#AND THEN THEY JUST!?!?!??!?! SIDELINED HIM!?!?!?!?!?!?!??!
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The 141 holding their baby for the first time
Can be read as a part 2 to this
Price
This man is so eager to hold his child for the first time, he almost doesn't wait for the nurses to clean him off first. So what if his son is covered in all sorts of blood and gunk? John has dealt with a lot worse before, trust him
So when he has to wait for the little one to be cleaned and then weighed and then dressed first, John almost steams from his ears he's so frustrated
Oh but the moment his child is finally placed in his arms, he just absolutely melts. Goes from a menacing grizzly bear to a harmless stuffed plushie in two seconds flat
With one hand supporting his bottom and the other curving along his back, John gently holds his son for the very first time. As he looks at the boy in his arms – his eyes, his lips, his little button nose – John feels a tickle behind his eyes, and he's quick to blink the tears away before they can form
He sniffs back his emotions and caresses the top of your son's head. “Hairy little bloke, ain't he?” he jokes, referring to the full head of hair the tyke's already been blessed with
Well, what does he expect when he has a werewolf for a father? Your jest gets John to chuckle lowly, muttering to the boy, “Just like your daddy, eh?”
He places the baby against the crook of his neck and softly pats him on the back, bouncing up and down ever so slightly. And when his son lets out a great big burp, John and you share a laugh. “Yeah, just like your daddy.”
Ghost
One thing Simon prides himself on is his sense of humility – knowing when his services are needed and when they aren't. In this instance, as the nurses flit around with his son, he knows it's the latter situation, so he waits patiently off to the side as he lets them work
Though he's sidelined, Simon watches like a hawk as his little boy moves about the room. Every hand-off, every measurement taken, it's all done under the careful eye of his father
But despite how cool he may appear on the outside, inside his heart is pounding, and that only increases as a nurse finally approaches him with his child in her hands
Simon goes to take the baby from her, stretching his arms out, but before the transfer is made, he remembers something. Quickly, he reaches up and strips the cloth mask from his face. He knows the little one doesn't have good eyesight yet, but first impressions and all that, right?
With the utmost caution, Simon takes his son into his arms, putting him in the crook of his elbow like a rugby player holding a ball. He feels like a giant as he holds the tiny boy against him. Like an ant compared to an elephant, he thinks to himself
Despite his size though, Simon is so delicate with his son, treating him like he's made of glass. He tucks him more firmly against his chest, and as the little one naturally snuggles closer, Simon can't help the smile it brings to his face
Rocking back and forth slightly, Simon tries to lull the boy to sleep. Unfortunately, his little cheek rubbing against Simon's chest has the opposite effect, and he begins to mouth at his pec, having accidentally triggered his rooting reflex
“Oh, he's…,” Simon mutters awkwardly, realizing what he's just done. He hears you giggle from your spot on your bed, and that makes him chuckle to himself. “Think he's hungry,” he says before handing the baby over to you
Gaz
From the moment Kyle laid eyes on his son, it was love at first sight. Even though he was filthy, wrinkly, and had a conehead to end all coneheads, Kyle was immediately smitten with the boy the moment he first saw him
He carefully trails after the nurses as they go about cleaning him/taking his measurements, not wanting to get in the way but wanting to stay close
Despite his watchfulness, however, when his son is finally offered to him, Kyle immediately freezes. His arms feel like they're locked down by his sides, like there's some kind of invisible force preventing him from reaching out and taking him
Though he's been preparing for this moment for months, when it's finally time to do it, he finds that he's scared. Scared to hurt him, to drop him, to do something wrong. He has to take a deep breath as he plucks up the courage, then has the nurse hand over his son
And the second the boy is placed in Kyle's arms, the tears he hadn't managed to shed during the delivery start streaming anew. “H-Hi, baby. Hi,” Kyle sobs, masterfully holding his son in one hand as he uses the other to wipe his tears away. “I'm your daddy.”
Though there's still a flurry of activity going on around them, it's like time seems to slow as Kyle admires the little boy in his arms. He leans in to press a soft kiss to the top of his son's head, holding his lips there as he inhales that sweet scent emanating from him
When he finally pulls back, he brushes another tear away, flashing a bright smile as he chuckles wetly to himself. Yep, he's in love alright. Truly, deeply in love
Soap
Johnny feels sluggish as he slowly wakes back up. It takes some effort for him to peel his eyes open, and when he does, he then groggily takes in his surroundings
He's slumped in some stiff hospital chair. Why? Oh, wait. He thinks he remembers. He was here to watch the birth of his first child, but the last thing he remembers was seeing a whole lot of red, and then everything went black
Johnny looks around the room for a moment until he realizes you're sitting in the bed across from him. He stands with a grunt, rubbing his forehead as he walks over to you. “What'd I miss?” he asks as approaches your bed
He notices something in your arms, but it's not until he gets close that he realizes what exactly. That isn't just any little bundle in your arms. That's your son you're holding
He finds he's frozen to his spot as you answer his question. Other than the birth? Not much. Just the first feeding… and the first burping… and the first swaddling
Johnny's lip threatens to tremble as he listens to you list off all the things he missed because he'd passed out. But when you ask in he wants to hold his son, all that sorrow immediately vanishes
Now, Johnny's held a lot of babies in his years (it comes with being part of the MacTavish clan), but there's something different this time as you pass the little boy to him. As Johnny looks at the baby in his arms – his baby – he realizes this is the most perfect, most beautiful, most amazing, angelic, awe-inspiringly wonderful–
There's the sound of a small whine followed quickly by a loud squish, and suddenly, the bum cradled in his hands feels about 2x heavier. The realization hits you before it does Johnny, and you can't help the laugh that bubbles out of you
Congrats, daddy-o! Looks like he woke up just in time for the first nappy change
#john price x reader#captain john price x reader#captain price x reader#simon riley x reader#simon ghost riley x reader#ghost x reader#kyle garrick x reader#kyle gaz garrick x reader#gaz x reader#john mactavish x reader#john soap mactavish x reader#soap x reader#john price#simon riley#kyle garrick#john mactavish#tf 141 x reader#task force 141 x reader#task force 141#cod x reader#call of duty x reader#cod mw2#call of duty#modern warfare 2#female reader
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game, set, match!
pairing: gojo satoru / f!reader / geto suguru
rating: 18+ explicit (minors, do not interact)
word count: 6.0k
warnings: heavily inspired by challengers, infidelity, freaks matching each other's freaks, threesome, fingering, fem receiving!oral, feral geto and gojo, size difference, pussy eating, so much sexual tension it's crazy
SET ONE
G. Satoru: 0-0
G. Suguru: 0-0
It’s the final match of the U.S. Open.
You sit front row center at the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center, shaky hands fiddling with the hem of your white dress. You force them to still, eyeing the sparkling spectacle of a diamond ring on your finger before looking up to see a few cameras pointed at your spot on the sidelines. It makes you sit up straighter, chin held high.
Journalists have become increasingly brutal these days, especially after your marriage to Geto. There are articles upon articles that have cemented your reputation as this unbreakable, unreadable coach—you will not sacrifice that today.
When you finally spare a glance at the court, you know that this is unlike any other match you’ve seen before. Their long standing rivalry finally comes to a glaringly tense standstill as they prepare for the toss.
There, on opposite sides were two of the greatest tennis players in the world standing across from each other from opposite sides of the net, looking like they’re about to fight to the death.
The tension is palpable; you can feel it in the way the linesmen on the court stand stick straight under the blistering heat of the sun, the ball boys crouching low to the ground, ready to run for the ball at any moment like a taut string waiting to snap. The umpire presiding high above the court in his chair clears his throat. “Gojo Satoru has won the toss. Electing to serve first.”
Gojo Satoru is the best player the world has ever seen. The strongest, the most decorated by nearly every measure, a talent that this generation has never seen before, powerful, proud, confident.
There’s countless documentaries and books about his playing style, his life on the court, off the court and he holds millions of dollars worth in sponsorships, and he carries himself with the easy knowledge that there’s no one else in the tennis world who can even come close to challenging him.
(It’s the life you could’ve had.)
He sees you at the edge of his periphery, and grins at the familiarity of it all. Once again, your two boys on the court, like they’re playing for a chance with you all over again. It doesn’t go unnoticed by your husband, eyeing the destination of Gojo’s gaze. It makes him grip his racket tighter, knuckles going white.
When you found your way back to Geto all those years ago, he was already an amazing player in his own right but he was always stuck under Gojo’s shadow during his years as a junior. He had been content to take Gojo’s seconds.
But with you—Geto crept quietly and restlessly up the tennis world rankings during the past five years, deceptively and quietly taking home slams of his own underneath Gojo’s vast shadow until he became a true rival. It’s the first time that they’ve faced off in years, and you would be a liar if you said it doesn’t have your heart drumming in your chest.
Whether it’s from fear or excitement, you cannot say.
You know Geto like the palm of your hand. Geto’s opponent knows him like the other piece of his soul.
Gojo bends his knees. He knows all of Geto’s weaknesses, strengths, exactly what makes him tick. Which is why he goes for the underhand.
For a moment, the ball suspends in the air, and with a snap of his wrist, sends a red hot 160 mph serve towards Geto. His serve is short, low, fast, and wide. It whips so quickly that Geto has to scramble to meet the ball, but he receives it with just as much startling power—an intense volley begins.
A few days ago, Gojo animatedly and vividly described all the ways in which he intended to deliver a swift and decisive victory in his favor. The column of his throat had bobbed as he laughed, head falling back, as if this was nothing serious to him, something expected and guaranteed. “I plan on decimating Getou Suguru.”
You let your eyes close and exhale.
You know Geto’s more than capable of stepping to the challenge. You wouldn’t have coached him, wouldn’t have accepted his proposal, and taken his last name if you didn’t think so. But one glance—
On Gojo’s side, you make eye contact with a certain pale-haired man that’s been staring daggers at you the whole day. He looks straight through you with an intensity that would make any other person tremble. His eyes are aflame, daring and demanding you to see him.
A split second, and—you remember the way his warm breath lingered on your neck the night before, the desperate way you clawed onto his back, moaning, crooning his name as if it was the only language you knew. Gojo’s maneuvering one of your legs onto his shoulder to reach you deeper, and you’re close, getting oh-so-close, and the smug son of a bitch knows it. Licks a hot and downright filthy stripe up the shell of your ear, causing shivers to reverberate throughout your spine.
You can still feel his sharp grin on your skin, goosebumps following the trail of your thoughts.
That’s the thing about Gojo. He demands, demands, and demands, restlessly and unequivocally. It’s what initially drew you and Geto to him in the first place, a painstaking desire to become the best.
It’s an intense moment, causing you to sit ramrod straight for just a moment, until you feel another set of eyes on you. Your husband. Geto’s jaw tenses.
When it’s Geto’s turn to serve, you gaze at the strengthened profile of his back, as if renewed. He’s given two balls with ease, gripping one silently, tossing the other one back, frowning as he faces his opponent. Dribbles the ball. Gets into the position to serve. You know that frown. (You wore that frown nearly seven years ago. You were good, really good. But that was a long time ago.)
For a moment, you inhale in anticipation, as he lets the ball up in the air. It almost feels like he’s going to serve it to you.
─────── · ·
Seven years ago. Japan Open Boys Doubles Final.
“40–30.”
The sun is unforgiving at this time of the day. It’s scorching hot, and Geto feels a sheen of sweat drip down his forehead to his upper lip, then to the hard ground underneath him. If he had to guess, there were about a hundred people in the stands. To his front, Gojo’s in the receiving stance, eagerly shifting his weight between the balls of his foot in anticipation.
