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mariademetal · 2 months

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౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡⋆ kitty itadori yuuji / gn!reader ©mariademetal 2024

cw ... yuuji calls reader babe, blood(?) but nothing violent and no vivid description of a wound, if there's anything else lmk note ... haiii welcome to my lil established relationship yuji fic in which he is a stupid cat dad this is HEAVILYYYYY based on my experiences with kittens (every single kitten i've ever owned has shat on my bed once, as if just to get it out of their system before devoting themselves to a litter box) and the many fatal injuries i've received from them..... word count ... 3.1k

At first, you're the one that's apprehensive about bringing the cat home.

It's a little brown thing that ambushes you at the foot of your apartment's stairs, and who was very fun playmate for the first twenty minutes it followed you around, but got to be a little more trouble than you thought it might be worth after locking into climbing you like a tree and tearing a hole in your jeans in the process. At which point, you decided that while your hangout sesh was a lot of fun, it's time for your friend to go back to its mother.

To its fortune, just as you steel your resolution to leave your new friend at the bottom of the staircase on which it first attacked you, Yuuji shows up— of course he does— and decides as soon as his eye catches the claws hanging off of your shirt that he will simply keel over and die if the two of you don't foster the kitten.

"What if her last owners neglected her?" He pleads with you, looking you with the most convincing sad brown eyes you've seen in a moment while he speaks. (All while his new best friend bites his finger like it's made out of something positively delicious.) You're in the worst place in the world for this discussion, you think, still sitting at the bottom of that damned staircase. The fact that Yuuji will have won the moment you move into your apartment with that kitten keeps you in place at the price of your pride.

"Look at how fat she is, Yuuji," you gesture to her, and you can't even remember at what point in your heated discussion it became her. "What if her owners love her dearly and are waiting for her to come home? I'm not going to... catnap her."

"What if her mother died and she's looking for a new one?" He keeps asking these stupid hypothetical, rhetorical questions that prove nothing but still annoy you to no end. Not to mention the way he's cradling her in his arms— you have no doubt that by new mother he means himself.

"We already have a kid," you grit out. By kid, you don't mean an actual child, but rather a betta fish that Inumaki dared you to buy six beers deep and who you, unfortunately, discovered you could not return the morning after, nor ever. Yuuji stepped up as his father when you proved to be a little bit too absent as a single parent to him, and he's alive and thriving to this day, albeit in a tank you doubt is quite the recommended size. "What if she eats Fish? He's my pride and joy."

At this, Yuuji stops and thinks. "Aren't Nobara and Maki looking for a cat?"

"I think so," you hum, and tentatively reach over Yuuji's lap to rub your little enemy's stomach.

"Lets just take care of her until they're ready to take her," he smiles at you, tight-lipped and hopeful. "I'll make sure she doesn't eat Fish. I'll scoop her shit and feed her too."

You take your hand back to allow another tenant to pass between you and Yuuji and lean your head against the railing with a sigh. It's a bad idea and you know it. As much as you'd love to think you and Yuuji are ready to take care of a cat, dedicate the time and care it needs to it, you just can't. But if Yuuji says he'll take care of her just for the meantime, you know he means it. "... Alright. But the second she fucks with Fish, she's gone."

As it turns out, Kitty, as you and Yuuji have intermittently named her to match with Fish, is an only slightly worse roommate than Yuuji. If you were to rank everyone in your apartment by how much you all contribute, it'd go something like this— Fish in first place, obviously, for all the joy he gives you and Yuuji, as well as causing the least mess; you in second, for feeding and raising Fish up; Yuuji in third for cooking and paying the bills; Kitty at dead last for shitting all over your comforter on the first night she stays with you and having the audacity to beg you for food come morning.

Yuuji had prepared in every way he could think of— he bought her a litterbox, plenty of food for kittens, a collar (just until Maki or Nobara take her to get chipped), and enough catnip to plant a field. And, for what it's worth, when you’d first brought her into your apartment, just before Yuuji left to buy her supplies, she was an angel. She was the calmest you'd seen her the whole evening, carefully sniffing the floor of your apartment, sneaking up behind corners, checking for any harm that might come her way. So preoccupied with discovering this new, unknown land that she doesn't even acknowledge Fish's existence. It was only after she'd settled in that he ran to get her kitten things.

Naturally, Yuuji didn't think to check if Kitty actually knows how to use the elegant litter box he'd so diligently set up for her in your bathroom, so where you were expecting to sleep in and wake up to your boyfriend peppering your face with kisses, you instead wake up at the asscrack of dawn to the feeling of him jerking your blanket off of you (and the rest of your bed, you suppose), Kitty watching him from the floor with what you can only describe as morbid curiosity.

"Yuuji, what...?" You croak out, wiping the sleep from your eyes.

Then, the smell hits you, and you're confident you're not falling back asleep.

While Yuuji washes your blanket and lectures Kitty on the proper, sanitary way to relieve herself, you sprinkle some food in Fish's tank.

You stare down Kitty, who, in Yuuji's temporary absence, has taken to frolicking around your flat, as if she isn't a criminal, as if she didn't ruin your favorite duvet, and with a glare that softens by the second, you scoop out a can of cat food into a bowl and put it on the floor for her, despite the fact that Yuuji swore he’d take care of feeding her.

For what it's worth, you have to appreciate that, at the very least, she hasn't so much as glanced in Fish's direction. Despite how vehemently you're denying it at the moment, Kitty is, in fact, tearing and clawing and shitting her way into your heart— but if she does come to stay with you for any extended period of time, you'd rather it be one in which you don't have to constantly move Fish further and further away from her reach in order to keep him safe.

Fish, your first and beloved son— an accident, sure, but the happiest you've made in your life. There have been nights where you have been one dry heave away from throwing up your stomach in its entirety, and the only thing that could get you to stand up and drink some water was Fish, blub-blub-blubbing in his own, urging you with bulbous eyes to take care of yourself (because if you don't, you can't take care of him).

He's a selfish child, but all children are, you suppose. It’s their right.

Kitty finishes her food with a satiated meow and barely makes the three-foot journey to your coffee table before dropping down onto her side and passing out. It's an adorable sight, obviously, but one that also reminds you that that could've been you this morning if only she hadn't emptied her bowels onto your blanket.

Yuuji comes back to your apartment, empty-handed and head hung low, and you already know what he’s going to tell you; “Your blanket didn’t make it, babe.”

All you can do is sigh and throw your arms up. “I’ll pick up another one after work.”

Thankfully, after that fateful morning, Kitty didn’t have many other shit-related accidents. It was incredible, really, how easily she managed to fit into your life, how easily she forced you to carve time out of your day to spend with her instead— she sleeps on your couch since you tragically banned her from your bedroom, wakes you up like an alarm clock, consistently, to give her breakfast, and lazes around your apartment in tandem with you and Yuuji scurrying around to get ready for your respective days. You have class in the morning, he has work, and you always come come back just in time to deliver Kitty and Fish’s lunch. You’ve also found that Kitty has a taste in television— she screams at you whenever you put on Rupaul’s Drag Race, out of excitement or prejudice you can’t quite find out, and curls up into a ball in the crook of your elbow whenever you watch Seinfeld. Then, Yuuji comes back from work and if you don’t have plans, the four of you eat dinner together like a bonafide family.

Tonight, you don’t have plans, but Nobara, who has been promising to call you about Kitty for the past month you’ve had her has finally caught you on your phone.

“Of course I want her,” she insists, and you can see her bob swaying along with her head as she jerks it around in your mind's eye. (You love her dearly.) “It’s just… not a great time for Maki and I.”

Maki and I seems to be her favorite thing to say nowadays— you don’t think you’ve seen one without the other in some months. “That’s fine, but me and Yuuji can’t foster her forever, you know,” At the sound of his name, Yuuji whips his head around to see what you’re doing. Once he clocks who you're talking to, he mouths to you to tell Nobara he says hi. “Yuuji says hi, by the way.”

