clench as your wrists jolt against the belt— an involuntary urge to dig your nails into his thighs clawing at you. There’s no build up in speed as he skips right into fucking your throat like a personal fleshlight, every thrust bruising your soft palate. Your whimpers are drowned out by the wet squelching of his girth slipping in and out of the convulsing walls of your throat along with Chuuya’s grunts and half-assed bitten back moans.

“Fuuuck, I could just come down your pretty fuckin’ throat like this,” He gasps before another guttural groan leaves him. Then, he lets out a breathy, rugged laugh as his eyes watch you leeringly, “Christ, Doll, you’re makin’ a mess.” He points out, a mix of his pre-cum and your saliva splatters against your chin messily every time he touches the back of your throat.

It takes a few more thrusts until he forces himself to pull out, leaving you coughing and sputtering violently. You gasp for air greedily through your mouth after he pulls out, tears spilling over from the coughing fit. He lifts your chin with a hand and wipes away his pre-cum mixed with your snot dripping from your nose with a satisfied grin. “God, you’re so good f’me, Doll,” He borderline slurs over his words before pulling you back up to your feet and pushing you back onto his desk.

The hardwood is uncomfortable underneath you as your arms are still tied and pressing into your back, but you’re too light headed and burning with need to notice. Chuuya is quick to shove his way past your thighs and bury himself inside you to the hilt. It takes everything in him not to come with your tight, sopping pussy clenching around him. You swear you can hear him whimper quietly into your chest as he presses his hips flush against yours.

“Please, please fuck me, I need to come s’bad, Chuu,” You plead weakly as tears dry against your cheeks, throat raw and sore from his relentless deep throating just prior moments ago.

He shudders at your broken voice before slowly grinding his hips against you, “Gimme a damn minute,” He growls before panting, “Or I’ll fuckin’ come right now.”

Your head drops back to rest against the desk as you wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles at his lower back, the heels of your feet spurring him on to move.

His grinding turns into brief and shallow thrusts before he’s snapping his hips into you roughly, his hands finding purchase to grip at the edge of his desk on either side of your head. His forehead presses into your sternum as he desperately drives his cock as far as he can into your welcoming heat, pre-cum and slick frothing at the base of his length with every thrust.

Quickly, he reaches a hand down between your bodies to press and rub against your aching clit. Your lips part as pitchy moans and mewls fall through, the familiar knotting feeling in your lower stomach growing tenfold as your back arches into Chuuya. “M’gonna come, please— I can’t, I’m— fuck,” You ramble incoherently as you rut your hips to meet his thrusts, skin slapping wet aginst one another.

“I know, Doll, I know— Shit, you’re squeezing around my cock so fuckin’ tight,” He grits, eyes clenching shut as his hips begin to stutter and rolls your clit between his thumb and index finger.

A choked whine drags out as your legs tighten around him to bring him as close as possible and your body shudders violently under him as your orgasm comes crashing down on you. Chuuya follows after a few more thrusts with a graveled moan, his cock burying itself as deep as possible as his cum smothers your walls in warmth.

He collapses against you, red in the face and covered in sweat that makes his bangs stick to his forehead and cheeks. You’re not much different aside from the occasional shiver from the aftermath. A few moments go by before you heavily sigh and your breathing steadies along with his.

“God damn…” He murmurs against the skin of your sternum before placing a soft peck over your calming heart. “You’re seriously going to be the death of me, Doll,” He picks his head up and leans over, pressing his lips against yours in a lingering kiss.

“Sorry,” You respond apathetically.

His brows scrunch together and his eyes squint, “You don’t sound sorry.”

“Cause m’not really,” You tiredly grin, earning a quiet scoff from him.

“You’re something else.”

#chuuya x reader #chuuya nakahara x reader #bsd x reader #chuuya smut #bsd smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #what the hell did I just write 😭#devious dambi smuts

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buckymorelikefuckme · 1 year

Text

no shelf control

bucky barnes x fem reader

words: 1.3k

a/n: this is very not serious but i think it's p cute hehe. any and all mistakes are mine. feedback is encouraged & welcomed ♡

part 2 ❀

The only reason Bucky is even in the public library is because Steve asked him to pick up a book he reserved. They'd only hold it for so long, and he got caught up at work, so he'd asked Bucky to grab it for him.