Under the rays of the sun, back rippling with glorious tension, fingers thrumming on the handle of his racket, he thinks that Gojo looks magnificent.
It’s the final set, and they’re at match point. Geto’s muscles ache under the strain of a long, long match and he’s ready to get this over with.
He steps up to the line and prepares to serve, and he knows that Gojo’s grinning ear to ear, crouched low to the ground. The weight of the ball is light in his fingertips. Let’s win this, he remembers his words from earlier that morning. And let’s win every damn game together after.
To everyone else watching, Geto is a beautiful player. He’s all methodical and precise strokes, he can hit a mean groundstroke, and sometimes his serves can reach 120 mph. There are dozens of colleges who have sent him offers and he reckons that he’s up in the rankings after their performance this week.
But he doesn’t even begin to hold a candle to the beauty with which Gojo plays. He’s wild and intuitive in each shot, dive, slice. There are nights when he obsessively plays back the ways that his best friend plays, and his heart aches.
Haven’t you ever wanted to be number one?
He serves the ball and watches as it soars to the other side of the net. The other doubles pair receives.
Geto is faced with the fact that Gojo is something else, simply on another level: he’s an absolute monster on the court, adaptable and innovative with his racket in ways that have never been seen before. He watches, entranced as his partner moves like a rocket, rapidly zipping the tennis balls on his side of the court, collapsing the other duo’s defenses. They’re getting tired and sloppy, and he knows the end is near.
Years of playing together have led them to a mindless, easy synchronization, in the middle of a ruthless volley. It’s so easy to get lost when it’s with Gojo. Somebody once asked the two of them during a conference after a game about how they reached this point of trust and telepathy.
Gojo had cackled then, shrugging lightly. “We’re just better at tennis.”
It’s Gojo who wins them the game with a brutal dropshot. Geto can hear their opponents’ hearts stop in their chests.
“Game, set, and match, Geto and Gojo,” The umpire reads off their victory as Gojo rushes toward him, absolutely vibrating with glee. It takes him half a second to jump into Geto’s arms, and he allows himself to breathlessly laugh and bask in what they’ve accomplished together. Above him, Gojo is cupping his face and looking at him with so much pride and adoration that it makes his heart tumble into knots.“Two sets to one, seven-one, seven-six, six-two.”
They fall to the ground together, and they come up as Japan’s Junior Boys Doubles Champions.
Geto can’t help but grin and lean into Gojo as they face the ESPN camera crew for the hundredth pose in a series of photos that will no doubt be hung on their coach’s wall. For the first time that week, the air is light and nothing is wrong or bad in the world, and they have just become winners. He knows there’s another match tomorrow, and they’ll have to face off against each other, but for now, he savors the moment.
If Gojo’s hand lingers around his waist for longer than necessary, he pays no heed to it and continues to smile for the camera.
After the blur of post-game interviews and a few quick calls to family and friends, they become lucid again at the concession stands, each with a soda nestled in their respective trophies and a hot dog on one hand. “A toast,” Gojo raises his hotdog proudly and he can’t help but join him in this silly little gesture. “To a well-fought game.”
“A well-fought game,” Geto grins for the thousandth time that day. “And to many, many more.”
That grin promptly falls when Gojo wiggles his eyebrows at him in the infuriating way that he does when he wants to get up to no good. “No.”
“I haven’t even told you yet!”
“Whatever it is,” Geto begins to rise and collect the rest of his items, Gojo following in suit, albeit with a slow childishness that has remained even after they left elementary school. “I know it’s not gonna be good.”
“Come on!” His partner pleads, voice raising an octane in a way that he thinks works on Geto. It doesn’t. “There’s this Nike clothing line party happening tonight and there’s supposed to be free alcohol—”
“You know I don’t drink.”
“There’s going to be hot people.”
“Don’t you have a girlfriend?” Geto raises an eyebrow and begins to walk back towards the outdoor courts. “And besides, I want to make sure I’m ready for our match tomorrow.”
“Seriously?” Gojo looks at him as if he’s grown an additional head, like the very concept of practicing for their match is a foreign concept. He’s not sure if the thought of that is comforting. “We play together all the time. If I throw the match, will you go?”
He acts like the mere suggestion doesn’t offend him. Gojo can take the loss tomorrow and barely drop a sweat in the rankings, but the thought of a manufactured win makes his fingers twitch.
“Absolutely not,” He shoots his friend a glare, but lightens at the way Gojo deflates. “But you should just go. Really.”
Gojo pouts. “It’s not going to be fun without you there though.”
They’re full and sated by the time they return to the same court to observe the Girls Singles final, and to Geto’s surprise, the people in the stands have seemingly doubled. It’s a task in itself to find a couple of empty spots in the bleachers, and when they do, they’re crammed in between two sets of families.
Just in time, the overhead sound system booms with the announcer’s voice, “Now entering the court, all the way from Kyoto, girls singles number eight is Utahime Iori!”
There’s a series of polite claps as a slender girl with long black hair exits the tunnel, and they watch as the girl smiles and waves to the crowd, a familiar image of the prim and proper girls they’ve encountered before at boarding school. Nothing exciting.
“I still seriously think you should go to the party,” Gojo turns away from the girl, already bored. “We can leave within twenty minutes, shake hands with a few people, sneak a couple of hard seltzers, and then we’re done!”
He shakes his head, ready to squash any of Gojo’s hopes of going to this party, when the speakers announce your arrival.
When they catch a glimpse of you for the first time, it’s as if the world suddenly spins on its axis.
You’re eighteen years old and you’re on top of the world.
You step out on the court like it’s a NYFW runway, glistening with the newest pieces from your Nike tennis clothing line, unbothered and paying no mind to the dozens of cameras that click upon seeing you with an ease that’s acquired from winning. And you win a lot. There’s murmurs that you’re the next big thing, the next Serena Williams or Billie Jean King, Japan’s own wonder child, and somehow, Geto disagrees.
No, you’re your own thing entirely. You’re going to surpass them all.
Any words that were previously on the tips of their tongues have died out. Forgetting themselves, Gojo and Geto lean forward, entranced by the sheer magnetism you exude.
And as if you could feel the weight of their gazes on you, you look up and they’re blinded by the sun. For a moment, your eyes narrow and then hyperfocus. You smile at them.
That’s when Geto knew it was over.
They’re glued to every single one of your actions from that point on, no matter how miniscule. The way you place your racket bag next to your bench, the subtle way you adjust your necklace, and—Gojo gasps—how you stretch to near impossible angles, showing off legs that ripple with muscles that have grown over time. Internally, Geto groans. “Fuck.”
When the match starts, it becomes increasingly difficult to remember that there’s one other person on the court.
You make the person on the opposite side of the court all but disappear. Your signature move, a precise and powerful slice that is sharp as steel and oh so lethal. You’re forcing Utahime to play to your rhythm, to work for it, all the while barely breaking so much of a sweat. In the back of his mind, Geto comes to a slow realization that you play like the culmination of him and Gojo, raw, unfiltered talent mixed with undeniable control and discipline.
It’s absolutely breathtaking.
When you serve an ace that’s just right on the line to win the set, Utahime breaks down and slams her racket down on the ground repeatedly.
Geto looks down and realizes that Gojo’s hand is on his thigh.
The rest of the match is sealed at that point, and to no one’s surprise, you add the singles championship trophy to the storied collection that has to be growing exponentially in your home.
They find you afterwards at the junior players’ tent, positively beaming and surrounded by dozens upon dozens of reporters. You answer all their questions with frightening poise and confidence, and they’re struck once again that they may just be in the presence of someone great.
Someone like Gojo, Geto thinks distantly. Someone I can reach.
When the dust settles and the reporters finally flock from your side to discuss your clothing line with a Nike representative, you’re left standing merely a few feet away from them. That’s their cue.
“Hi, I’m Getou Suguru—”
“Gojo Satoru—”
“I know who you two are,” One side of your lips curls upward. “I’ve been hearing an awful lot of you guys the past few days.”
“Really?” At this, Gojo grins, but it’s similar to a lion baring its teeth. “Are you a member of the fan club?”
You hum. “Not yet,” Slowly, your gaze drifts to examine both of them from head to toe, and suddenly the room feels hot. “But maybe you can sign me up for a newsletter.”
Before Gojo, ever the opportunist, can retort, Geto feels the inexplicable pull to grab your attention by any means necessary. For the first time in years, he doesn’t know if he can share this with Gojo. “You were otherworldly.”
“Thank you.”
The words are tumbling out of his mouth without thinking, set on autopilot. It’s not like him to get flustered, to stumble over his words but the need to vocalize her impact is stronger than his will. “It was like watching a masterclass of the sport–it didn’t even feel like watching a sport, it was like a performance, like… like art.”
They can still hear Utahime’s sobs from outside the tent.
“You absolutely massacred her. It was kind of brutal,” Gojo says with no hint of pity or malice; if anything, he seemed proud.
“She’ll be fine,” You shrug. “It just takes her a moment. We’ve been playing each other for years, and she comes out better for it after every loss. Moments like these are gonna shape her tennis career.”
Geto bites back the retort that’s simmering on the edge of his tongue. Her career will be marked by a series of losses to you—she’ll be a footnote on the biographies that will be written in your name. Gojo beats him to it. “So you think she can beat you someday?”
“No.” You say the word like it’s an undisputed fact.
You and Gojo slip into an easy conversation and that’s when Geto starts to feel a bit pushed back, until you snap him back to reality. “You’re going to UTokyo right?”
“Yeah,” Geto furrows his brow in confusion, head still reeling from the fact that he’s even anywhere in your radar. “How’d you know?”
“I just committed. Figured I’d read up on the roster.”
Besides him, Gojo’s leaning forward in disbelief, as if the very notion of something so mundane and boring as college could possibly contain you. “You’re not going pro?”
You don’t even attempt to humor him. “Not for a while.”
“You could take home even more trophies, start going up against real opponents,” Gojo’s eyes are aflame with all the possibilities surging through his head. He looks at Geto like the very idea stings him. “Solidify your place as one of the best. Why stop all that momentum in its tracks?”
“Have you ever considered that I might want to learn a thing or two besides hitting a ball with a racket?” That makes both of them pause. Who chooses real life over tennis? Before they could probe further, a representative from ESPN is motioning for you to exit. If Geto visibly deflates, he tries not to show it. “I’ve gotta go do this interview, but there’s this little party going on tonight. You guys should come.”
“Yes!” Gojo lights up at the mention of the party, and the prospect of seeing you again. “We’ll be there!”
“Cool,” As you walk away, you look back at the two dumbstruck fools. “I’ll see you two around.”
They stand in that cramped tent for longer than necessary, processing the interaction and mulling your words over in their heads repeatedly, over and over again, until it becomes static noise. At the edge of his periphery, he sees Gojo lean against a table, positively beat and entranced for the first time in a long time.
Gojo sighs, blowing strands of white hair away from his face. “I’d let her fuck me with a racket.”
─────── · ·
There’s posters of you around the party in various states of athleticism. Some of you staring the camera down, looking like a force of nature with your racket in a position to swing. A few candids of you actually playing on the court, your forehead creased in a focused and determined frown. But there’s one in the center of it all that they’re drawn to.
He thinks he remembers this one. The match had been played at the back of his coach’s office once, and he thought back to the way your last name had flashed on the screen and paid it no mind. Your opponent was this girl on the precipice of going pro, and tennis critics and fans alike had remarked on the way you seemed to come alive.
You jumped to deliver a crushing blow, and he thinks you look like an angel.