“Yeah, tell him I say hi too,” Nobara sighs. “We’re moving into Maki’s folks’ place, and I don’t know how they feel about cats and stuff.”

“Maki’s folks’ place is so big I doubt they’ll ever even see her.”

"I'm sorry, but can you just keep her until we're settled in?" Nobara asks with a politeness that's very out of character for her. Then again, if you had to live within a mile of the Zen'in compound, you'd be worn out, too.

It must be a sign from God, from Buddha, from the universe, or maybe just fate that before you have the opportunity to mumble out an uncertain I don't know to Nobara, Kitty wraps herself around your calf. She's gotten so big, you think to yourself— it feels like just yesterday she was small enough to fit in your shoe, but over the month you've fed her and scooped her shit, she's become big enough to play with your shoes.

"Yeah, of course," you splutter out. You press your phone against your shoulder and lean down to pick Kitty up while Nobara chatters away in your ear about gratitude and just hum when she asks you this or that. For a moment, just a moment, you wonder if you should be selfish and keep Kitty for yourself. Then you reprimand yourself, because she's still, for all intents and purposes, Maki and Nobara's cat.

Still, as you come to terms with the fact that Kitty's stay in your apartment will certainly be longer than you originally planned, it seems Kitty comes to the same realization— you and Yuuji discover that she's pointedly decided to make herself entirely at home. She was never well behaved, not really, what with the way she'd pounce on Yuuji whenever he fell asleep on the couch, or the way she'd dig her nails into your thighs whenever your petting skills failed to meet her standards, but it seemed that you, at the very least, had an understanding when it came to respecting the space you're all sharing— your apartment. She didn't scratch your couch, didn't spray litter all over your bathroom, and seemed to ignore fish in his entirety.

Now, though, she's picked up possibly the worst hobby of all— knocking shit off of other shit. Pens off of your desk, detergent off of your washing machine, cups off of your fucking kitchen counter. Yuuji, guilty for anything and everything he is physically capable of being guilty for, has cleaned up after her with a vigilance that you feel genuinely bad about. Unfortunately, he doesn't do it as carefully as you wish, which is why you're picking glass out of his hand with a tweezer at one in the morning after he stumbled out of your room to find what you and him had neglected to put away (what Kitty had managed to knock off of a counter) this time and found out the hard way. By tripping on the culprit in the darkness and falling hands-first onto the scene of the crime.

"Are you sure you can go to work tomorrow?" You ask, voice soft, and Yuuji, who has been smiling since he woke you up with a yelp, finally falters.

"I think I'll be alright," he murmurs back. "Nanami won't be happy, but..."

"When is he ever?" You snort.

"He likes Kitty, too."

"You've shown him pictures of her?"

"Of course! I've shown pictures of her to everyone in the department," he grins, and you can picture him, heavy in his uniform, lifting his phone up to his stoic boss' face with a picture of Kitty, asking Isn't she cute? Then him adjusting his glasses before nodding, Yes, Itadori, she's very cute.

You suppose that's the effect Kitty has on people. Yuuji, too.

He's sitting on the edge of the tub, you're sitting on the toilet seat, paper plate balanced on the sink beside you to drop the fragments of glass onto, Kitty passing and curling around your and Yuuji's feet. It feels odd to say it, but he got off lucky in this situation— only a few pieces of glass burrowed themselves deep enough into his skin to bleed, and the rest are just stuck on the surface. Still, you're pretty confident Yuuji's in a lot more pain than he's letting on.

"Really, Yuuji," you huff, "I think you should stay home tomorrow. Just so the swelling goes down and it'll be less painful the day after."

"It doesn't hurt," he starts speaking with his whole chest, but once he clocks the look you're giving him of complete and utter disbelief, his confidence wanes. "... that much."

"I know you're worried about money, but I'm worried about you," you start, and try not to wince with him after pulling out a particularly deep shard of glass. "And besides, if this gets worse because you went back to work too early, we'll have to pay for that, too."

He hums. "I guess so."

You wrap his hand up diligently, pepper his face with kisses, and shoo him away to your bedroom so you can pick up all the glass on the floor that didn't end up on that paper plate. He calls in sick.

You get through your classes like a zombie being pulled along campus by a leash. As it turns out, staying up until the early morning making absolutely sure that there wasn't any glass left on your floor did not prepare you for success when it was time to leave. Still, Yuuji solemnly swore to spend his day focused entirely on healing, so you achieved one little victory, if nothing else.

When you get home, before you can even grasp the doorknob, you hear Kitty yapping away, Yuuji sniffling, and something being shuffled around your living room. You don't know quite what you're afraid of— an intruder, Kitty growing to the size of King Kong, or Yuuji having shrunk of Kitty's height, but after peeking your head into the door, you can confidently say that it is none of the above. You do, however, see the assortment of Kitty's things gathered right by the door.

You step into your apartment, kick your shoes off, and greet Kitty as she practically jumps into your arms.

"Yuuji?" You call out to him, and realize he's in the bathroom, probably figuring out what the best way to remove Kitty's litter box would be. "What're you doing?"

He walks out of the bathroom, eyes red, bandage on his hand freshly, but messily changed, and his head hung low. "We have to give Kitty up," he says, and you immediately clutch her tighter in your arms.

"What're you talking about?"

He just gestures to where Fish is— rather, where fish should be. His tank isn't just empty, it's gone. You realize what happened.

"Did she eat Fish?" You ask. Your voice is calmer than you really are, but you don't want Yuuji to think you're mad at him for Kitty coincidentally killing Fish the one day he happened to stay home.

"No," he insists, and points to a red Solo cup he's placed on top of your bookshelf. "He's there. She... knocked his tank over. I saved him before he could die, but..."

You look down at Kitty, who is similarly looking up at you— it's like she knows what she did, like she knows exactly what your one condition to let her stay is, like she's pushing the rules just to see what you'll let her get away with before kicking her out. But Fish is not dead, albeit traumatized and certainly not thriving in his temporary home. You realize that you think you'd forgive Kitty if she clawed your eye out. You've been denying your truth— denying that you love Kitty like she's yours, because she is— for far too long.

"I-I remember what you said about only fostering her if she doesn't mess with Fish, and I agreed, so—"

"I don't want to get rid of her," you interrupt Yuuji, and his expression goes from distraught to severely confused.

"No," he insists. At first, you were the one who was apprehensive about keeping Kitty. Now, the roles have been reversed. "She messed with Fish. I get it."

"Yuuji," you say, softer, and walk towards him. You look at his hand and realize he must've worked so hard on his day off, to clean up the glass of Fish's tank, to clean up the water, the decorations, the plants, and how scared he must've been that Fish would die. How scared he must've been that you'd be mad at him. You love him too much for that. "We're not getting rid of Kitty."

"We're not?"

"Of course not. Do you want to?"

"Of course not!" He huffs, and makes a face at Kitty that she must not like, because she takes a swipe at him from all the way in the crook of your elbow.

"So... do you want to tell Nobara?"

"Hard pass."

#not edited icl #this stems from my deep dark desire to raise a cat with a himbo #jujutsu kaisen #itadori x reader #jjk x reader #yuuji x reader #yuuji fluff #jjk fluff #itadori yuji x reader

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mariademetal · 2 months

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤman reimaginedㅤ౨ৎㅤ3.9k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©jwhoozi

synopsis. regardless of how zayne is worshipped in akso hospital— idolised as a man of unimaginable feats— he's no god; he's nothing but a man running on twisted desires. one, perhaps the only one, of those being you.

warning(s). nsfw, afab! reader, kinda violent imagery, oral (m! recieving), vague temperature play (not my fault, blame zayne), religious imagery, 1/4 proof read (as always :3), pet names: dear & darling, lmk if i shld add anything (oneshot so beastly, i think i dissociated as i wrote this)

from vyon. i can and will!! fight everyone on this characterisation of zayne!! idec, i don't wanna hear it!! look at his field of jasmine flowers and tell me that he's all alpha sigma in the bedroom without feeling shame and i'll still fight you actually... he actually came to me in a dream last night and told me that i needed to correct how he was written; made him into a little bit of a yapper but i can see him becoming a yapper during intimacy in my mind's eye so vividly that idc 🤗 took me a gruelling two weeks to finish this... i need to reconnect with my family now

do not repost / copy / translate.