He figures he’ll browse while he’s here. Perhaps something will catch his interest.

And, well… Something definitely catches his interest. But it's not a book.

He wandered the stacks for about fifteen minutes before giving up and deciding to go ahead and collect Steve’s book. But then he saw you standing behind the circulation desk, scanning returned books back into the system and setting them on a waiting cart to be put in their respective spaces.

There's a cute pair of tortoise shell frames perched on your button nose, a furrow between your eyebrows as you concentrate on separating the books on the cart. Your cheeks are adorably round and your lips pouty. Your hair is pulled back by a butterfly clip and you're drowning in a large, pastel sweater.

You're the exact opposite of who he is, at least in appearance, exactly his type–all soft curves and sweetness etched into your being. There's no way in hell he’s going to leave this place without asking you out.

Bucky squares his shoulders, gives himself a quick mental pep talk, and marches over to you. He puts on his most charming smile as he rings the little bell on the counter.

You glance at him over the top of your glasses, looking almost bored. “May I help you?”

He clears his throat. Okay, so he’ll have to try a little harder. That's fine.

“My friend asked me to pick up a book that's being held for him,” he explains, placing both hands on the desk as he leans in a little more.

“What's the name?” you ask.

“His or mine?” Bucky replies, winking.

You tilt your head slightly. “Is the book being held for you?”

His smile falters. “Uh. No?”

“Then I’ll need his name.”

He squints. “Steve Rogers,” he finally replies after a beat.

You type the name into the computer and click around for a moment, then you turn around and bend over to rifle through stuff under the counter. It gives Bucky a fantastic view of your ass, and it can't be an accident.

“Ah, here you are,” you say, returning to your full height with a book in your hand. You scan it and slide it over to Bucky with a customer service smile. “All done. Tell your friend he has two weeks until it's due for return.”

“Thanks,” he mutters, biting the inside of his cheek when you immediately go back to work, ignoring his presence.

He can't just give up now, though. His pride is on the line. Quickly, he looks around for an excuse to continue talking to you.

“So, like, there's a lot of books here,” he blurts.

His ears grow hot when you pause, looking at him again with a single eyebrow raised.

“Yes,” you say carefully. “It's a library.”

Bucky forces a laugh. “Right, yeah! I just mean, uh, you might have one I’ve been trying to find for ages,” he lies.

You nod slowly. “That is very likely, yes.”

“What do you like to read?” he questions, suddenly, trying to save himself from further embarrassment.

You open and close your mouth, thrown. “What?”

“Could you recommend something for me?” he asks. He nods toward the cart. “Anything in there worthwhile?”

You look at the cart, then back to him. You're clearly struggling to follow, which he has to admit to himself is understandable, because he's also struggling. He's never had to work this hard and it's messing him up.

“There's a book on the history of Romania?” you suggest like a question.

“That sounds cool. I'll take it,” he grins.

“Really?” you reply, incredulous, before shaking your head with an embarrassed twist to your mouth. “I mean–sorry. I'll get that for you.”

But Bucky panics as you turn and grab it, because, “I don't have a library card,” he rushes to say. He's struck with inspiration, though, and quickly follows up with, “But can you still check me out?”

He tries to conceal his smirk, feeling supremely proud of himself for that pickup line. However, his celebration is short-lived.

You blink at him, frowning. “No, I'm afraid not. You need a library card to check out books, sir.”

His smile drops entirely. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You frown harder. “Doing… what? My job?”

“No, pretending like I'm not hitting on you,” he huffs.

Your glasses slip down as your eyes widen, jaw slackening in surprise. “What?” you squeak.

It's so cute, but Bucky can't take it anymore.

“Look, I've been trying to ask you out for the last five minutes, but I can't tell if you're blowing me off or not.”

“I… I didn't know,” you confess, averting your gaze, pushing your glasses back up your nose. “I'm not used to someone flirting with me.”

Now it's Bucky's turn to be incredulous. “Seriously?” At your tentative nod, he scoffs. “What the hell is wrong with people? You're so cute, and sexy. How could anyone not wanna ask you out?”

You bring a hand up to your own cheek bashfully, and Bucky’s about to combust. If he was a betting man he'd wager your skin is warm to the touch.