On the other side of the room, you’ve been surrounded by adoring fans and interviewers alike all night, taking photos with your shiny new trophy, and every attempt of theirs to grab your attention has gone unnoticed. While they wait for their turn to be seen. Geto clears his throat. “How are we going to go about this?”
“What do you mean?” Gojo tilts his head, eyes still not breaking away from your form. “Go about what?”
“I don’t want to scare her off. We’re like two bulls in a china shop together. We’ll cancel each other out.”
Gojo weighs his words, and shrugs. “Two negatives and one positive make a positive.”
“That doesn’t even make sense—”
“Hey!” Suddenly, you’re approaching them very quickly, finally finding the opportunity to break away from the crowd. You’re wearing lip gloss, he notices, and his throat suddenly dries up. “You both made it.”
Gojo and Geto enthusiastically greet you back, and then there’s an awkward beat. None of you are really sure how to proceed. A hug feels too intimate, so you all settle for awkward little waves.
“I didn’t realize that your final match was tomorrow,” Your hands are on your hips, examining the two of them appraisingly. “Are you sure you don’t need to practice or something?”
“We both know how it’s going to go.”
Geto stares blankly at Gojo, like he could kill him, but he tries to regain his cool. “What Gojo means to say, is that we’ve been playing with each other for a long time. We know each other well enough not to sweat it.”
“All in good fun!” Gojo chirps in, all smiles and joy.
You raise an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Well, I’m glad you guys came.”
There’s a quiet, peaceful moment when all you do is stand there, relishing in the atmosphere of the party. Before you could cut that silence, Gojo beats you to it.
“Do you wanna get out of here?”
You know you shouldn’t. There’s sponsors you should probably talk to, your manager’s driving herself into a flurry, and your parents were already eyeing the pair with something along the lines of suspicion.
But your cheeks are aching from all the smiling and the way they’re looking at you, as if you held them in the palm of your hand is too tempting to ignore. You’re the number one junior girls tennis player in the world. Who’s going to stop you?
“Yeah,” You smile. “Lead the way.”
—
Their hotel room is shabby and dark and littered with half-empty bottles and takeout, which they scramble to hide and throw away as you keep examining the rest of the room. You see a polaroid of the two of them that must’ve been taken sometime during the tournament, Gojo gleefully leaning over Geto and striking a peace sign.
“Sorry about all that,” Geto rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, and it evaporates any sort of nerves you may have had on the walk over. “We weren’t really expecting company.”
Gojo brings out a six-pack of beer and your night truly begins.
It’s unexpected how easily you open up to the two of them. It’s hard to develop peers in tennis, not when you simply function on another level, but you look at the two of them, really look at them and think that they might just understand. They look at you with nostalgia and a remembrance that you can’t explain.
You think it might be similar to how they feel for each other.
It’s only around midnight when you start to get antsy, and they can feel it too.
You’ve seen the way they stare. You’ve been dancing around it all day, willing yourself to stay painfully oblivious, but you can feel that delicate string of tension start to go taut, and you know that snap is coming.
When you rise, slowly, you can feel the way their gazes sear into your skin, committing you to memory. Gojo’s eyes travel throughout the length of your body, examining every part of you like it’s a revelation. Every inch of smooth skin, curves delightfully peeking out of the Juicy Couture set you have on, that necklace of yours you were playing with earlier.
But it’s Geto’s eyes that remain locked solely with yours, as if looking away would physically pain him. Otherworldly. Like a performance, like art, you thought distantly. He looks at you like there’s nothing else in the world that matters.
You hum. You’ve become even more painstakingly aware just how in control you are and it sends a rush of heat between your legs.
Without acknowledging either of them, you travel to the foot of one of their beds, sitting down with your hands on your lap. “Come here.”
“Which one of us?”
Gojo doesn’t even hesitate, taking his place next to you on the bed without question. It compels Geto to follow, sitting on the opposite side of him. You look over at the two of them sitting next to you, diligent and obedient and ready for what you have to offer.
Interesting.
It’s silent for a singular second as you appraise each of them, sincerely liking what you see. But there’s something that drags you into Geto’s orbit; it’s magnetic, it’s contagious, and it’s why you pull him to you first.
Geto kisses like he’s restrained, and it takes you lightly pulling his hair and bringing him closer to allow him to let loose, muscles going placid under your touch. He surprises you in turn, nibbling on the bottom of your lip before dragging his tongue to mash against yours and reaching towards your hips. You like this version of him a lot.
Behind you, Gojo gently holds your hips, his large and inhuman body fitting against yours as he waits not so patiently for his turn.
When you finally turn towards him, he’s unashamed, burning with desire and drinking you in like you’re the oasis in a dessert. It’s demanding and a lot, but you keep up with him anyway, demanding more from him in return, practically meshed together as you feel Geto snaking his hands up your stomach and appreciating the way his feather light touches leave goosebumps.
You pull back for a moment to look at both of them, really look at them, a part of you gets greedy. Whatever it is between the two of them, whatever you do next, will surely open the floodgates. The concern dissipates as fast as it comes.
There’s not a part of you that can bring itself to care, not when they’re looking at you with so much need and desire. Not when you can see just how badly they need this, need you, need each other.
When you all lock eyes, there’s an unspoken agreement. You all dive in together.
The three of you kiss like you’re all starving, all warm tongue and groans. Gojo’s caressing the curve of your cheekbone, gasping into your mouth, on the precipice of devouring you. You’re grinding yourself into him wherever you can get pressure against your center and you can feel the attacks on your neck, Geto’s hands beginning to undo the zipper on your pretty pink jacket.
Closing your eyes, losing yourself in the sensation of both men’s firm and strong bodies moving over your frame. At some point, you lean your head back on Gojo’s chest and feel calloused fingertips stroke down your throat and it causes your brain to short-circuit.
Geto runs his tongue over your lips, and nails press into your side. You moan, and it’s a small, light thing, barely audible, but Geto thinks he wants to keep that sound coming out of you for the rest of his life. He travels back to your neck and grazes blunt teeth against the smooth expanse of your neck and finds that he enjoys your sharp intakes of breath much, much more.
Your jacket’s long gone at this point, and you can feel two sets of hands starting to make their way into your sports bra. There’s so much sensation, so much desperation. It’s a competition to see who can force more sounds out of you.
Gojo runs his thumb across your nipple and gives it the same attention he’s been giving to your neck. The whimper that comes out of your lips is unprovoked, and you can feel the cruel smile forming against your hair.
When he pulls back, you whine, until you see that conniving glint in his eyes, like he knows something you don’t. You become hyper aware of his hands finding its way to Geto’s face, maintaining eye contact with you the whole time.
Eyes half-lidded and smiling, Gojo hungrily, deliciously tastes Geto and Geto alone, one hand reaching to wrap around one side of his neck and a hand making its way up your thigh and into your shorts, chuckling delightfully against Geto when he feels just how soaked you are.
You lick your lips, taking in the sight before you.
Geto clambers at Gojo’s face, his neck, his chest, burning with the need to touch all of him, all at once. He sucks at his bottom lip and bites, pulling more of those beautiful sounds from Gojo’s parted mouth.
When Gojo finally retreats, examining the mess he’s made of Geto, at his heaving chest and desperate groans, he turns back to you and smiles from ear to ear. “You want us to fuck you?”
You’ve already pulled off the rest of your clothes, tugging the shorts down your legs at a tantalizingly slow pace. But the way your chest is heaving is betraying the cool exterior you’re trying desperately to maintain. “Yeah.”
And just like that, they’re back to leaving scathing, hot and wet kisses up your neck, whispering so many obscenities in your ear that make your head spin.
You’re fucking amazing, you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, you, you, all you, so fucking sexy, want to fuck you right now, fuck you with Geto, make you feel our love.
Geto’s eyes are dark. “Say please. Show us how you want us.”
“Please,” You’re babbling, barely coherent, and the sound is lost amid the noise. “Oh god.”
In a rare state of lucidity, you took one of their hands and put it right where you needed them, forcing their palm to cup you between your thighs, grinding so deliciously and whimpering at the small bit of friction you taste. And then another hand—at this point, you can’t keep track of who’s where, it’s a mess of limbs and breaths and you can’t find it in you to care—strokes against your slit, teasing and rubbing and purposely providing you with little to no relief.
You need more. “Satoru—”
Gojo sighs, drunk off of the way you feel, and slides one finger in with no resistance. “God, you’re so ready for us.” You tilt your head back and let your hair fan out on the pillow behind you, whining and mumbling and reaching for any semblance of sanity.
When you look back to the two of them, they’re tangled in each other’s hair and grasping each other with such devotion and need, but it’s when they look back at you with those dark eyes, pupils blown wide with desire and slowly start to descend together that your heart drops in your chest. “Just relax.”
Breathy and exasperated, you nod. You’ve never been this wet and you’re all worked up, so sensitive that Gojo chuckles at what he finds underneath, in awe. “I think we gotta help our girl out, Suguru.”
“Mhm.” Geto seals his lips around your cunt and your back arches off the bed. He was so gentle earlier, but the way he’s sucking, moaning, and dragging his tongue back and forth is rough and unpredictable. Paired with the way Gojo’s other hand is roaming the expanse of your body, playing with your chest, rubbing soft circles around your thighs, while the other is locating the sensitive spot inside you, and it’s too much.
Too much, too much, too much, too much, too much, too much—-
You’re pulled away from your delirious thoughts when Gojo comes into your periphery, as if sensing the way you’re slowly floating up into the abyss. “Stay with us.”
The noises spilling from where Geto’s seated underneath you, lewd and graphic and coupled with his delighted moans makes your mouth hang open. The ascent is nowhere near like the slow, building pressure you’ve felt with other partners. Instead, it’s liquid fire, lightning that threatens to pull you under at any moment.
Gojo hits a rhythm that has you singing, needy and desperate and you don’t recognize the way you beg for release, so different from the tough exterior you put up earlier during your match.
Geto spits into the mess between your thighs, nasty and unprovoked. And then you’re breaking, crying out, hips jerking with such an intensity that you know you’re going to be sore by tomorrow.
When you come to, chest panting and eyes dazed, the desire to return the favor bypasses any exhaustion. “Your turn.”
─────── · ·
SET ONE
G. Satoru: 6
G. Suguru: 2
Tennis was Gojo’s first love. Geto was his second. And then you became his last.
Gojo can’t lie. He’s having the most fun he’s had in ages—the scene unfolding in front of him was delicious. From the opposite side of the court, he’s just provoked Geto Suguru to his first point penalty of his career, a far cry from the composed and stoic persona that he’s cultivated with the media these days. He watches, satisfied, as Geto finally, finally releases all that tension, all that anger beautifully and beats his racket mercilessly to the hard concrete.
It’s a sight that brings him so much joy. It’s like seeing someone you haven’t heard from in a long time.
On the sideline, you’re watching your husband, transfixed. It’s subtle but he can see it in the way your chest descends and ascends in rapid successions, barely there but he knows. Geto’s perfect and pristine wife and manager, the former undisputed queen of tennis, and he’s got you playing into his game.
No one ever talks about the beauty or grace of tennis anymore. There’s glimpses of it in the way Geto plays. On late nights when he can’t sleep, he plays back your old tennis matches. But on this court, he’s determined to carve it out of both of you once more.
The only thing he has left to do is guide Geto to redirect all those emotions, all that passion back to the game. But he believes in him. He has full faith that the game will only get much sweeter from here.
He knows, like an immovable, unstoppable force, that he’s probably going to win today.
So Gojo takes the first set, but they have all day. He eyes his opponent across the court and sees Geto grin, but it’s more like a baring of teeth. There you are. Welcome back.