Zayne has always been stern on the fact that the essence of his being was far removed from the basis of heaven; everything that he was made from stood against everything that heaven was known to be. He's long known that every life unwanted is breathed into him to prolong his punishment, if not to torture him like so, he'd be long dead to keep the world in balance. His bones were made by blacksmiths whose hammers have seen more blood than metal; his flesh stitched by the butchers who keep their carcasses hanging by the head; his organs arranged by surgeons who keep an ear close to the open chest on their table to hear the heart splutter dead; blood drawn from the disease riddled; cells made from the children that never made it into the world.

Still, he thinks if heaven had the capacity to ever come close to him, it'd never compare to this moment— never come close to the settling of your calloused hands over his slacks, your teary eyes looking up at his expression in search of validation. It surely wouldn't, he has no doubt about it. Zayne's hands settled on your cheek, a low grunt shudders from him through your body as he traced his fingers up, wiping your tears away with an elegance removed from the moment.

Zayne is no more than a man ruled by simple desires, every want in him fluctuated beneath a single layer of skin that erupts through his pores whenever you're close, it's why he managed to get himself cursed in the first place. Zayne knows that, he makes no effort to feign ignorance to himself. In another life, perhaps he'd be less man and anything else more and never allow you to your knees to serve him. In this life? He was chalked up of nothing but pure grieving desires; anything you offer to him, he'll take no questions asked. He would've followed the wisps of you back down to hell at Hades' feet and made a home beside you after light graced his face and gave him enough temporary assurance to turn back to see your shadowed features. It's wrong, it's unjustly cruel to have you on your knees for his mundane pleasure but his head swims with the warmth of your lips wrapped around him so he disregards the guilt that tells him no.

Days where he didn't have a shift at the hospital, either of his or others' he'd graciously offered to cover, used to come unsettling. His bare hands itched where ever he lay them, some gentle reprieve came from when he reached into his fridge and felt the cool air kiss upon his fingers like the cold metal of a scalpel; the towel draped over his shoulders after a needed shower came without the threat of twisting around his neck to strangle unlike his stethoscope— an unnerving flight of fight response kicked in whenever he tried to relax.

He'd made his peace with the gnawing discomfort when he was at home, flicking through patient reports and eyes always steady with his phone in view in case anything had happened to his patients, in case they needed his capabilities. Zayne would feel this way even in sleep. It's why he always finds himself in the hospital, picking up stray shifts for co–workers that he doesn't truly know; even then, he's a man of rational practices so he knows that even through the discomfort, the promise of null action is just as important for his body and mind.

Somewhere along the line of his stationary life, you entangled yourself into those lacklustre days. Creating a ragged incision down his chest and clawing your way to his beating heart, squeezing it in time with your deafening breaths and forcing him into your tempo; you've corrected his timid heart to beat in time with your soft steps across the wooden flood of his apartment and stitched him up so messily that it'll leave an inevitable scar. You uprooted all that he knew, made a home of.

The pillow underneath your knees will never truly recover from your weight, the feathers will always know how it felt to give you little measly comfort as you gagged around him. Zayne's head falls to the back of the couch, his scrunched up expression turned up to the ceiling as a pleasured sigh leaves him. His curt words of affirmation burning through your skin despite how far away they felt, your head heavy as your nose met the neatly clipped tuft of hair peeking out through his boxers. You feel your breath escaping you through your nose, face scrunched up as you forced a gag to settle back down.

You're unaware of Zayne's eyes on you until his hands are on your cheek, alleviating the burning heat of your cheeks and grounding you back into the moment, and guiding you back. "Breath."

Dizzying images of Zayne settled in your eyes, mirages of the concern in his otherwise blissed face collecting in the tears sat in your waterline as he pulled you to your feet. You stumbled, your legs feeling weak from kneeling. "You haven't cum yet," the clear oxygen runs heavy through your system.

"I'd rather you not pass out," he informed, an unamused look on his face as he guides you onto his lap. "Plus, this night is about you as much as it is about me."

There's a softness to the moment, one of his hands on your back and the other on your waist, that allows you to slump into his arms. "Give me a second then." The few seconds you take to catch your breath in an attempt to steady your mind feels impossibly tedious. Still, Zayne is meticulous in his ministrations, tying down all the nasty thoughts that cloud his head with refined touches.

Zayne— plastered in the heat of the world, stubborn frigid in all that he wants— offers you an out. "We can stop here if it's too much." His voice is gentle, a husky promise that denies the desirous part of him that beats loudly against his ribs, the him you've created with your fingertips makes an attempt to rip through his skin.

He isn't aware of his heavy, irregular breath on your shoulder until you shake your head against his chest. His otherwise ironed shirt crumpled in your fist as you say, "no, it's okay, I can keep going for you."

The next breath he takes feels as though he's squeezing out all the oxygen that's ever been available to him, it shudders through his entire being as your words ring in his head. This moment, you've stated, was for his pleasure. Zayne wants to confirm that you're sure, you've no doubts about it despite having slept with him so many times over the course of your relationship but he hears 'for you' again distantly and it feels as though you're not close enough even though every part of you that could stick to him undoubtedly is.

The world turns on its head, screeching to a halt as the clock continues ticking on the wall of Zayne's bedroom; he hovers over you in the new position, a hand stabilising himself by your head as he ducked his head down. It's nothing to be questioned as his lips met yours in a fervour that you've never imagined possible to come from the man but you respond anyways merely because it's Zayne. In its desperate need, improbable heat— as he manages to pry open your mouth and ease in his loving intrusion— it's Zayne at its brutal core. You've barely had a chance to reciprocate even a quarter of the searing vehemence of his tongue licking over the plaque of your teeth before he's moving down, kissing and sucking on your skin of your neck.

His teeth scrape over your skin as you gasped, licking over your teeth to chase after his taste, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth so it doesn't feel so empty without Zayne. Nimble and methodical fingers have already managed to work through the buttons of your shirt and despite the moment, you find yourself embarrassed when he brings his head back to study you.

You see a blurry image of yourself reflected in the field of green of his irises, each unclear feature swarmed with the fluttering of adoration. "You're staring," you pointed out, bringing up your hand to cover his face, his eyes so you couldn't see yourself in them anymore.

Zayne's face is foreign to you as his lips crack up into something resembling an amused smile, a crackling of chuckle lights your palm on fire as he hold his hand over yours. You give him an aggrieved look as he keeps your hand against his cheek, "aren't I allowed to stare?" His eyes are invasive, flickering from the slope of your collarbones, hooking onto your wet lips, clawing into your every ministration, features and softness laid bare. "Aren't I?" He asks again, his eyebrows raising slightly.

You don't answer but you must have given something away— you know you have because his amusement smooths out into unadulterated affection as he turns his head to press a kiss onto your palm. An itch settles beneath your skin where his lips meet, one you know you'll never be able to soothe even if you hammered through the spot with a nail. You struggle to know how Zayne will move as the moment softens throughout the room, turning into something malleable. He's nothing but slow, full of pliable details ebbing silky as he lowers his head back down.

His hair tickles as he ducks his head into the fold of your shoulder and neck, each otherwise perfectly laid strand creasing as they dust over the skin of your jaw. Squirming a little, you find your hands on his shoulders, the usual attentiveness in his actions running a little deeper than they always do. Zayne sucks at the skin of your neck, his teeth scraping along the expanse of unmarked flesh as he brings a knee between your leg. A sturdy arm comes over your front, a hand settling on your shoulder, arm running down the stretch of skin between your chest, and elbow down on your rib. "Don't move," a mere whisper that etches deep to your bones, "you're running from me."