“How about this,” he begins, leaning on the counter once again, even closer than before. He loves the way your doe eyes blink up at him. “Why don't I start over and make it abundantly clear what my intentions are.”

“O-Okay,” you reply.

He grins, and this time he gets a reaction out of you. You bite your lip as you fidget with the too-long sleeves of your sweater.

“Hi, I'm Bucky. I think you're insanely attractive and I'd love to take you on a date.”

A soft giggle from you and he knows it deep down to his very core–he's a goner.

“Hi,” you reply, shyly tucking some loose strands of your hair behind your ear as you offer your name. “A date sounds fun.”

He lifts his hand and gently nudges under your chin, catching you by surprise. “Wonderful. Here,” he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone and handing it over, “put your number in.”

Still adorably flustered, but with an ever present smile that makes your round cheeks bunch up in the sweetest way, you take his phone and input your number. After you give it back, Bucky sends you a text right away.

“Now you have my number, too,” he announces happily. “I expect to hear from you soon, yeah? Let me know when you're free.”

You nod. “Yeah, of course.”

“Bye, darlin’,” he says with a wink, grabbing Steve’s book as he begins walking backwards.

You cover your cheeks with your hands again. “Bye,” you mutter quietly.

Oh yeah. This is perfect. Bucky doesn't turn around, eyes still locked with yours, until he bumps into one of the kiosks. You muffle your giggles into your sleeve as Bucky flushes. His grin doesn't waver, though.

He waves and feels like he floats out of the building, and still feels like he's floating when he makes his way to Steve’s apartment later that evening. When Steve answers the door, Bucky plants a messy, loud kiss on his cheek, ignoring his disgusted and outraged exclamation, saying an emphatic, “Thank you,” before he hands the book over.

Steve stares in bewilderment as his best friend hums the whole way to the elevator. He hasn't got the slightest clue what put that dorky smile on Bucky’s face, but he's sure he’ll find out soon enough. He looks down at the book in his hand as he closes his door and stops in his tracks.

“This isn't my book,” he states dumbly.

The History of Romania sits innocently in his grasp. He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He’s gonna kill Bucky.

#avengers fic #marvel fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you

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ghostandsoap · 1 year

Text

Someone Unexpected

John Price x Fem! “Peach” Reader

Tags: Price being a simp. Laswell being a queen.

Word Count: 2.3k

“I plan to be of good service to you, sir.”

It started as a suggestion to Captain Price.

At first, it was a gentle proposal that another member be added to his team. Price declined once, twice, three times. After his third refusal, the suggestion suddenly became a request…and then the request became a demand.

Price fought it, and he fought it hard. He claimed that he didn’t need the manpower. He said that his force was just fine the way that it was. He stated that they didn’t need anyone else.

But it seemed that the harder he protested, the faster he was losing the battle.

John was promised that Kate Laswell would do all the work. She knew who to find, where to find them, and whether or not they were right for the position. Laswell knew Price, and she knew exactly what kind of person was going to meet his expectations…if not go beyond them.

John wasn’t having it. He grumbled and griped about it up until the moment that he sat down in Laswell’s office to discuss her choosing. He was rigid when he walked in, not even attempting to get comfortable when he sat down.

“Alright, Laswell. Who’s the lucky winner?” He groaned not, utterly miserable over the fact that he was going to have to give in to this.

“Come on now, John. That’s not very fair of you, is it?” She asked, furrowing her brows at him.

“I’m always fair,” He shrugged, shifting in the seat he was sitting in across from Laswell. “Am I so wrong for asking who you’ve so generously picked out for me?”

Kate didn’t see any sense in wasting time. She could sit here all day and stall, talking on and on to try and convince John not to be such a hardass about this. Although, Kate would be there forever if she attempted that, and Kate didn’t fancy spending her time trying to chip away at John’s stubborn nature.

She reached into the top drawer in her desk, carefully retrieving a tan colored folder that was thick with papers on the inside. He had no doubt that they were organized and paper clipped into categories. He watched her open the front and quickly scan the first page before closing it again.

“Sergeant [L/N],” Laswell handed over a manila folder with all of the newbie’s personal information inside. “Confident, empathetic, and very intelligent.”

“Empathetic?” John snorted. “Does he come with a bow in his hair?”