#she's unedited and messy and not the greatest but I NEEDED THEM TO MATCH MY FREAK#gojo satoru#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru smut#gojo x reader#gojo smut#geto suguru#geto suguru x reader#geto suguru smut#geto x reader#geto smut#jujutsu kaisen#jjk#jjk smut#jujutsu kaisen x reader
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A dwindling, mercurial high
♡ Pairing: Bang Chan × fem!reader
♡ Genre: Childhood best friends, angst
♡ CW: Explicit sexual content (minors dni!), cheating, both Chan and Reader are morally gray characters, mentions of smoking, drinking, fingering, hand job, unprotected sex
♡ Word count: 10.1k
♡ Synopsis: Despite his love for you since childhood, Chan silently watched from the sidelines as you fell in love with your mutual friend. Your happiness has always been his priority, even at the expense of his own. But he can only endure the pain with a smile on his face for so long. With your growing realization that your fiancé is no longer the man you once loved, his longing to finally escape his torment and confess his feelings becomes unbearable.
♡ A/N: Based off a request by anon! Thank you for requesting 🩷 Cheating is bad, kids, this is fiction. Sorry to my boy Changbin, I used a random wheel to decide who would be the other member 🥲 I’ll focus on lighter stories now ‘cause I feel like this one turned out heavier than I anticipated lol
Chan has known you since he was ten years old.
He’s sure he has been in love with you for just as long.
He wouldn’t be able to give an exact date; loving you has simply always been a part of his life. Your smile that’s engraved in his mind, your laughter he’s memorized, your mind which still fascinates him after so many years — it all wraps around his heart like a vice, making him a willing captive to this one-sided love.
For Chan, love is selflessness; sacrificing anything for the happiness of the one he loves. He doesn’t know anything but loving you, and his unwavering dedication to your happiness has led him to sacrifice his own for years.
Unbeknownst to you, Chan has been withering away slowly as you’ve grown happier.
But your happiness and his unrequited love never truly hurt him until the age of twenty.
It was Minho’s birthday, and he played the best friend card to convince Chan to buy fake IDs from a sketchy guy at their university. Your friend group drove to a deserted parking lot after buying far too much alcohol — Chan remembers the recurring thought inside his fuzzy mind was how much that situation would validate your parents’ scorching hatred for him if they were to find out.
You had your head on his shoulder, sitting on the bed of Minho’s truck, watching as the rest of your friends suffered the consequences of their indulgence. Chan’s face lit up with a smile at the sound of your giggle when Miyeon yelled at Changbin for being so loud, threatening to destroy his beloved girl group albums if he didn’t shut up.
Chan’s emotions always mirrored your own; so long as you had a smile on your face, he swore he could find joy even in the worst situations.
Even when you unknowingly shattered his heart into a million pieces, your happiness still brought him joy.
“I never got around to finishing my story,” you told him, words slurred and voice hoarse from singing at a noraebang earlier that night. “I only said I had a crush, but I never elaborated.”
Chan didn’t want you to elaborate.
But he knew how much you loved talking to him. Be it the weight of your indecision about your path in life or the lightheartedness of your romantic endeavors, you shared everything with him. You always said Chan was the best listener because he knew when his silence was better than any word. He knew that once your heart was set on something, there was no use trying to untangle your mind from the roots of that conviction.
So he hummed, prompting you to continue. “It’s been a while since you had a crush.”
“It sounds so lame, doesn’t it?” You scoffed, “Aren’t we too old for crushes?”
“No one’s ever too old for that,” he shrugged. “I think if you don’t allow yourself these light-hearted feelings, love will only become heavy. That’s never good.”
You placed your hand in his, playing with his fingers as a smile spread across your lips. Chan always hoped you couldn’t hear the way his heart thumped loudly against his chest whenever you touched him.
“You’re so weirdly wise for your age.”
“And you’re so weirdly avoiding the subject,” Chan pointed out. “Come on, you never hesitated telling me shit like this. Hell, you proudly admitted to your crush on that old ass teacher when we were sixteen.”
You sat up straight, groaning at the unwelcome memory, and Chan huffed a laugh at the pout on your lips.
“I know, it’s just…”
“Just?”
“It’s someone you know,” you offered, and Chan furrowed his brows.
“That wouldn’t be a first.”
He noticed the way your hands tensed up, their grip on his fingers tightening and fidgeting nervously. You were anxious, and Chan wasn’t sure he wanted to know the reason why.
“It’s someone from our group.”
The way he froze was obvious, and your hands stilled on top of his. To this day, he hates everything about that moment: how you were so apprehensive about sharing something so trivial with him, how he selfishly felt a twinge of jealousy, and most importantly, how he could tell you were upset.
Chan promptly put aside his own feelings, having mastered this skill to the point where he could effortlessly do it. You seemed happy whenever you mentioned this crush, and he didn’t want to be the reason that happiness faded away. He laced your fingers together and offered you a smile, hoping you would reciprocate the gesture. You did, and he felt his chest blossoming with a blend of relief and melancholy.
“It’s Changbin,” you confessed, and Chan’s face remained unchanged. His smile didn’t so much as falter at your words. It often scared him how easy it had become to feign something as significant as his own emotions when it came to you. “I don’t know when it started, but I just… I really like him.”
Chan had seen you go through a couple of short-lived relationships and countless crushes that usually led nowhere; the sting of seeing you infatuated with someone else was an ache he’d long grown accustomed to. He often struggled to understand why your heart had chosen to love the people it did. It was easy to tease you and cope with the hurt when Chan knew it was only a matter of time before you realized you deserved more.
But that situation was different. This time, he could understand. Changbin was one of his best friends, after all. How would he endure the hurt when he knew Changbin was practically a mirror image of your ideal type? He was always in a good mood, always fun to be around and never failed to make anyone laugh. Chan had no doubts about how he would bend his back just to care for his friends — the day he failed his first class at university, Changbin paid his bill at the bar and carried a drunken, crying Chan home on his back.
Unlike it had been with Chan for the past ten years, your parents immediately fell in love with Changbin.
As he heard you eagerly talk about your crush on your friend that night, Chan kept his facade of the perfect best friend. His laughter and words perfectly matched your enthusiasm. Among the rain of anguish, the drop of bliss that fell onto his heart as he saw you smile again, your worry thoroughly gone, was enough to soothe his aching heart.
Because Chan’s emotions mirrored your own, and so he made it his mission to make you happy.
Even if it was with someone else.
Chan never would have guessed that you and Changbin would go beyond a simple crush.
He never would have believed if he was told your relationship would evolve beyond just hooking up.
And never in his wildest dream did he imagine that you would become engaged to him.
Yet, here he sits, six years after initially finding out about your crush, helping you choose flower arrangements for your wedding.
“I think Bin would definitely want some pink flowers,” you comment with a hum, the florist nodding along with a smile. Chan holds back a sigh. “But wouldn’t that look weird with the light blue theme?”
“I think blue and pink go great together!” The florist assures you, her excitement palpable when she starts rambling about different shades and flowers that would beautifully complement your dream wedding dress.
Chan zones out, blurry eyes focused on a single red rose that rests on the wooden table. He was understandably taken aback when you chose him as your man of honor. Miyeon had always been your closest female friend, so it was only natural that he assumed you would choose her as the maid of honor. Despite disapproval from both you and Changbin’s families, you remained unwavering in your decision. Chan knew you better than anyone in the world, you argued, therefore he was the best possible choice. The sentiment was sweet, but it didn’t lessen the ache in his heart.
As if watching you marry another man wasn’t punishing enough, he now had to help you plan the ceremony.
Your laughter brings him back to the present moment, and he quickly rises from his chair, realizing you’re already heading towards the door. Chan clears his throat, shooting the florist a small smile before walking out with you.
As soon as you step onto the streets, you ask, “You were spacing out the entire time, weren’t you?”
Chan feigns offense, clutching at his chest. “What? Of course not!” He shakes his head, and you let out a chuckle. “I was totally paying attention. Blue dress, pink flowers. I got it all memorized, don’t worry.”
“So you noticed how she was shamelessly ogling you the entire time, right?”
Absentmindedly, Chan cocks his head to the side, furrowing his brows in confusion. You narrow your eyes at him, and his expression immediately shifts into a grin.
“Ah, that. Yeah, I noticed,” he shrugs. “It was your choice to have me as your man of honor.”
You bump your shoulders together, chuckling. “I guess I should’ve known. Since you’re not my fiancé, you’ll have to endure a lot of women flirting with you.”
As your words hit him, Chan clenches his jaw, suppressing the foolish pain that wells up in his chest. He is not your fiancé; he is well aware of that, but he can’t help the sharp twinge of hurt that washes over him whenever you remind him of that fact.
He silently drives you to the gym that he and Changbin opened two years ago. It was a last-ditch effort to create something that was their own rather than succumbing to a soulless office job. Starting out in a small rundown house on a sketchy street, with barely any money for proper equipment, they could never have predicted how perfectly everything would work out.
As Chan parks in front of the building, you beam while taking the notes from the florist out of your bag, eager to share them with Changbin. You two scour the gym from top to bottom, but he’s nowhere to be found. Upon asking their receptionist, they’re informed that Changbin had left a couple of hours earlier, not giving further explanations. Chan hates the familiar sight of your smile dropping, your excitement ebbing away as you carefully tuck away your notes into your bag.
Changbin has become unusually distant lately — not only toward you but everything in general. He rarely sets foot in the gym nowadays, only popping in to ensure everything is in order before hurriedly rushing off to who knows where. Chan hopes it’s only the pre-wedding nerves getting to him, and not something that will leave you shattered and heartbroken on what is supposed to be the happiest day of your life.
But that’s all he can do — cling to that hope.
Because, deep down, Chan’s mind is filled with worries that run deeper than he will ever let on. Changbin has always been an absurdly impulsive person. The fear that his friend might be regretting his decision to propose is always lingering in the back of his mind, like a persistent echo, tormenting him and gradually eroding his heart.
He doesn’t know if he can bear to see you hurt.
He certainly doesn’t want to think about what he would do if Changbin ever dared to break your heart.
Chan hates the way you easily brush off your disappointment even more, turning to flash a bright smile at him as soon as the notes are out of your sight.
“I’ll just see him at home later tonight anyway,” you simply say. “There’s no rush.”
Over the past months, Chan has seen you dismiss your own feelings regarding your fiancé countless times, so much so that he can’t even count them on one hand. From Changbin’s constant broken promises to his complete indifference toward anything related to his own wedding, the way it upsets you is evident. Still, your dismissal of it all makes him hesitant to even mention it.
Helplessly, he can’t do anything but watch, just as he has been doing for the past six years.
A week later, the sound of the doorbell jolts Chan awake at 2 a.m.
Right after getting home from the gym, he collapsed onto the couch and dozed off before he realized. All the work he had to tackle alone left him drained. It was yet another day when Changbin vanished in the late afternoon without so much as an excuse.
Chan rushes toward the door, expecting an emergency, only to find you standing alone in the dimly lit hallway. His initial reaction was confusion; you had a spare key, after all. But as the light from his apartment hits your face, red-rimmed, teary eyes meet his own, and Chan instinctively wraps his arms around you.
You two remain in a silent embrace for a while, with Chan selfishly reveling in the feeling of your body pressed against his. Despite your vulnerable state, he can’t help but run a hand down your back, savoring your warmth and intoxicating scent that surrounds him.
You used to hold each other frequently when you were young, thinking nothing of it and simply seeking comfort in each other’s arms. But as you entered your late teens, the tension between you became almost palpable. You no longer sought his arms solely for comfort, and that was obvious to Chan. It was obvious because he was the same. Innocent hugs evolved into wandering hands and limbs tangling in ways that were anything but platonic.