"Running?" Your eyebrows crease and you squirm again, the heels of your feet digging into the mattress as you feel yourself move up the bed, weight shifting as your head hits the bottom of a pillow. "Oh," falls out your mouth dumbly as you realise you have been inching away from him. "Sorry." You allow your hands to fall from Zayne's shoulders, fisting the bed cover into your hands.

"Don't apologise," his soothing voice calls. When you turn your head back to look at him, his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips pressed thin, "you don't have to apologise." Zayne takes one of your hands and moves them back to their place on his shoulders. "Just let me care for you, keep still, hm?" You're more astutely aware of the aether core pounding in your heart now, its vibrant light pouring through your skin and how often Zayne has had the chest piece against your bare skin, how his eyes narrowed from behind rectangular frames as you shuddered from the cool metal.

You think that your heart has managed to resonate with his evol without your knowledge— with how often he's got his hands on you, professionally or otherwise, it wouldn't be too surprising. After a moment, you realise that Zayne is still waiting for an answer so you nod your head, opening your hand to press your palm against his shoulder blade. "Staying still."

Zayne gives you something close enough to a smile and lowers his head back down.

It's haunting how you recognise his moves enough to predict what he'll do and respond in kind, your head inches off the bed as you meet his lips again, legs parting under him as he slides a hand over the inside of your thigh. Intimacy with Zayne is staggering purely due to how cold he runs— you think it's all natural how his fingers run like ice over quivering flesh despite how warm his chest is when he's got you pinned underneath him. He's burnt where you've touched him, charred into muscle and cartilage are your fingerprints, your teeth, every mark of your nails that flame impossibly red. You're nothing short of heaven.

The fabrics of Zayne's adoration for you exists around him as a second skeleton, as your hips raise slightly for him to catch the waistband of your joggers and your hand falls next to his in an attempt to push them down without moving your lips from his. Pants and moans are transcribed into his tongue, he remembers the taste of every one, he'll think of them when he misses you, when he's forced away from his short instance of heaven as he wishes his hands ran a little warmer. The lingering salt of previous whines echo in his head, all from weeks and months ago flowing back to the cusp of his mind as your bare thighs finally grace his fingers. He wraps a hand around the meaty flesh, groaning into your mouth at the simple touch.

A shivering inhale from you makes Zayne's mouth turn cold as the oxygen is sucked all up, he takes the chance to move back down. He's got a hand sneaking up the half unbuttoned pyjama top you're wearing, another hand impossibly far away from your heat; you can't tell if it's too much or not enough. A gasp sounds in time with Zayne's hand over your chest, you feel a hardening nipple press up against his palm; the rest of the buttons trip over the loosening wear of the fabric and slide off your stomach. Your skin turns cold where he takes in a stuttering deep breath, his face hidden from you as he mouths at your other breast. "So," he murmurs, lips closing around your nipple. A lilting whine only acts to spurn him on, his hand dragging down your side and his nails light over the path that his palms works onto your skin, his teeth catch onto your nipple. "So— you drive me crazy." He confesses after cutting his own thought off prematurely, his saliva pooling around a stiff nub.

"You must know that right, dear?" Zayne continues talking, offering curt words in his impassive tone, slightly out of breath with his hair dishevelled. His cold hands are blistering upon your skin, lighting up nerves scathingly. Adding a little pressure between his teeth has you impossibly light–headed, one hand on your hip and the other close to your cunt. Zayne is nothing more than a drunken mouthpiece of his loving whenever he has you under him, all the words he's forced frozen in his throat over the course of years spilling out as your heat melted away the labyrinth he's had them locked in. "Do you do it all on purpose, knowing I'll never rid myself of it?"

You're moaning a 'please' before you know it when you feel a deft finger pushing against your slit through wet fabric. "If you're asking like that," he glances up at you, head tilting, "there's nothing else for me to do but oblige." The intrusion comes unpleasant first, walls tightening around a sole finger and quivering at the rigid temperature. Zayne lowers his torso closer to you, allowing you to wrap both arms around his shoulders; his eyes are still on you, studying each scrunched up wrinkle on your face with an almost apologetic look on his face. He leans down to press a kiss at the end of your eyebrow as his middle finger tactfully stills inside you.

"Keep going," you pant out, burrowing your face into the crook of his neck. "S'fine, you don't have to keep worrying."

Zayne wants to doubt your words, he'd never want any memorable pain tied back to his name when it comes to you, but he knows you've stubbornly pushed through worse. You're a shedding of God, one he doesn't really care for, a child of man that managed to cheat death nearly daily. "Don't keep quiet if you can't take it." He urges one final time.

You manage a breathless chuckle, "we both know I'd never take anything that hurts quietly, Zayne."

The response you're given makes you shatter, icicles spreading throughout your skin as Zayne shakes his head, a small smile on his face. Taken away from you are the next few moments to appreciate it as Zayne continues thrusting his finger inside you, managing to get in his ring finger, his palm kisses your wet folds with every decisive thrust. He bends his thumb upwards to work circles on your clit— that alone has you quivering, a hand going to grasp at his wrist but your arms are weak with his relentless work into making pleasure burst in your system.

The fables of heaven has never been described in any physical manner, nothing of soft clouds under foot, feasts that melt sweet on the tongue, wine that runs smooth down the throat; it exists only as the promise of eternal pleasure, therefore, is it a lie or an exaggerated truth if Zayne calls you his heaven? When he finally manages to pull that blissful cusp of orgasm over you, the response is delightful; your legs shake idly by your sides and you're clawing for something for to hold onto though you both know nothing will be solid enough in your grasp to keep you grounded to the moment.

His first thought is to offer you an apology, when he pulls three fingers out and watches you cry, shaking your head as your hips move back down in a search for him. The brief moment where he's away from you doesn't last too long as he aligns his aggrieved tip against your wet entrance, bringing his head down to press a chaste kiss on your lips. "I'm here," he comforts. "Right here, darling, relax for me."

You take in a breath from the heated room and keep it locked in your throat as the stretch burns through your body; nails digging into Zayne's shoulders. A broken whine eases through clenched teeth as Zayne pushes in slowly, miniscule inch by inch and keeps a hand on your face, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead and muttering idle love confessions. When a sigh smooths over your eyebrows, you know he's finally sunken all the way in. "Do you need another reminder to breath?" You hear his deep voice distantly, coloured in layers of amusement.

You huff, blowing away the trapped bit of oxygen in your throat.

"There you go," his words are nearly shy off being a sweet coo as his hand travels over your stomach, pressing down on the heated skin. "Feel me?"

His words causes a ricochet of mindless nods, "yeah, yeah— please Zayne." Your legs wrapped around his hips, feet filling into the dimples on his lower back. Zayne, with no other choice, gives you what you want. There's nothing that feels wrong about the moment, he's more certain of the fact than he'd ever been about anything that came previous to him. The pressure of the balls of your feet pressing into his skin, nails digging scars where he'd never allow anything else to draw blood, the weight of you brokenly calling his name like you were the one to have met your God. Each thrust back into you creates the stern foundation of Zayne's cruel and selfish humanity, it's like he's never known anything else— he's not sure he even wants to.

Nothing of his will ever want to know anything that's not you later on; rejection will the inevitable end of any attempt of a rebound that he'll try to introduce to his home. Zayne understands this notion, how would you expect him to go back to his previous norm when he's learnt how it feels to love at your feet? You could maybe remove yourself of him but Zayne is a stubbornly, almost idiotic, lover; he'll give chase after your scent in the wind and after the whisper of your laughter in the trees.

The moment your legs shake, trembling back down onto the mattress as you squeeze around him so delightfully, Zayne finally knows the sinful taste of heaven. He knows what how it feels to be weightless, as his feet met with the opaque clouds that gave away to his unassuming strides, as light followed his every move, how angels would echo his every devious thought in their hymns until God catches on. How much would He resent Zayne? Nothing but mere man, of flesh and bones; no more and no less, singing the praises of another one of His creations and stripping the holy title from God to plaster onto a husk of bones and absolute divinity. Whatever heaven is, Zayne knows he'll never care for it.