“A little empathy wouldn’t kill you to have, Captain.” Kate fired back. “And she is as good as they come. I hand picked her myself.”

Price debated getting up and walking straight out.

Price knew that the world was different than when he was a rookie. More and more women were being employed and deployed to the military. He wasn’t against it per se, it was just that if he had the option, he would choose a man most of the time. In his experience, women tended to be less rough and could be totally unpredictable. Price couldn’t afford that.

“I need someone tougher than my usual pickings. I need someone that I can trust.” He argued with her.

“You can trust her,” Kate said. “She’s valuable, John. She’s skilled in tactical training…both performing it and teaching it. She’s also advanced in first aid and field treatment.”

That could be useful…

“Hm. What else can you tell me about her?” He went on, curious to know more.

“I’ve spent some time with her. She has quite the infectious personality, the kind that lights up a room when she walks in,” Kate said. “She knows when she’s the best in the room.”

So far, there wasn’t much that Kate had said that was selling Price on this woman. All he was hearing was that some innocent, happy-go-lucky gal was about to waltz her way into his team, expecting to run the show.

Price couldn’t handle that. That was so far from what he needed.

“What do they call her?” He asked, wondering what kind of callsign was bestowed upon her.

Kate had a grin on her face, a certain expression that looked as if she were about to seal John Price’s fate.

“Peach.” She answered.

Price almost choked on his own saliva. Kate must’ve been kidding. She had to be kidding.

“Peach?” Price scoffed at such a girlish call sign. “Why do they call her that?”

The smile on Kate’s face was genuine, but had a message behind it that let John know that he was letting his stubbornness shine through. Kate knew exactly the kind of person that would be right for Price’s force. There was no doubt in her mind that the woman she had in mind was perfect.

“She has thick skin and is sweet as can be…” Kate beamed. “Not to mention, she’s a true southern lady.”

Oh no. No no no no.

Price was biting his tongue. He had quite a few words to say about that. This had to be some kind of cruel, tasteless joke.

Not an American. Oh, God – anything but an American.

“Kate…” Price sighed in distress, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“John,” She held up her hand before he could say anything else. “One chance. I’m asking you to give her a chance. I wouldn’t have made this arrangement if I didn’t think she was right for your team.”

“And if she’s not?” Price returned.

“Then you can say ‘I told you so’. Just give her a chance. That’s all I’m asking,” She repeated. “She might surprise you.”

Doubt it. Nice try, Laswell.

Neither of them said much after that. Kate had said all she needed to, and she basically kicked John out of her office before he had a chance to share his thoughts. He walked out feeling defeated, as if he had no say or control over his force.

He wasn’t hopeful. Sure, some of the assets and characteristics that Laswell had mentioned could be potentially useful. But Price had encountered potentially useful people in the past, and none of them turned out the way he wanted.

It was out of his hands now, and the least he could do was do exactly what Laswell had requested – give her a chance.

But there was just no way that she was as good as Laswell said. Nobody could have it all. Nobody could impress Captain Price.

For now, all he could do was wait and see.

***

Today was the day.

Price was told that she would be coming in today to get situated before the mission they were heading out for the next morning. He was going with the flow at this point. He was just doing what Laswell told him to avoid getting yelled at.

He was preparing to leave, considering that they were less than 24 hours out from heading to their mission’s destination. Not to mention, he was feeling a twinge of anxiousness to lay eyes on Laswell’s prized pick.

He waited a good while before making his way to make his official introduction. He didn’t want to seem excited about it because he most surely wasn’t.

When his stalling time was used up, he made the journey to the spare bunk room where she would be staying for the night. It wasn’t like she really had time to get settled because she would be packed up and off the next morning.

Her back was towards him when he arrived at the open doorway. She was occupied with rummaging through her pack and she didn’t hear the man’s footsteps approach and stop at her door. He knocked on the frame of the door to make his presence known, which then grabbed her attention.

She turned around at the sound, eyes wide and glittering as she made eye contact with him. His blood ran cold and his muscles went tight all over. He was physically stunned, because she was not what he was expecting. He went to introduce himself, but she identified him and was on it first.

“Captain Price,” She greeted, her southern drawl dripping off each of her words as she reached her hand out to him. “I’m Sergeant [L/N]. But everybody calls me Peach.”

So I’ve heard.