At that time, he almost thought he had stood a chance.
Until graduation day, when you two hid away inside an empty classroom, with you sat on a desk and Chan slotted between your thighs, holding you against his chest as you cried. You were always terrified of change, and school ending was an unavoidable one that had been looming over your head for a while until it snapped.
That day, you almost kissed him, your lips mere inches from his as he gripped your waist nervously, his eyes foolishly fluttering closed in anticipation.
But you pulled away, pushing him back with a whispered apology.
After that day, that habit Chan loved so much slowly faded away.
Chan hates how he has every curve of your body memorized, but rarely has the privilege of feeling you this close to him anymore.
You pull away abruptly, much like you did when you were eighteen, clearing your throat and entering his apartment without uttering a word.
Closing the door behind him, he joins you on the couch, where you sit nervously, bouncing your leg.
“What happened?” He asks, although deep down, he already knows the answer. Your only answer is a half-hearted shrug, so Chan hesitantly continues, “Is this about the wedding?”
He doesn’t miss the way your eyes well up, but you swiftly blink away any tears that threaten to spill over. Once again, Chan takes your dismissal of your own emotions as a sign for him to keep quiet.
Except this time, you don’t.
“Changbin asked to postpone the wedding,” you simply tell him.
A surge of anger washes over Chan like a tidal wave, pushing him to walk out of his apartment right now just to punch his friend in the jaw. You’re sad — Changbin made you sad. No matter how hard Chan tries or how much he sacrifices, moments like these always serve as a sour reminder that your happiness isn’t solely dependent on him.
He despises these moments.
“I feel like he’s so different. Even before proposing,” you murmur, lowering your head and focusing on your nails, nervously picking at your chipped nail polish. “We hardly ever go on dates and he never makes jokes or does silly shit to make me laugh anymore. I know it’s stupid and even a bit selfish, but I miss those things.”
You let out a heavy sigh and slowly looked up to meet Chan’s gaze. He silently wishes he could absorb all the hurt you feel.
“That’s the man that made me want to stay for six years, and he’s just… gone.”
Chan nervously gnaws on his bottom lip, as if that will consume the words in his throat before they slip out. But these words have been lingering on the tip of his tongue for over five months. Ever since you gathered your little friend group in your living room on a rainy Sunday evening, beaming as you and Changbin announced your engagement.
Tonight, these unspoken words finally escape his lips.
“Why did you accept the proposal, then?” He asks softly.
You let out a bitter scoff and sink lower into his couch.
“Guess I thought that man would magically come back the moment I said yes. But he didn’t,” you shake your head. “So I ignored it, assured myself he would come back once I said ‘I do’. Now, I’m not even sure…” You trail off, pursing your lips as the sentence dissipates into the air.
He remembers the early years of your relationship with Changbin. You would call Chan just to swoon over his charming personality and jokingly scold him for keeping your boyfriend at the gym until late at night. He recalls how you used to melt at his sweet gestures, like bringing you a cup of coffee after your shift or carrying you up to your apartment when you dozed off in the car. A few months ago, he noticed your avoidance whenever Changbin was brought up, and your usual long-winded stories about him were now replaced with short answers.
But he remained quiet, like he’d always done.
A few minutes pass before you speak again, and your words strike him like an unexpected left hook, knocking the air out of his lungs.
“I thought about ending things a lot,” you confess, “When I noticed this change wasn’t wavering, I was ready to leave.”
“But you didn’t,” Chan counters.
Your lips curl into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you slowly nod. “But I didn’t,” you simply say. “I was afraid of what that would do to our friend group. It’s stupid, right?” You rhetorically ask.
When your gazes meet, your eyes are devoid of any emotion, a stark contrast to the usual spark he’s always loved. It’s as if you’ve abandoned any hope you had left inside of you, and his heart sinks.
“I didn’t want things to change because of me.”
Chan sighs. “You shouldn’t sacrifice your own happiness for the sake of others,” he tells you, and the irony isn’t lost on him. He inwardly grimaces, because isn’t that exactly what he has been doing for most of his life?
But it’s different, he rationalizes. It’s different because it’s you.
“You know me, Chan,” you huff out, wrapping your arms around yourself as frustration slowly consumes you. “I hate making people sad, hate knowing things are worse because of me.”
That’s just another of the many things Chan hates — how fucking similar you and he are.
“That’s why everybody says you shouldn’t date your friends, huh?” You let out a bitter scoff. “It never works out. Just fucks everything up.”
Chan bites down on his bottom lip so hard he swears he tastes blood on his tongue.
“That’s not always the case,” he’s quick to add. “Remember when Jun and Miyeon dated? They broke up and things were awkward for a while but—”
“They were together for a few months, Chan, not six years,” you interrupt him with a scowl. “If Changbin and I had broken up, our little group would’ve been just as affected as us. People would pick sides, try to place the blame on someone, and things would inevitably change.”
“Things are bound to change at some point,” he reasons. “We’re not in college anymore.”
Chan is certain there’s something more stopping you from ending your relationship, but he’s afraid you’re also unsure of that reason.
“I love Changbin,” you suddenly say, turning your body to face Chan. “This is stupid, I’m sorry I came here in the first place. He’s just stressed, he’s gonna come back one day—”
“Stop talking like that,” Chan cuts you off, voice louder than he intended. You slowly tilt your head to the side, eyeing him with confusion. “Stop talking like Changbin isn’t here, like he’s distant because he has no choice. He hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s still here, and he’s still distant.”
You divert your eyes, focusing on a spot behind Chan, making him wonder if he crossed a line. When the seconds tick by and you remain silent, he braces himself to watch you leave.
Instead, you whisper, “I know.”
“I would never treat you like this,” he absentmindedly says, his own eyes wandering aimlessly around his living room, looking anywhere but at you. If he tries hard enough, he can almost pretend that he isn’t saying these words to you, that he isn’t essentially confessing his repressed feelings to his best friend, who is already engaged. “Would never propose to you and have you plan the fucking wedding only to ask you to postpone it,” he lets out a scoff, his face contorting with disdain. “Fuck off. Postpone it? Changbin’s a coward.”
“I feel so alone,” you admit, seemingly ignoring his unprompted soliloquy. “You know I hate feeling alone. If I were to end things with Changbin now, after all these years, I know this loneliness would kill me.”
And you’re right; Chan knows better than anyone how much you hate feeling alone. Whenever your parents had to leave for business trips or vacations, you would seek refuge at his house to avoid being alone. When your roommate kicked you out of your dorm during university, you begged him to sleep with you in the study area so you wouldn’t be alone in the dark.
The thought of you spending your days alone in your apartment and sleeping by yourself at night makes Chan feel as if his heart is being trampled on.
“You’re not alone. I’m here,” he assures you, his eyes finally lifting to meet your gaze. “I’ve been here since we were kids, and I’m not going anywhere.”
A giggle suddenly escapes from your lips, and your hand rests on his arm. Your gaze shifts to where your fingers delicately trace patterns on the sleeve of his shirt.
“Remember when we were thirteen? We promised to get married if we were still alone when we were adults.”
Chan nods slowly, and an uneasy feeling washes over him. It’s been years since you’ve been this physically close to him, toying with the fabric of his shirt and saying words that foolishly make him think you might be flirting with him. Why must you bring this up now? Now, when you’re certainly not alone, but very much engaged to one of your mutual friends.
“I feel like every childhood friend makes that silly promise,” he tries to deflect, a forced chuckle leaving his lips. Nevertheless, the small smile on your lips lingers as you dismissively shrug at his words.
“It wasn’t silly to me,” you argue. “I meant it. Especially when I realized you were the only one who always stayed, even when everyone else seemed to leave me.”
He only now realizes how you’ve inched even closer to him, your foot softly brushing along his leg and your fingertips now delicately gliding along his arms, causing goosebumps to ripple across his skin. The small voice of reason inside his already clouded mind desperately urges him to back away, but his body refuses to move.
And then you gently intertwine your fingers with his and finally meet his eyes. Chan instinctively closes the small distance between you, his shoulder brushing against yours as you shift on the couch to throw your legs over his lap like you used to do when you were kids — except now, the gesture is anything but innocent, the air almost suffocating Chan with a looming sense of anticipation.
“Y’know, my mom was so happy when I told her I was dating Changbin,” you huff out a laugh at the memory, and Chan’s lips twitch into a small scowl. Although you speak as though this is news to him, he’s fully aware of what you’re referring to. He was sitting in your bedroom with you the day you told your mom. He knows what you’re alluding to, and he knows it’s wrong, but he finds himself simply nodding along to your words. “She was laughing about how scared she was that I would pick you. She was so sure we would end up together, and she hated it.”
It was never a secret how much your parents disliked Chan, although he never understood their reasons. Your mom always treated him with just enough feigned kindness that it wasn’t a glaring disdain, but you were quick to tell him all the things they would whisper behind his back.
Chan gently brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, his fingertips then gliding along your face, tracing a path from the curve of your ear to your cheek. His eyes carefully follow his movements, and you suck in a breath, leaning into the touch.
“I also kind of hoped for that,” he mutters, barely audible.
“I’m so lonely, Chan,” you whisper back, and he feels every corner of his heart shatter into a million little pieces. The way your eyes glisten with unshed tears in the dim lighting of his living room finally has his resolve crumbling.
“You’re not alone,” he reiterates. “I’m here.”
Before he can stop himself, Chan closes the small distance between you and crashes his lips to yours. Just as guilt begins to course through his veins, you tug at his shirt, pulling him even closer until you ultimately climb onto his lap. Chan’s lips delicately brush against yours at first, but the kiss soon grows feverish. His hunger for you has been building inside of him for an eternity, and now that he’s finally tasted you, the all-consuming desire to have you overrides any remaining rationality in his mind.
His tongue glides along the seam of your lips before slipping into your mouth, and he all but growls at the feeling. Your fingers tighten their grip on his shirt, digging into the fabric while you let out the sweetest sound Chan has ever heard.
You slowly grind in his lap, and his hands grip your hips tightly, his cock twitching even at the soft movement. A surge of clarity washes over him, and he wonders how something this wrong can feel so good. Wonders why Changbin was lucky enough to have you like this whenever he wanted, while he was left to pine and yearn for years.
“What are we doing?” He asks between kisses, and you let out a shuddering sigh, shaking your head.
You whisper, “I don’t know. Just want you.”
A small part of Chan wants to push you away, knowing you’re simply seeking solace in him, desperately searching in him for what you no longer have with Changbin. But a bigger part of him has been yearning to have you for far too long to refuse your request.
He drowns out every faint whisper of reason in his head and slots his lips over yours once more, your soft moans traveling straight to his cock. Slipping your hands underneath his shirt, your palms raise toward his chest, nails lightly grazing his skin before trailing down the tense muscles of his abdomen. Chan whines when your fingertips brush against his clothed cock, already achingly hard in the confines of his pants. It was almost pitiful how effortlessly you made him desperate, his thoughts consumed with only you.
You break the kiss to pull down the straps of your dress, unhurriedly, eyeing him with a grin while he watches the thin fabric pool around your thighs.
“Y’know I always wondered what it’d be like,” you breathe out, and Chan’s lips fall open as you gently palm him through his sweatpants. “Always thought about what it’d feel like to have you fuck me.”
“Fuck,” he rasps out, cock swelling further in your hands when you squeeze his length. “Don’t say shit like that.”
You simply giggle, and Chan lets out a low groan, grinding his hips into your hand, desperately seeking more friction. He doesn’t want to think about the weight of that statement — not when your fingertips brush against his lower stomach, teasingly toying with the waistband of his sweatpants before finally pushing it down, gripping his cock in your hand. Chan hisses, his hold on your hips tightening while you glide your hand along his length, finding a slow, tantalizing rhythm as you begin to stroke him.