There's no basis in its existence. You, on the other hand. You writing underneath him, you with your blunt nails that'll be stained in his blood, you as you found your high in his timely thrust, you calling his name, you turning boneless as you came with a moan. You, you, you. Pants stained his name, a hand dusts over his cheekbones, brushing hair back from his forehead. Zayne meets the gates of heaven with his last shaky thrust, sloppy in aim as his weight expels through his bones and he falls down onto your sweaty chest.

A laugh passes through your lips before you're aware of it, wiping away salty sweat caught on the bridge of his nose with your sleeve pulled over your palm. "You got so into it," you pointed out with a smile on your face. Zayne drags his face to look up at you, his chin hovering over your collarbone. "I didn't even think you heard me when I said I was going to cum."

Zayne gives you a thoughtful hum and you give him an exaggerated frown. "Where you thinking about work again—?"

"I was thinking of how much I adore you," he cuts you off with a pointed look, "but it seems as though I'll have to rethink how much exactly."

"Nooo," you reached out for his face. "I was kidding! Please tell me how much you adore me."

He gives you an unimpressed look but says nothing more as he straightened up, pulling himself away from you. Your face turns an unruly colour of red when his eyes linger on where he was previously so intimately joined to you, snapping your legs closed. Zayne raises an eyebrow at you, if he has anything verbal thoughts on it then he doesn't express it as he gets to his feet. "Shall I go over every feature I adore in detail in the shower?"

You think he's joking as his arm hooked under your legs and the other spanned across your back. It's why you pressed your lips into a straight line, giving a thoughtful nod, "yes, in excruciating detail too."

He manages to wash your body thrice, help you shave, exfoliate, and keeps you stewing in the hot water long enough for you to feel light–headed as he shared a detailed, Shakespearian bible passage for each of your features that had managed to catch his eye over the years you've known each other.

#breath 🤗#this is sooooo late im sorry guinea pig #he was my last fav before this but after i might have to reevaluate #no more jeans on the bed 😭🙏😭🙏😭#also the dialogue was actually so british i had to stop gasping at the text to ctfu #silly af :3 but also beautiful 😔#MWAHHHH LOVE UUUU #love and deepspace oneshot #l&ds smut

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mariademetal · 2 months

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can confirm, cried tears of disappointment

i had to hit hard pity...

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mariademetal · 3 months

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ౨ৎ itadori yūji ex–boyfie texts

tag(s)&warning(s). gn! reader, swearing, itafushi as a joke, 'kys' joke, they're so obviously still in love, sukuna pops up and makes many typos, reader is kinda mean to yūji, yūji d3ath mention 😔

from vyon. wasn't going to write for jjk... this doesn't count guys, it's just silly texts. always thought i'd cave and write a nanami oneshot first but 'beat again' by jls started playing and i started thinking about yūji as your ex boyfriend 😭😭

2024 ©jwhooziㅤdo not repost / copy / translate.

#HE'S SOOOOOO CUTE OMFG\#yuji listening to jeff buckley is CANON #i love thjis SOOOO MUCH #jujutsu kaisen x reader #itadori x reader #jujutsu kaisen texts

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mariademetal · 3 months

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write for xavier........

guyyyysssss (ld&s followers) xavier or zayne 😔 working on a lil smth but can't decide which boyf to write it for

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mariademetal · 3 months

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i'm the only person in your likes and following... mmmm i need to jack off to ts 🤭🤭🤭🤭

i’ll do it for u :3

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mariademetal · 3 months

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also dk if you've seen it but 'valerie and her week of wonders' changed my life

OKAYYYYYY THANK UUU

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mariademetal · 3 months

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i'm the only person in your likes and following... mmmm i need to jack off to ts 🤭🤭🤭🤭

i’ll do it for u :3

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mariademetal · 3 months

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౨ৎ⋆ ˚｡⋆ inertia fushiguro megumi / gn!reader ©mariademetal 2024

cw ... codependency, description of a stab wound but no actual stabbing/violence, situationship (😭), megs is an asshole, reader is a little pathetic icl, description of anxiety?? idk what else, lmk if i should add anything note ... OOC MEGUMI. this characterization is sooooo bad don't even come for me i made him soooo much crueler than he actually is but i've been in such an angsty mood i can't bring myself to care this is suchhhh a weird little oneshot but i wanted to write for megumi and had so many ideas and they just all kinda merged into this frankenstein freakazoid fic.... kinda despise it but still had fun writing it :p hope u like itttt word count ... 2.4k

The first law of motion: an object in motion stays in motion. For as long as you've known him, Megumi has been running from one thing or another. He likes it, you think— he likes the feeling of his lungs burning, he likes the feeling of waking up sore, he likes the feeling of pressing down onto his bruises and more than anything he likes it when you do it.

Likewise, for as long as you've known him, he's never slowed down to let you catch up. You don't think he's given anyone an inch in his life, and you can't help but think that it's okay, it's fine, because it's him.

You don't like his friends. You're kept away from them at school, tucked away in the corner they keep for the students without innate techniques, out of sight and out of mind. They're rowdy, they yell, they tug, and most importantly, they take up the attention that Megumi once solely focused on you. You're sure as hell they don't like you, either— you're not a part of their world, not really, and you have no doubt that the way you cling to Megumi whenever you all go out together, determined to make yourself as small as possible, hide behind Megumi until he saves you, makes them just as uncomfortable around you as you are around them.

You don't like his friends, they sure as shit don't adore you, but every time Megumi comes around and you're resolute that this time you're going to stay behind, get some alone time with him, you still end up walking out with him, hand in his, tail between your legs.

He just gives you that look. He doesn't even need to say anything— his lips purse, the corner of his lips quirk down, his eyebrows furrow, and the disappointment in his eyes is so palpable you think you can feel it burrowing under your skin. That's all it takes for your resolution to be all but reduced to dust.

When you concede, murmur a "Fine, I'll go," and reach for your coat, the disappointment on his face has disappeared and the faintest hint of a smile has replaced it. He rubs your arm while he leads you to your door and, just comfortable enough behind closed doors to show you the affection he thinks you deserve as a reward for doing what he wants. His hand feels more like a prong collar tugging at your neck, ready to choke you if you dare to turn tail.

It falls to your own hand while the two of you walk, and where you'd prefer to take your time on the way to everyone else, to prepare yourself for another evening of judgmental glances and keeping to yourself, to get just a few more minutes alone with Megumi before you're forced to share him again, but he moves quickly. Your feet hurt before long, and when you stop to take a break, he just lets go of your hand and keeps going.

Naturally, when you eventually meet up with Itadori and Kugisaki and the rest, he acts like he never wanted to see them at all, but you forced your hand— like he's the dog and you're the one pulling his leash, forcing him to socialize with the people you can't stand.

No one seems to believe him, but no one dares accuse him of anything but being a "..softie, deep down."

God, you wish. You wish there was even a single soft spot on his body. He's dipped his entire being in the river Styx, forged a soul from steel far too dense for jujutsu-less you to penetrate, and has never failed to remind you of it (and your own failures by extension). You wish he would give you the opportunity to massage his shoulders until the knots in his muscles could loosen, you wish you could wash his hair for him so it would finally lay flat, you wish he wouldn't train so much so the blisters his knuckle pads could have the opportunity to fade away. You wish more than anything he would just surrender, let you take care of him, and he knows this, so he taxes extra care to keep you just far enough away to make damn sure you don't, and just close enough to keep you from leaving him.

You need him. This is something you both know. It's never been in question. You've needed him since you were both little, to protect you from the world and the creatures you could both see but only he could fight against. And he needed you too, for a good, few years. He was too mean, too quick to snap at the unfamiliar to make any other friends, and you would've sooner died than give him the impression that he is anything other than the most important person in your life.

Then, he stopped needing you. He settled, trained, made friends. Found his purpose. Yet, he keeps you around— drags you over from the other side of campus just to relish in the way you wrap yourself around his arm while he talks with his friends, the same way you did when he'd send his dogs to kill all the cursed spirits that dared to scare you when you were little. He relishes in protecting you from a situation he has inflicted onto you. But he doesn't need you.