His heart started to patter away in his chest when heard her accent. It was thick and clear, and it fit her like a glove. Her words were spoken with genuine respect and admiration for the man she was speaking to. He almost felt…honored to be spoken to by her.

She wore a smile on her face proudly. It was a glowing kind of look that could bring joy to anyone who witnessed it for themselves. She had a gentle look to her. She didn’t look mean or like she had been hardened by the world. But there was something lingering in her eyes, swimming in the depths of her pupils that let Captain Price know that she had a tough side.

She was beautiful. There was no other way to say it. She was quite easy to look at. He had a hard time looking away from her, like she’d disappear right in front of him if he even dared to glance away.

Her hand was still held out to him, a flicker of confusion flashing over her face. He realized then that he hadn’t said anything. He had only been staring at her and analyzing her mentally…and probably making her think he was off his rocker.

“Sergeant,” He returned the greeting, reaching for her hand to shake it. “Pleasure to meet you.”

Her touch was addicting. The sensation shot up his arm and tingled through his body in a way that made him feel all kinds of fuzzy and warm. It made it hard to retract his hand, and it wasn’t until she practically snatched her hand back that the handshake was broken.

“Laswell has told me a lot about you. She speaks very highly of you, sir.”

Sir.

It felt dirty hearing her say that. Then that made him feel dirty. He wasn’t sure what was wrong with himself all of a sudden. Maybe he was coming down with something…

Get it together, John. Not like you haven’t seen a pretty woman before.

“She seems to think highly of you as well,” Price cleared his throat. “Told me all about you.”

He smacked himself internally for saying it like that. The change in the look on her face was subtle, but enough to let him know that you were thinking that he was a total quack.

“All good things I hope, sir.”

His knees wobbled.

“Certainly.” He nodded.

He suddenly realized that he was out of things to say. He had planned a whole list of questions to scope out what kind of valuable assets that she would be bringing to the table. Now, he couldn’t remember a single one of them. She didn’t seem to mind the silence, but he felt like millions of ants were crawling all over his skin.

I wonder what the rest think of her…

“Have you met Sergeant MacTavish?” Price voiced his question aloud without really meaning to.

“Soap? Yes sir,” She answered. “I’ve also been acquainted with Ghost and Gaz, Captain.”

She was quick. She hadn’t even been here three hours yet. Price was beginning to think that she was several steps ahead of him already.

“Getting on with them then?” He asked, and her head tilted to the side.

“Sorry?”

It occurred to him then that his vocabulary and hers were likely very different. Her accent and dialogue was alien to him, the same way that he assumed his was to her.

“I mean are you getting along with them?” He chuckled.

“Oh! We’re gettin’ along just fine,” She smiled sheepishly. “I plan to be of good service to you, sir.”

He hoped so. He really hoped so.

“Good. Are you all set to go in the morning?”

Is it hot in here? It’s definitely just warm in here, right?

“Ready to go,” She smiled again, and he felt a sweat break out on his forehead. “Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?”

Oh, Christ.

He had to get out of there. He needed to go and take the coldest shower that he could stand. Maybe it would cool him off and slow his heart rate down. He was surprised at himself, because he wasn’t usually so…suggestive.

“I don’t think so, Sergeant. You’re all set,” He withheld from wheezing out an exhale of a breath he didn’t know he was holding in. “I look forward to seeing you, Peach.”

The name vibrated out of his throat and seemed to echo through the air. He liked saying it, and suddenly he was excited to get to say it more in the future.

“Same to you, Captain.”

With that, Price turned on his heel and practically sprinted once he was out of earshot. That was unlike any first encounter he had ever experienced. No one had ever brought him to nearly crumbling like that. It was freaking him out, and he needed quiet time to calm down.

He couldn’t stop thinking about how unexpected this was. How unexpected she was. His hesitation was now more of a curious feeling. He was curious to know how she would do and what she was like in general.

Something was different about her…but he didn’t quite know what it was yet.

Peach had a lot to prove to Captain Price. She knew it, and he knew it too. The good captain wasn’t totally sold on her just yet, but this first encounter was definitely dissolving some of his initial reservations. He could get used to having her around and having her in his life.

Little did he know that she would become a much bigger part of it than he originally anticipated. And for that, he was forever thankful.

Maybe someone unexpected wasn’t so bad after all.

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