He feels as if his hands are tied by silent guilt, as if touching you any more will somehow make everything too real. But you press your lips to his like it’s second nature, swirling your tongue in his mouth just as your thumb swipes across his slit, gathering a drop of precum before smearing it down his shaft. It’s too much, and Chan groans into the kiss, finally allowing himself to touch you.
Carefully, his hands travel from your hips up to your stomach, caressing the soft skin. The way you feel underneath his fingertips has him drunk with lust, like a flood of long-awaited desire and longing finally being released.
“Touch me,” you whisper, words almost muffled by his lips. “Please.”
And Chan’s never been able to deny you.
His fingers skim over your breasts, trembling hands squeezing through the delicate lace of your bra. Your body eagerly responds to his touch, your nipples pebbling beneath his hands and a soft sigh falling from your lips. It feels like heaven to know that he’s the one coaxing these sounds out of you, and it’s enough to snuff out any trace of guilt Chan had remaining inside of him. As he pinches your nipples, rolling them gently between his fingertips, a surge of pleasure shoots through your body, making you jerk on his lap, your grip on his cock tightening.
Chan grins. “I thought about it too,” he admits, words softly whispered as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours. “Thought about fucking you so much it almost drove me insane.”
These confessions are only half-surprising if Chan were completely honest with himself. He knew exactly where his mind wandered whenever you two got tangled up in his bed when you were teens, and he convinced himself you were the same. At that time, it was merely an attempt to alleviate the guilt he felt for having those thoughts about you.
But this confirmation was all he needed to truly surrender to his selfish hunger.
His hand slowly moves down your stomach, edging closer and closer to your panties. Your eyes remain locked on his, your heavy breathing brushing against his lips when his fingers tentatively slip beneath the soft fabric.
“Can I?” He whispers, and you nod, stroking him almost feverishly as your eyes become completely lust-clouded.
Chan’s fingers slide between your slick folds, a guttural moan reverberating through his chest, his cock twitching under your fingers.
“Holy shit, you’re soaking wet,” he groaned, his thumb softly pressing down on your clit, causing you to grind your hips into his hand.
“Chan,” you breathe out.
Your once deliberate strokes fizzled out into languid touches, but Chan couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when you were this fucking wet, all because of him.
“Tell me what you want,” he hums, pressing a small kiss to your open lips. He grins when your only response is a whine, rolling your hips forward once more. “Tell me.”
“Want you, Chan,” you choke out, “Want anything you wanna give me.”
Chan bites back a growl, slowly sliding a finger inside of you, your walls greedily clenching around it while your hips begin rocking in his lap, his thumb circling your clit. He can feel your arousal coating his finger, curling the digit before pulling away only to push back in again, two fingers now gently pumping in and out of you.
Pressing his lips to your throat, Chan grapples with the overwhelming need to mark you, bite and suck on your sensitive skin until it bloomed in hues of red and purple when you moaned so sweetly for him. The thought of Changbin coming home only to find you claimed by him had Chan groaning against the pulse of your neck, his cock throbbing in your hand just as your palm languidly circles the swollen head.
“Wanna make love to you,” he murmurs against your skin, leaving soft kisses up your throat until his lips are pressing against yours. Love — as if this was anything like love. “I need to,” he all but begs, and you hastily nod, tugging his shirt over his head and crashing your lips together.
Chan pushes your body down onto the couch, his heavy-lidded eyes dark like the shadows that covered his living room as he stares down at you. He’s wanted this for so long, dreaming and fantasizing about it to the point of pitifulness. Yet now, he hesitates. It’s almost as if everything else you have done tonight could be forgotten — maybe even forgiven — but the moment the images from his daydreams stumbled out into the real world, everything would truly be ruined.
“Chan,” your voice brings him back to the moment, his gaze softening at the way you looked up at him. “Don’t overthink this.”
He bends his face to yours, huffing out a breath. “It’s kinda hard not to.”
“Worry about tomorrow when tomorrow comes,” you whisper, and Chan smiles. He slides a hand through your hair, brushing a stray piece from your eyes.
His focus is quickly brought back to the scorching heat of his cock resting against your lower stomach, precum dripping from the tip and gathering on your skin. Gently brushing against your lower lip with the pad of his thumb, he fits himself between your open thighs, and you press a chaste kiss to his fingertip.
Chan effortlessly lifts you, blunt nails sinking into the soft skin of your ass as he watches you slide your panties down your thighs before he aligns your hips with his. He glides his cock along your folds, teasing your clit with each movement. The heat from your arousal coating him seems to sear into his skin, and he immerses himself in his desire even deeper. He carefully studies your features when you squeeze his shoulders, eyes tracing a slow path down your face, and Chan is certain he wouldn’t mind waging a war against every inconvenient obstacle that kept him from seeing that glint of bliss on your eyes every day.
His tip grazes your entrance as he pulls back, lips tracing along your skin before slowly pushing into you. As much as Chan wants to take his time, savor the experience and explore every inch of your body until it becomes seared into his memory, he knows he won’t be able to do that tonight. Years of yearning and longing finally came pouring out, consuming him with the want to selfishly chase this long-desired feeling.
When his hips meet yours, he takes your hand in his, guiding it to press on your lower abdomen. Your lips fall open slightly, the feeling of his cock pressing against your belly causing your eyes to flutter shut, and Chan’s arousal becomes almost unbearable. It was almost like a false testament, fooling him into believing you were finally one, even though it was nothing but a pretty lie.
“We’re a perfect fit. Shit,” Chan hisses, your inner muscles clenching around him at his words.
His thumb pressed firmly against your throbbing clit as he began rolling his hips, falling into a gentle and steady tempo. Your legs wrap around his body, hips rolling up and silently urging him to move faster, matching the rhythm of his unspoken longing.
“Chan, please,” your voice chokes out. You intertwine your fingers together, wrapping an arm around his shoulder, eyes looking at him almost pleadingly. “Need you to fuck me.”
He snaps at your soft plea, pulling back and thrusting into you harshly, barely retreating from your wetness before plunging back in. Your nails dig into his skin, scoring lines down his chest while your other hand squeezes his. Chan winces at the sting but revels in the fact that you’re marking him — something he could only ever dream of doing to you.
He reluctantly lets go of your hand to firmly grasp your ass, forcefully lifting your hips to draw you even closer to him, fingernails etching crescent moons into your soft skin in an almost petulant attempt at claiming you as his. At least for tonight. Chan’s thumb rubs circles around your clit, bringing you closer to the edge of your orgasm. His grip on your skin tightens, pulling your body toward him almost desperately. His thrusts soon grow sloppy, his once deliberate rhythm long forgotten as his control quickly ebbs away.
“Got no idea what you do to me,” Chan grunts, pressing his forehead to yours. “If you were mine— fuck,” He hisses when you clench around him at his words — at the idea of being his. “I’d be so good to you. Fuck you like this every night.”
You attempt to call out his name, but the sound dies at your throat with a whine. Looking for purchase among his forceful thrusts, your hands travel up his chest and clutch at his shoulders with a tight grip.
“Then fuck me like I’m yours,” you choke out, hooking your ankles behind him to keep him as close to you as possible. Chan’s only response is a low, guttural growl, which is soon swallowed by your sighs as he crashes his lips into yours.
You arch your back, breaking the kiss with a cry, muscles tightening while Chan continues to plunge into you at a merciless rhythm. Your cunt throbs around his length, the relentless pressure of his finger on your clit sending shivers of euphoria through your entire body, drawing out your climax. Chan feels lightheaded, the beautiful sight of your orgasm enough to drive him to the edge.
As his cock twitches inside of you, he reluctantly leans back, rising to his knees and wrapping his fingers around his length, stroking himself over your body while you watch him with half-lidded eyes. A low sound rumbles within Chan’s chest as his hips jerk against his fist. His release spills from his cock and paints your stomach with milky streaks of his cum, finally marking you as his.
At least for tonight.
Even though it’s nothing but a pretty lie.
As you wake up, the unfamiliar sensation of sunlight streaming through the window hits your tired eyes. Panic washes over you for a beat as you take in the feeling of an unfamiliar bed, but a familiar scent soon envelops you, instantly soothing you. Not waking up alone also feels unfamiliar, but it’s a welcomed unfamiliarity. You turn your body towards the person next to you, and you’re greeted by Chan, peacefully asleep with a small smile on his lips. A grin slowly spreads across your face too.
It had been so long since you were this close to him, even longer since you woke up beside him. Sleepovers were common during your childhood, but they naturally stopped as you grew older. You were nineteen the last time you lied next to Chan like this, drunk on cheap beer and cramped next to him on a worn-out couch of some fraternity house. You remember how his chest slowly rising and falling somehow felt like home, and how his soft snores lulled you into sleep.
Your love for Chan has always been greater than you’ve let on.
Your vicious need to please those around you hindered your ability to express how much you loved him. Your parents hated him since you were fifteen. Catching Chan smoking with a group of boys from your school behind the mall cemented their opinion of him. Despite his ‘bad influence’, they reluctantly allowed your friendship to continue, with the condition that you wouldn’t be swayed by his bad ways.
If only they knew what you did last night.
If only they knew how you were the one to incite him, letting your own bad ways tarnish him.
As your eyes flutter closed, memories of the night before flood your mind; Chan’s hands on your body, his hungry kisses, and the way he fucked you until you felt intoxicated. But the feeling of bliss swirling in your chest quickly dissipates, replaced by the weight of guilt, crushing your ribs and knocking the air from your lungs. Your eyes snap open, and you sit up on the bed with a shuddering sigh. Even the feeling of Chan’s clothes clinging to your body makes you feel dirty.
Beside you, Chan groans, your sudden movements having disturbed his sleep.
“What time is it?” He rasps out. The sound of his voice alone nearly makes you flinch. As his fingertips graze your arm, you instinctively withdraw as if his touch scorched your skin. Chan sits up as well. “What’s wrong?”
You almost scoff at his words.
“Nothing,” you lie, throwing the covers off your body. You frantically search his bedroom until your eyes land on your dress draped over a chair.
You take off Chan’s shirt in haste, spitefully throwing the fabric on the floor as though it embodied your every sin. As if removing it from your body would somehow absolve you from what you chose to do last night. Just as you reach to undo the drawstrings of his sweatpants, his touch lingers on your skin again. You can’t help but flinch once more.
“Hey, calm down. Please, talk to me,” Chan’s soft voice only intensifies the anguish in your chest.
“Don’t touch me,” you mumble, tears gathering in your eyes as remorse gathers in your throat until it feels as if you’re suffocating. Chan removes his hands from your arm but remains beside you. “What the fuck did we do? We betrayed his trust, we betrayed…” you trail off, because you can’t even bring yourself to say Changbin’s name out loud. Finally, you turn to face Chan, shaking your head in disbelief. “He’s our friend. He’s my fucking fiancé.”
Chan stays silent. Tears stream out of your eyes, cascading down your cheeks and onto the floor. Your shoulders tremble, and each breath you take cannot fill your lungs enough to ease the weight on your chest. Chan stands in front of you, his tear-filled eyes mirroring his own heartbreak, evident in every corner of his face. He reaches out to you several times, but his hands only clench into fists and drop by his sides every time.
He helplessly watches as your tears fall over something that was a choice. A momentary bliss, a whim that has proven to be unnecessary, even though your feelings for Chan have always gone beyond platonic. How you wish you could go back in time and prioritize your own happiness instead of constantly sacrificing it for the sake of others. But you can’t, and the once beautiful love you had for Chan now only feels tainted.