So, one day, you ask him why he bothers keeping you around.

"What're you talking about?" He huffs. He's busy sharpening your only knife after trying and failing to peel an apple for the two of you to share— he's always busy, but you've caught him with an injury while all his peers are healthy, so at least you have a moment alone with him.

"You know what I'm talking about," You insist with a pout, and he just looks back at you with a deadpan. "You don't have to see me if you don't go out of your way to. Gojo keeps us apart for that exact reason. Why do you?"

He's silent, for a while. Just long enough that you think he's opted to ignore you. Only then does he speak. "I'm not ignoring you. I just don't really know what you're getting at."

"I don't want to have to explain how I feel to you like you're five."

"Then don't."

You think it would hurt less if he took the knife he's sharpening and stuck it into your heart. Your eyes burn, and you swallow your saliva, purse your lips and clench your fists to keep yourself from crying. You think about what you'd do if he had opted to stab you instead— you picture yourself with the handle sticking out of your shirt, blood spilling out all around it, staining your shirt and your hands red, your heart beating even faster and harder to replace it. You'd take it out, you think, and rinse it off, then hand it back to him so he can keep his hands busy like you know he likes to while you bleed out on your bed behind him.

It's only when you sniffle, still desperate to hold your tears back, that Megumi finally looks back at you and realizes this is his cue to comfort you in the only awkward way he knows how to. He closes his eyes for a second, puts the knife down, and sits down beside you, stiff as a board. You shift your weight the second he does, leaning on his shoulder, but he doesn't lean against yours. It's not an apology, you doubt it's even intended as one, but you're so eager to forgive him that you still interpret it as one, and thus an invitation to elaborate on what he'd shut down just a minute before.

"You don't need me anymore," you say, and it's only after the words are already spoken that you realize Megumi would've preferred it if you omitted the word anymore altogether. You know him to prefer not to admit he needs water. "You have friends and you know I hate them. They understand you better than I do. They can keep up with you."

"You don't hate them," He says, and you know he's not delusional— just cruel. You wonder if he's always been this cruel, if he inherited it from his father, or if it's the world who made him cruel. You don't think you're cruel— maybe cruelty is necessary for sorcerers. "It's not about any of that. I'd never toss you aside for them. I can barely stand them."

You laugh at that, and Megumi makes a sour face. "You can barely stand them but you still drag me to see them."

"I don't drag you. I can't make you do anything," He sneers.

You know that if this turns into a fight, he'll win, so you raise your white flag before it has the opportunity to and curl into yourself, away from him. Only then does he reach out to touch you.

"Maybe you should leave," You whisper, and he looks like you've scalded him.

He opens his mouth, then closes it, and opens it again. "I'll come back later."

"Don't bother," you say, and you regret it the second you do. It isn't like you to be this petty, it isn't like you to cry as much as you've been crying lately, and you find that every time you speak, you find your own voice just a little bit more grating than the last. You say don't bother but you really don't mean it. You fight down an urge to correct yourself, beg him to stay, not to leave to begin with. You'll drop it. The two of you can lie together, he can fidget with your hands, and when he wants to sleep you can run your fingers through his hair.

You don't because you want to believe that what you said is hurting him just as much as what he said earlier hurt you, even though you know, deep down, that no matter what you say to him, you can't even scratch that steel shell that protects him.

He says your name sternly, but quietly, and you're ready to cry again. "What are you doing? What is this really about?"

"I don't know."

So, he leaves. You can still smell the faintest trace of him in the air, and once he's far enough away that you can't hear his footsteps anymore, you grab the knife he was sharpening and finish the job.

You love him, you think, and he doesn't love you. Or maybe you don't. You don't know. But you're certainly not friends, and you don't think you ever have been. You don't think you've had a friend your whole life. He's not your friend, but if he told you to jump, you'd ask how high.

He's always moving from one place to another. He wakes up and goes to class, then eats lunch with Gojo, then spars with Itadori, then trains with the second years and Kugisaki, then sees Ieiri to make sure he hasn't overexerted himself, then eats dinner with the first and second years, then finally comes to collect you so you can go out with him and the others.

On the other hand, you wake up, eat your breakfast alone, meet with your teacher, and rot in your room, thinking about if and when Megumi will show up. Megumi, Megumi, Megumi. You doubt he thinks about you once before he asks if he can bring you along to whatever plans his friends have already made.

How does he do it? How does he move so consistently, so perpetually, while the best you can do is nip at his heels? The idea of it exhausts you.

He does come back, eventually. After you've fallen asleep. You hear a knock on the door that wakes you, and you know it's him, so you do your best to wake yourself up and make yourself as presentable as you can before opening the door for him. You smile, wholesome and unassuming, perfect for forgiving for any prior transgressions. Then, as he takes you in, you take him in— tousled hair, messy uniform— and realize he's shown you just how capable he really is of leaving you behind.

So, like a hurt dog, you snarl and you bite. "I thought I told you not to bother."

"Stop being like this."

That's what he's reduced you to. A dog. Pavlov'd you into doing things you'd never do otherwise, feeding you with his rare affection and unconditional protection, hit you with his disappointed glances and harsh words.

"What else should I be like?"

He huffs and reaches over you to open your door wide enough to walk through. You don't stop him— even if you wanted to, how could you? You're confused. He makes a display out of just how much he doesn't need you, but still goes out of his way to burrow his way inside of your room.

You watch him from the back as he sets his bag on the floor and takes off his jacket. You can't stand to look at the way his hair is splayed out, so you look at his back, instead. His shoulder blades poke out from under his shirt and make circles in a way you find mesmerizing. Then, he slips off his shoes and steps forward. You follow, dutiful even at your most hurt.

Then, he faces you.

"Why don't you like them?" he asks.

"What's there to like?" You know what answer he wants, and when he just looks at you, waiting for it, rather than taking your bait, you throw yourself onto your bed. "They're all sorcerers," you say sorcerers like the word puts a bad taste in your mouth.

"So am I."

"Exactly."

Your bed dips just by where your legs hang off. You know exactly what face he's wearing, so you don't bother looking. "You don't have to be jealous, you know."

"What's to be jealous about?" You ask sarcastically, and you can feel his glare boring into the side of your face.

"They're my friends, but you're my..."

He struggles to find a word to describe you, just like you struggle to find one to describe him. You know exactly what you are to him, though.

"You're my favorite."

You look up towards him. He looks away. "Really?"

"Really."

He coughs into his fist. You fluster and dig your face into your sheets.

"I still don't like your friends," you mutter.

He snorts at the sound of your muffled voice. "You don't have to."

"And I think you're the only one who likes me."

"That's your own fault."

"I don't mind.”

#jjk x reader #megumi x reader #fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #jjk angst

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mariademetal · 3 months

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤbelieve in my weight, don't look backㅤ౨ৎㅤ3.5k

synopsis. In his own stubborn, odd, and easily mis–interpreted way, Zoro cares for you— enough to force his way through the gates of hell to have the weight of your being to sober him up.

warning(s). nsfw, afab! reader, starts off with zoro trying to kill you whoops, little bit of violence, oral (f! recieving), ? characterisation of zoro, zoro's swords are referred to with she/her pronouns, half proof–read (i'm going to sleep)

from vyon. don't perceive me, zoro is so fucking hard to write for no absolute reason. nearly gave up many times but managed to claw my way through out of pure spite; it's not my best work but i'm so sick of having to look at it in my drafts so it's being released, seriously as sexy as this guy is, fuck his ass. i refuse to write for him again. i wish i had enough patience to tie in eurydice and orpheus into this more but maybe i'll keep that in for next time.

do not repost / copy / translate.