He watches you silently, unmoving until you finally swallow enough tears to choke out, “Please hold me.”
And Chan does, cold hands wrapping around your trembling body as fresh tears pour out of your eyes, cascade down your cheeks and onto his shirt.
You cry the entire afternoon, guilt becoming a ghost that haunts you as you pad around Chan’s apartment. Yet you can’t bring yourself to leave his side. Soon, his clothes stopped feeling like a vice tightening around your neck and transformed into a soothing embrace.
The only words you exchange are over cold leftover pizza. Chan says it’s best to just pretend the previous night never even happened. You’re quick to tell him you don’t want that.
“It was a mistake,” he quietly told you.
“It was a choice,” you corrected him. “And I’m happy I did it.”
And that’s the worst part of it all; you don’t regret having sex with Chan. You regret the cheating, the pain this would cause Changbin if he knew, and you especially dread the scrutiny you would face if people were to find out. But not even for a second do you feel any regret about Chan.
Before you know it, it’s already dark out. You find yourself staring out the window, pulling at the hem of Chan’s shirt that still hugs your frame.
You don’t want to go back home.
Four messages from Changbin apologizing for not coming home last night greet you every time you unlock your phone.
Changbin: hey baby, sorry
Changbin: there was a huge fight at the bar, seungmin was bloody on the floor before i knew it
Changbin: had to stay and take care of him after i took him home
Changbin: i’m so sorry. i’ll make it up to you. love you
You ignore them every time. You don’t feel bad about it.
“I don’t wanna go back home,” you mumble to yourself. Behind you, Chan hums softly.
It feels like an eternity before he finally breaks the silence.
“Then don’t go.”
So you don’t.
Time slips away from your hands, and suddenly a week has gone by. You stay at Chan’s apartment, working from his computer, eating his food, and wearing his clothes. He makes love to you and you sleep in his bed every night.
You avoid every mirror and close every curtain as if that will shield you from your sins.
For so much time, it felt as if you were crawling through endless days, constantly brushing aside the things that upset you, things you fruitlessly wished you could change. All while forcing a smile that long stopped being sincere. This week, your smile was tightly bound to a warmth in your heart that had been absent for far too long.
Cooped up inside Chan’s apartment like a fugitive from your own mistakes, you were finally happy.
You have always lived a life driven by the desire to please others. From the university you attended to the man you chose to be with; everything was carefully thought out to ensure the happiness of those around you. Was it a wonder you were so soulless?
Is it a wonder you found bliss in doing something so selfish for the first time in your life? Every time Chan touched you, it was like a small light was ignited inside you.
Changbin’s messages sat unread in your phone; the only ones he sent you the entire week.
You chose to return home the day your mother called you to ask about the wedding. Chan drove you in silence while you clutched his hand.
As soon as you step into your apartment, it’s as if all the light Chan brought back into your life the past week is snuffed out. You glance around the dark living room, your eyes then traveling toward your bedroom, only being met by more darkness. Seems your fiancé still hasn’t come back.
Changbin going to that bar was the catalyst for your spiral of mistakes. He’s often gone to bars, and you never thought much of it, until he started prioritizing his time with his friends over time with you. That night, you had asked him to stay in for a change, suggesting you could watch a movie and order too much food like you used to do when you first moved in together. He said he would love that, but that night was really important. Apparently, Jisung needed help chatting up the bartender, and that was crucial in his road to getting over his ex. Apparently, that was more important than spending time with you.
You were arguing before you knew it. Although you did most of the talking, so it felt more like a helpless monologue than a proper fight. Changbin hated fights, and had mastered the art of dismissing things and never addressing them again. He was out the door right after nonchalantly asking you to postpone the wedding.
“I’m not in the right headspace to deal with shit like that now,” he’d said, and you scoffed at how he referred to your wedding.
“Flower arrangements, color schemes, guest lists… I’d rather do anything else but that right now. My friends need me,” Changbin continued after you remained silent, because you knew you would only end up arguing with him again if you were to speak. He spoke as if you didn’t need him.
“Jisung is finally taking the steps to get over that shitty ex of his and you know Chan can’t run the gym without me,” were the last words he muttered before pressing a kiss to your forehead and leaving you alone for yet another night.
The mention of his name was all it took for you to run out the door and into Chan’s apartment.
After dragging yourself toward your bathroom for a quick shower, you berate yourself for feeling disappointed in the feeling of your own pajamas against your skin. After a week of being enveloped in Chan’s scent, the smell of your clothes seems almost foreign.
Even as you lie in bed, it somehow feels even colder now than it did during all the countless nights when you were alone. Just as you had grown used to the empty space beside you, it now feels wrong not to feel the warmth of Chan’s body pressed up against yours.
You shudder at that thought.
It wasn’t just anyone you missed in your bed. It was Chan.
In a way, it had always been him.
As you drift off to sleep, the sudden shifting of the mattress jolts you awake. Changbin is home. You inwardly curse yourself, as you won’t be able to feign sleep after being startled by his presence. He chuckles softly, slipping under the covers and pulling you close, a strong arm tightly wrapping around your waist. The dim light of your bedroom hides your grimace as he pulls your body flush against his, but you can’t help but flinch.
It feels wrong.
Just as much as Chan’s body had felt perfectly aligned with yours, Changbin’s mere presence feels out of place.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, babe,” Changbin apologizes, planting a gentle kiss on your shoulder. You mindlessly nod. “Though I’m glad you’re awake. I missed you.”
His soft kisses soon travel up the column of your throat, and you bite the inside of your cheek. Changbin effortlessly moves your body so you’re lying on your back, a soft smile playing on his lips as he leans in to kiss you.
And it feels wrong.
His tongue swipes against your lower lip, soon pushing against yours, and his taste has you clutching your fists. He slots himself between your thighs like he’s done countless times, and the weight of his body on top of you has your face twisting into a scowl. He slips a hand underneath your shirt, and the feeling of his calloused fingers across your skin has you instinctively pushing him away.
Changbin looks stunned for a beat, but his lips soon curl into a playful grin.
“Not in the mood?” He simply asks, and it makes you want to cry.
Because Changbin has always been the perfect man. He was gentle, never demanding, and always so caring to you. Even after his sudden change, his only flaw was how distant he’s become.
He is completely unaware of how you callously hurt him in the worst way possible, and the weight of that realization erases any urge you had to cry. You don’t deserve that relief.
After pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, Changbin sits up on the bed. You remain motionless, focusing on how the moonlight casts shadows on the ceiling instead of how your heart twists painfully inside your chest. You only break out of this trance once he hums beside you.
“Your mom called,” he tells you, his fingers swiping across his phone screen when you face him. “Forgot to tell you. I had to tell her we chose to postpone the wedding,” he chuckles casually, and you tightly clutch the covers.
Fuck.
“I didn’t wanna tell her yet, but…” you trail off with a shaky sigh. “I guess it’s okay.”
Changbin shrugs dismissively. “Yeah, she told me you avoided the topic when she called you. She was upset, though I don’t get it,” he scoffs. “We’re still getting married, just not now.”
Those words are enough to have your heart shatter completely.
Sadly, the happiness your selfishness brought you that week is nothing compared to the sorrow that envelops you for disappointing your mother.
Chan gave you the space he knew you needed.
Even though you gave him the happiest six days of his entire bleak existence only to leave him alone and wondering, he gave you space.
The way he forgot about everything else during those days with you was almost like a fantasy. Inside the little atmosphere you created, it was just the two of you and the love he had kept hidden for so long. He needed nothing more.
And then you left, and he gave you space.
Until the days turned into weeks, and he watched as two months slipped through his fingers like sand. Even though Changbin hadn’t visited the gym in over three months, Chan’s heart still clung to the hope that he would show up, longing for the chance to ask about you. He also hoped you’d reach out, even if it meant you’d ignore everything that happened in your little world and simply talk about the weather.
Every day, his hopes are shattered into a million little pieces.
He’d take anything over your silence. He would take you as a friend over as a familiar stranger in a heartbeat, would take his heart being broken over not having you at all. He endured that for over a decade, and he would happily ruin himself for you every single day.
And so Chan finds himself knocking at your door, his shirt clinging to his chest after a relentless afternoon of punching the sandbag in his office, futilely hoping to escape thoughts of you. He eventually walked out of the gym, heart pounding in his chest as he sprinted to your apartment as if he was scared you would disappear. Because he was.
As you slowly open the door, he finally stands before you. Your eyes widen as you take in his appearance — his ruddy cheeks, labored breath, and shaky hands that fumble to fix his disheveled hair. But Chan swears you’re the sole culprit for his heart hammering against his ribcage.
“What are you—”
“I want you to pretend it never happened,” he exasperates, “Pretend we never said anything, never did anything, just pretend. We can pretend together, I don’t care. Just don’t cut me out of your life like this.”
“Chan,” you murmur, pursing your lips before continuing. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”
“You said you didn’t wanna pretend that nothing happened between us. You said that,” he argues, trying but ultimately failing his attempt at keeping his voice down.
Chan feels as if his mind is unraveling. Every emotion he kept nestled inside his chest for years had finally spilled out the moment your lips touched his, and trying to bury this love again felt like a cruel punishment.
“Back in my apartment, I told you we should just pretend nothing happened, but you…” his voice dissipates into a sigh, the words dying at his throat, replaced by a lump that swelled in his throat.
He feels pathetic, adverting his gaze simply to blink away the tears that have gathered in his lashes. But when he turns to look at you again, your eyes are already pouring.
“I’m sorry,” you bawl, fingers gripping the doorframe until your knuckles turn white. “Chan, I’m so fucking sorry, but I can’t do this.”
Chan gnaws on his bottom lip, his eyes fixed on you as you turn and walk away, leaving him alone by your door. As he watches your figure disappear into the hallway, he realizes he cannot bear the agony of only helplessly watching you any longer.
“You said you were happy,” he yells out, following after you like a phantom you carelessly disregard. The sound of his voice echoes behind you, ignored as you enter the kitchen and resume drying plates and cutlery. Chan continues, “You started it. You chose to cross that line, chose to stay, chose to keep letting me make love to you every damn night—”
You drop a plate on the counter with a scowl, the delicate porcelain chipping at the edge. “Love?” You scoff bitterly at Chan, shaking your head. “That wasn’t love. That was a mistake.”
“That’s not what you said,” Chan retorts, and your eyes soften. He breathes out a heavy sigh. At this point, he knows he’s gone beyond desperation. He still continues, “Tell me you weren’t happy.”
“Chan…”
“Tell me,” he insists. “Tell me and I’ll gladly pretend with you.”
“I was scared!” You blurt out, “That week with you was the happiest I had been in so long, and it terrified me. But maybe that’s love, huh? Being selfish, putting myself before everyone else and acting like a fucking teenager. That’s surely love,” you scoff, words dripping with sarcasm.
A heavy silence falls between you. Chan is back in that familiar place, watching you engage in a silent battle within yourself, distant eyes almost boring holes into the chipped plate in your hands. Deep inside, he knows you’re right. It is selfish to want you to abandon everything you built for a dormant love you both buried so long ago.
But maybe being selfish is exactly what you both need. Maybe love isn’t selflessness, maybe it’s the complete opposite.
“Maybe that’s the love we deserve,” Chan breaks the deafening silence, carefully stepping closer to you. “After all these years of stupidly sacrificing our own happiness, maybe selfish love is the kind of love we need.”
But you remain silent. Your eyes wander around, almost as if you’re taking in the life that reflects the choices you’ve made. The walls of your hallway, adorned with polaroid pictures telling your story with Changbin, from just friends to the night of your engagement. Your fridge, where colorful magnets hold up little notes from Changbin, filled with sweet nothings and inside jokes. Chan notices the date on the most recent one, realizing it was over seven months ago.