You've made an odd habit of counting beats whenever Zoro trains with his swords. The rhythm changes depending on how many swords he choses to wield— it's something resembling a leaf gently falling to the earth after a gentle brush of air when both hands are tightened around a singular hilt, attentive with the way the blade runs against the air, unnecessary swings forsaken. It's systematic, a beat of one through eight as you share a delicacy worked from Sanji's hands with Luffy, feigning ignorance at the fact that Luffy's stretching his arm out to swipe at your food. With two, the earth shakes a little. He forces you into a faster tempo, you've no time to idly brush crumbs away from your lap nor care for Luffy taking more than half as Zoro splutters out different strokes against a canvas at a simultaneous rate, the air marked black as his blades tore through atoms.

At three, you're scrambling to keep up with him.

Your skin burns where Chopper's delicate hooves had struggled to work a bandage over, from your stomach, all the way up to the neck, it stretches down the length of your right arm and splits five ways to wrap around hardened fingers but doesn't touch the left side that itches where Zoro's blade skims. Your right arm nearly folds in half, failing to support your weight as the world shifts on its axis, your hair brushes against Sunny's deck and Zoro's frown turned upside down unnaturally.

You're unjustly stuck between appreciating his form when he's engaged and detesting how natural each swing falls upon you; Wado Ichimonji trails after like the shadow of your movement, unrelenting as it chased every ministration you make much like its cruel owner when he's got you held stubborn between his arms. You feel Zoro's unwavering eyes stern on everything that makes you up as all three swords keep up with your staggered agility; Sunny's deck creaked under your unstoppable tempo, marking the steps you both take like an ancient ritual that'll take shape eons away to call upon rain for harvest.

Zoro's blade runs heavy, each fall of his chest is followed by the threat of another sword slipping through your skin with ease; you move an inch, he'll force a mile through tiring bones to chase.

You realised something after Enma staggered after your scent, your sweat dripped down the blade as he straightened her up after a few locks of your hair shed down to the deck. "You're distracted," you managed to speak, dodging pants and heaves that locked up your lungs.

Zoro grunted. Sandai Kitetsu comes for you this time, you angled your foot so you could reach out to kick at his wrist without running the risk of the blade catching into your skin. She wavers in his hand for a mere second before his fingers tightened around the hilt even harder— you wouldn't be surprised if his palms were raw right now. Each stab, swing, slash becomes an invitation extended. Alluring you forward as the sun dawned down on all three blades, liquid as it ran down the sharpened metal and hooked around the crossguard and spilled over to pool at his wrist. The attraction that is Zoro and all three swords against you provokes you blind to crawl towards him, making you grimace; he beckons to you like a magnet, knowing the curve of your spine settles nicely in his ribs as your limbs shuddered against his beating heart.

He sternly creates a promise as he dances around you, your partner alternates between all three cursed blades but never does it becomes Zoro; keeping you at arm's length despite filling every burning nerve wrapped finely with bandages with desiring distaste, you wondered what his goal was here as you realised that you hadn't quite managed to get a good look at Zoro in the few hours you've spent wearing down the wood on the open deck.

Luffy's voice hits the air at the same time Zoro forces your head to swim with an awkward dodge, dots blur into your vision and you stumbled; a hand pressed against your temple to work the knots of a beginning ache away. The cheerful shout's tone follows the curve of the slide that takes you down to the lawn deck and a recognisable shadow casts over your face, seconds later, Luffy is cheering happily as he's flying across the air— resembling the path of Zoro's swords in his own manner— with a hand on his straw hat to keep it from flying. The shadow shortens as Luffy's arm loosened back to its original length.

The air that Zoro had worked to an intrusive stench takes its own form as Luffy graces it with his light presence; he keeps his back towards the sea on the figurehead as he idly crossed his legs and arms, head tilting as he looked at both yours and Zoro's form. "What're you doin'?"

"Training," Zoro answered, settling his swords back into their scabbards. The movement calls to the sudden session's end and you finally fall back, sprawled out on the deck as your chest rose and fell in time with the waves running against Sunny's hull. Your head feels as though you're still moving and clouds blur unnaturally into the reddening sky.

You hear Luffy hum and can imagine him reaching up a hand to grasp his chin, a dramatic frown playing at his lips as he pretended to think hardly about it. "Chopper said you needed to rest though," he aims this at you.

You think up a response in your head to defend yourself, pinning the blame onto Zoro, who'd barged into the infirmary and forced you out onto the open deck without a word but your mouth is dry and your jaw is heavy so you groan, turning your head away from the direction of Luffy's voice. An ache runs through your side like Zoro had managed to work one of his swords through you and the blade shattered still stuck in your skin, taking up a life of its own as it wormed through flesh and settled into the marrow, drinking up your life.

Your left hand crawls to your side, wrapping your fingers around the flesh of your side just below your chest and against your ribs, holding it down like you could ease the feeling by kneading the flesh. Zoro's silence is unnerving, you wondered how you managed to piss him enough for him to force you into training with him when you were still a recovering patient.

Chopper screaming your name reminds you that he'd expected you to stay within the infirmary— if you see him later, you'll tell him that you didn't expect to leave either. Dots gather into your vision, carved from Zoro's swords as they shake together, tightening into globs of blackened galaxies. "Zo." You didn't think the call of his name travelled from your brain to your lips but he recognises it regardless; you feel his weight creaking on Sunny's deck and a shadow dresses over the miniature starlight in your view. "M'gonna sleep."

He hummed, shifting his swords at his hip to accommodate you as an arm slivered underneath your thighs and the other curls around your side. Zoro's hand throbbed over the flesh of your thighs, you feel the pattern of curves from Sandai Kitetsu's hilt pressed into exposed flesh from his palms. His hands burn warmer than any part of your body, you recognised the tears of his lips that you could trace Wado Ichimonji's hilt from. Before you succumb to sleep, you manage to say something else. "Make sure t' let Chopper look at yer hands." His right hand taps against your rib, you nod your head, placated, before it falls onto his shoulder and everything eases into a slow silence. You managed to wave the hand thrown over his shoulder at your captain and get a lilted 'bye' in response.

Dreams have been foreign to you since you joined the Strawhats, though you're not certain that you could accurately recall the dreary shutter of memory that came pre–Strawhats either. Your memories have been washed away from beneath your skin from time spent under the stubborn sun you call a captain and any notable dream that stubbornly stuck to your skin from those unclean days were stained by his first mate. You remembered Zoro in each one. He stays dogged, chained to figures that you've wrongly painted in romantic hues of budding pink before you knew of his existence.

The infirmary stinks of medicine, chemicals and more familiarly, it smells of Chopper. The blanket weighs heavy on your chest and when you rise to allow the material from you, you realised that there were two blankets thrown over your form, as if to shackle you down. The image of your doctor throwing a weighted blanket over you is funnier than it should be, especially when armed with the fictional reason you've managed to claw together.

You turned your head when you managed to lean up against the wall the head of the bed is resting against, Sandai Kitetsu greets you. She's propped up against the side of the bed, her end caught between the bed and the table beside it to keep her up. The blade seems to purr when you reached out, bandaged fingers wrapping around the hilt— you find that it's similar to holding Zoro's hand, rough against your own palm with the sudden threat that hangs heavy of knowing this could hurt you if it wanted but it's warm enough to make you content, to make you trust enough to know otherwise. You pick up the blade and place it over your lap, studying the scabbard with light touches, nails tickling over leather. A problem child, you remembered in Zoro's voice.

The door creaks open. You snap your head up too quickly, hissing as you squeezed your eyes tight, lowering your head back down.

Steps close in on you and Sandai Kitetsu is lifted from your grasp; she's settled down on the chair by your bed and then her two sisters follow. "Move over." Zoro lifts the two blankets, urging you to move with tightened eyebrows and lips tugged into an annoyed frown.

You shuffled over, nearly falling from your own bed as Zoro forces his width into the bed; his hand catches onto your hips before he manages to push you off and he pulls you up to rest on his side.

"Sanji managed to piss you off, didn't he?" You placed an elbow by his head, bending your arm up to hold the side of your face in your hands. Your other hand is light on Zoro's furrowing features, pressing down on artificial wrinkles with your thumb and smoothing them out; the lay of tanned skin is pliant under one of your measly fingers, dulling under a mere stroke. He gives you a sigh that answers your question and shuffles closer, nudging you with his shoulder.

His arm looped through the triangle you've carved into the space with your right arm and your head, his hand falls onto the back of your head and he pushes your face down into the crook of his neck. "He gave me shit for forcin' you out of bed." You hit your fist against the side of his face and pushed yourself back up. Your chest lays on his, legs tangled together— it's more uncomfortable than intimate with how broad Zoro's grown to be.

"Do you regret it?"

Curt, seemingly cold; "no, I'd do it again."

You hummed, placing your head down onto his chest; Zoro's hand falls on your head, brushing your hair away from his chin and tucked his head down to tap his jaw against your head. "You upset?"

Without hesitation, "no." Not with him atleast, not for forcing you up to train with him from morning to the late hours of the afternoon even though your skin was still charred aching and weak from a run–in with a vice–admiral. Contrary to popular belief, Zoro's thinking is simple as can be; as strange as it was, Zoro making you fight him was his own way of caring or coping, you've yet to decide. "Nami got hurt." You muttered, turning your head to hide, your nose lays flat against his skin, oxygen fails to sliver through the gaps and breathing becomes a little hard.

"The witch can take care of herself," Zoro pats your waist, urging you to turn your head. The clear breath of oxygen you take burns as it runs through your body; the cold tingles Zoro's skin where it parts with your mouth, each ministration reminds him that you're strong, you're here, he doesn't have to keep his eyes on you all the time to make sure you'll live another day. You managed to keep up with him for nearly five hours; wounded, slow, staggered, your skin never met a single one of his blades. You'll be fine.

You don't reply, still dejected at your failure to look after your own crewmates whilst the monster trio were elsewhere; there's a semblance of understanding that's long taken root in your mind, shared with Nami and Usopp. The fact is that you're strong enough at any given moment in an odd crowd of civilians but there's still a terrifying gap that'll never be bridged between you and people like Zoro, Luffy, Jinbei.

"You can train with me," he offers, his hand beginning to run up and down your side; his thumb carves the path that his fingers trail after, Zoro moves languidly, quicker than his swords. Fingers hook underneath your shirt and dig through your bandages. Zoro's face scrunches up, "after you recover— that shitty cook." He trailed off, teeth clenched.

"I think your weights will kill me." You humourlessly reply, swatting his fingers from out under your bandages.

"You just need enough strength to protect the people you care about." He doesn't try sliding his fingers past the layer to get to your skin again but the pressure of his palm intensifies, as if to make up for the fact that there's something in the way of what he wants.

You turned your head up after a moment, your chin resting below his collarbone. "And you, what about you?"

His eyes flickered down to you, head tilting and eyebrow raised. "No, never."

"Are you saying I'll never be strong enough to protect you?"

He shifts, pulling you with him. You slide one of your legs over his waist to the other side, straightening up as you leaned back to rest your bottom on his waist; he pushed himself up slightly, leaning his shoulders against the wall. "I'll never be weak enough to force you into that position."

"But what if—"

"No."

You're starting to get personally offended, face scrunching up dramatically to question his ways. His hands fall onto your hips, they're idle for a second, thumb crossing the line of bandages and skin before his middle finger slips into the belt loop of your jeans and he slides you up his lap, stabilising you with his hands on your ass. There's no room to argue with Zoro as he ducks his head down and intrudes into your mouth, his tongue easing away any rebuttal you've been pondering over. You decide to give him another win, tilting your head and smoothing your hands over his shoulders to the back of his neck. Your fingers are barely touching the sides of his neck but he shivers, giving you an apology with a groan for shutting you up so harshly.

Knowing your limits, your hands don't fall down to Zoro's back. You've noticed that he's not a fan of any unnecessary, calculated touches along the broad expanse of his clear back— it's a shame with how often he trains shirtless, sweat falling from short strands of green, messy hair and catches on his spine, dribbling down the hollow river that separates his two muscled sides. Whether he's aware of it or not, he likes holding your hands when he fucks up into you, likes having your nails dig into the back of his hand and carve indents between knuckles. You notice how he grimaces at first after, when his hands curl around the curve of his sword, only for an amused smirk to start playing at his lips when he nods his head down to find the culprit of sudden pain.

Your fingers turn upwards, settling into strands of hair and splitting apart knotted ends as Zoro wrapped an arm around your waist, keeping you against him and his other hand trails up to your face. He didn't listen to you, if Chopper had seen how he'd managed to wreck his hands from his tight grip on Enma or Sandai Kitetsu, he'd have forced a salve onto Zoro and then wrapped it up carefully. Instead, cracked skin tickles against your cheek. There's something childish about the moment, reminiscent of having to keep a door cracked open in the bedroom of your parent's home, keeping quiet as the sound of fabric shuffling takes place, the sounds of life still moving on despite the time stilling for you. His lips are dry and you taste Wado Ichimonji's ito on his mouth, the diamond shaped pattern creates a strange design of cracks that you have to swipe your tongue over to ease the tickling.

It doesn't take much to convince you out of your trousers, to settle yourself on his face— it's a nice change of pace when you're always going out of your way to argue against him for fun. Your knees hollow craters into the pillow as you leaned your head against the wall, scrambling for something to hold onto. There's a ferocity in Zoro's servitude that leaves you whimpering, thighs tightening around his head so harshly that it makes his ears pop— he's unwavering, stubborn, tireless as warm hands clenched around the meat of your thighs.

The weight of your entirety on his face, your thighs keeping his arms' movement minimal, locking his bent arms under your weight as your toes catch the bed covers, pulling and wrinkling the material keeps Zoro sober. He's so eager with tenacious force that he starts tasting his leftover spit before he gets to taste you. It doesn't become much of a problem though because you want him just as much as he wants you so it's easy to get that taste he's taken such a nasty liking to. Zoro just has to crane his neck up, allow the space for an unyielding ache to settle, press his lips against your clit a few times, toying at it with his tongue before you're dripping on his chin.

It's hard to imagine you elsewhere when you're so stern in existence on him like this. A particular curl of his tongue makes you squeal around his name, thighs quivering beside his head and Zoro realises. He doesn't think it matters where you go. If you've been granted to him— if he's learnt how to live at your feet, chasing after every breath you've rewritten in your lungs— how would it be acceptable to not turn the world inside out if you're gone? May it be hell, purgatory, what could stop Zoro from slaughtering what ever force that's keeping you from sitting on his face so prettily, calling his name like he's your personal God? There's no feat of superhuman strength that wouldn't shatter through Zoro's bones if it gets him to you.

A groan from Zoro invades your skin, stuttering up all the way thirty–three bones of your spine and makes a home at your neck. You toss your head back, a shuddering breath snapped against the steady, heated air swimming around the room. His name falls from your lips again, there's nothing else to say when Zoro's mouth falls on you and he grunts, his response is always so minimal— too far engaged with eating you out like he's chasing after his own high.

There's no headboard to the infirmary beds so you're left to claw at the wall, leaning forward to scramble something with uncertain stability on the bed; you tightened your fingers around the edge of the bed as you folded over, your waist hitting against his head slightly. Zoro's hand manages to push past your thighs confining him and drags up your skin under your shirt, his nail draws a soft line across your stomach that has the skin trembling as a whine falls from your lips. There's no ulterior motive behind it other than to connect another part of him to you, he leaves your skin burning in his wake as he retracts his hand and offers it for you to hold onto.

The last orgasm you're eased through, shaking your head and blood dripping down Zoro's arms from where your nails have worked down the skin, stratching and digging— Zoro knows you'll never be far away enough from him for him to not give chase. As long as there's a remnant of you somewhere carried in the wind, he'll follow. It's not like Luffy will stand in his way either.

#jeans in the bed.... immersion BROKEN #kicked my feet like a schoolgirl reading this #had to take a break midway thru cuz i remembered zoro takes weekly showers though icl #LOVE U CUYYYYYYY best guinea pig ever #roronoa zoro x reader #zoro oneshot #zoro smut #reposting for my one other follower (cheezbot)

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