As the minutes tick by, Chan braces himself for your words. He’s ready to be called insane, for you to yell and rightfully reject any notion of continuing your friendship. He knows there’s no going back to the way things were. That possibility died the moment you stepped into his apartment that fateful night.
Instead, you gaze up at him and whisper four words that leave him completely stunned.
“Run away with me.”
And Chan’s never been able to deny you.
Before you two can even make sense of anything, you’re already in your bedroom. Chan packs your bags while you kneel beside your bed, hastily jotting down words on a piece of paper. Your sudden giggle has him biting back a smile that blossoms on his face when you wrap your arms around his neck, bringing him into a deep kiss. He sighs into your lips. Your love was unearthed, dirty and tainted, but still breathing. It was sinful and borderline cataclysmic, but it was yours.
Since you were both ten years old, it has always been yours.
Your letter to Changbin hangs alongside the love notes he’d left for you over the years; selfish words nestled between sincere ones.
Inside his car, Chan’s hand intertwines with yours, and he watches your lips curl into a smile that finally reaches your eyes. It’s the first time he’s seen that expression grace your face in years.
And Chan’s emotions mirrored your own, so he made it his mission to make that happiness everlasting.
Even if it was through a selfish love.
♡ taglist: @bloom-ings, @linocz, @farahia, @mirbokk, @jisunglyricist, @jazziwritesthings, @seungseung-minmin, @yourcvndx, @hynjinnnnnnnie, @vlctorriaa, @redstayrosie, @binniesbabygirl, @pynchkilledme, @chansbabygirlsstuff, @pheonixfire777, @yongbokkiesworld, @kiensecent
#stray kids#bang chan smut#skz smut#stray kids x reader#bang chan x reader#bang chan#bang chan x you#stray kids smut#skz#bangchan smut#bangchan x reader#bangchan x you
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Chills Right to the Marrow Part 10
part 1, prev part
The next day, the Chief is back looking like a man on a mission. Catching Wayne’s eye while he’s on his way in, but interrupted when the Harrington kid steps in his path. Talking to him in hushed whispers, but tense as hell.
The chief sighs, cocking his head to the side and bringing the kid to talk outside. Wayne isn’t the person to eavesdrop, but after yesterday, after the endless questions with no answers, he is desperate for an explanation.
An explanation why his kid is stuck on a hospital bed while Steve is walking around like he has every right to. Like he isn’t part of the reason his boy was halfway to dead for the past week.
What made his boy protect a person that he seemed to hate? A person who’s had everything handed to him, never had to experience real hardships. Stood on the sidelines while his boy was mocked and taunted. Ostracized for being who he was. Molded into this villain.
Kings look down on villains, seeing them as threats to their status. Their reputation. And the Harrington’s are part of the rulers of this town. Funding the high school extracurriculars, the hospital, the candidates on the ballots. Money that, in the grand scheme of reality, Wayne couldn’t give a shit where it goes.
Until it comes between him, his kid, and their lives. Eddie could’ve died, and for what? So the rich can keep being that? So they can keep coming out on top.
Wayne understands why Eddie would throw himself into danger for Dustin. Hell, he probably would have done the same thing. But Steve Harrington. Wayne’s not so sure that’s the path he would choose.
Taking the last cigarette from the pack, Wayne positions himself near the corner of the hospital. Hearing the Chief and Harrington talking right around the bend. Taking a long drag, he tilts his ear up to listen.
Living in a trailer park made everyone a secret gossip. Wayne just never thought he was going to do it like this.
“What about Owens?” Steve’s not so hushed voice carries around the corner. “He seems to be the one to fix all your problems.”
Wayne can hear the annoyance in the Chief’s voice. “Either still in hiding or avoiding my calls. I’ve had to go through his partner for all of this.”
“We need to fix this, Hop, and fast. Eddie can’t be pinned for this shit.”
“I know.” The Chief takes a deep breath. “But the town needs a fall guy. I can’t take the cuffs off just yet.”
Steve hisses a breath. “He’s been getting better. Doesn’t have the ventilator anymore, could wake up any day now. He doesn’t deserve to wake up thinking the town still hates him for something he was a victim of.”
“Kid, I know but I can’t-.”
Steve cuts him off. “I saw how effected his was by all this, Hop. I saw how upset he was thinking the town thought he could do that to her. To all of them. All of them willing to pick up their pitchforks to hunt the freak. He was terrified.”
Wayne feels the anger start to simmer up again. Hearing this kid put words in his boy’s mouth. Saying that he knows everything.
Maybe he does. Maybe Wayne’s blowing this all out of proportion. But he can’t help it. He’s tired, his hope is running dry. One wrong move and he’ll snap. Harrington’s just an easy target.
“I hear you,” the Chief’s voice raises. “But I really can’t-.”
Steve cuts his off again. “Yes, you can and that is the whole problem.”
“No, I can’t.” The hushed screams turn to louder reprimands. “Until the Feds get what they want, I’m powerless here.”
“But if it was El, that would be a completely different story, wouldn’t it?”
Even though Wayne can’t see them, the silence is so thick not even the sharpest blade could cut through it. Steve pushed the wrong button.
“Don’t go there, Steve.” The quiet anger in the Chief’s voice is enough to make anyone step down.
Steve doesn’t. “I am going there.” Steve’s voice has almost reached a yell. Full of anger of his own. “You do everything when it’s affecting you, and the people you care about. But as soon as it’s someone else that might get the fall, you step back and say you can’t do a damn thing.”
“I can’t do a damn thing,” the Chief booms.
“Yes. You. Can,” Steve yells right back. “If it were El, or Joyce, or Will, hell even Mike there strapped to that table right now, the cuffs would have been off the second you came back. No matter what. You would have taken the fall of that. You would have taken the Fed’s anger about it. You would have fucking done something about it. Why not now?”
Before the Chief can even answer the question, Steve is walking away with a huff. Not even noticing Wayne as he walks right back to the parking lot and slams the door of his fancy car. Driving away faster than he should.
Wayne might be directing the anger that sits in his chest at the wrong person.
But all of that doesn't seem to matter anymore. Almost immediately as his sits back in the hospital room, ready for nothing to happen. Eddie opens his eyes.
tag list, let me know if you want to be added or removed: @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,
@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,
@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,
@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,
@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,
@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,
@devondepresso, @swimmingbirdrunningrock, @cheertain, @anti-ozzie, @autumncrocusandladybug,
@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,
@morgannotlefay, @a-little-unsteddie, @dolphincliffs, @maskofmirrors, @me-and-my-sloth,
#chills right to the marrow fic#stranger things#stranger things au#wayne munson#wayne pov#steve harrington#jim hopper#pre steddie#everyone lives/nobody dies
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Also also, I love that Stede obviously feels a little sidelined when Zheng and Ed are praising each other after the big fight, and Ed immediately praises him and touches him. Like, it's not just praise, it's Ed taking the time to give him physical reassurance.
Ed's not gonna let Stede feel left out ever again.
(Also, I think Ed may have finally fully understood that Stede’s big issue is being excluded and when he’s included/praised, he keeps chasing that approval. Ed has seen him be excluded at the French party and by Jack, and saw his reaction when his crew call him a real pirate and when he starts getting praised by other pirates. So while it’s a small thing here, Ed making the effort to include him and praise him is also giving Stede the acceptance he needs from the RIGHT PEOPLE.)
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261 jjk those no one is born blessed everyone is born cursed and will die cursed that’s the whole storyline baby girls I hate to say it.
A story about powerful men using children soldiers to fight a war they don’t fully understand. Children losing their humanity, dying a bit more everyday until their demise. Not even a cog in a machine just a mere tool, used and easily disregarded once they no longer serve a purpose. Characters that not only didn’t get a chance to live but also don’t even get to die.
Gojo a character created to suffer a character born with the sin of changing the world for the worst. A character forced to sacrifice everything to never be given an ounce of humanity. A character that lived purely out of guilt for the suffering his existence caused and did everything in his power to make the world a better place for the next generation.
Geto realising someone has to be the villain, someone who did everything right, everything they were told to do and achieved nothing. I mean he saw Riko choose herself and wish to live get shot right in front of him. A character who sacrificed everything and it still wasn’t enough. Gojo only fully comprehending this after his demise. The anger, the guilt, the unimaginable amount of suffering.
Megumi who never got the chance to reach his potential, who just wanted to keep the ones he loved safe. But instead had to watch his potential be used to destroy everything he held close to him.
Yuta a teenager having to mourn his teacher and himself at the same time. A character that knew he was becoming a monster and wanted to die, forced to live and sacrifice his humanity to be a monster. To be a weapon.
Yuji born to protect forced to be protected. Born to sacrifice himself for others forced to watch others sacrifice themselves. He’s not sidelined he’s simply not being allowed to become the monster he was born to be.
Nobara desperate for freedom and connection flying to close to the sun.
Maki desperately trying to make something of her self leaving her toxic family behind sacrificing her relationship with her sister. Then having to watch her sister sacrifice herself for maki to reach her potential.
Nanami who could never escape his guilt and couldn’t find a purpose away from his trauma. Accepting the responsibility to protect the next generation from suffering his friends fate ultimately accepting that fate for himself.
Not a single happy character huh. The red string of fate is suffocating. Pureeee evil gege. What have you been through?
#jjk#jujutsu kaisen#gojo satoru#yuji itadori#nakamoto yuta#megumi fushiguro#geto suguru#jjk 261#nobara kugisaki#maki zenin#nanami kento
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Tomura: *growls*
As I noticed many people liked Tomura, so here are some more sketches with him.
Just a cute scene with baby Tomura
Tomura: This is so cool!
Tomura is just a radiantly happy baby…..
Painter: *crying on the sidelines*
#myheroacademia#bokunoheroacademia#mha#bnha#fanart#art#drawing#digitalart#tomura shigaraki#mha423#shigaraki tomura#AFO#kurogiri
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JJK is a very weird fandom to be in. I knew from the start that the story wasn't that good and was always very confused about how fans talked about it. I remember back in season 1 my biggest gripe was just how fast paced it is, it's trend I've been noticing with recent other action stories, there's just no breathing room no chapter to even just digest or contemplate what happened. I think the only the story, and by extension the readers, get to digest what's happening is in the Hidden Inventory arc and JJK0. Every other episode feels like an info dump session. Shibuya was actually very painful for me to get through because of that. Post-Shibuya is similar because so many new characters got introduced meaning you need to also spend so much time introducing their abilities.
I saw similar complaints to mine and the response, whether seriously or jokingly was, "well it's literally called Sorcery Fight".
Even during Gojo vs Sukuna arc people talked about it as if it's a clash of ideologies, a manga with a deep message but it's always been nothing but fight after fight after fight after fight.
JJK popularity is so fascinating why is it this popular it's very obviously not a really written manga. I personally got into it because of Gojo and the intrigued about the character. I didn't expect him to be a side character but he's definitely not treated that way if anything Yuji gets sidelined despite being the main character.
With how Gojo is back it's not really a surprise but again what is a surprise is people going on about narrative, themes, and ideology. Like I said I don't feel like this is a particularly...deep manga but others do. Half the time I'm unsure if Gege even cares about and isn't just writing spectacle after spectacle i.e just what seems cool.
But I guess it's nice to see Gojo and Yuta reacting to Shoko's weird attitude because without that I seriously would have that her being like "hell yeah lets use Gojo's body as a puppet" was a normal thing in the JJK world. Glad it's actually very morbid. At the same time it makes her character a bit ...confusing. Is she hiding her feelings really well or is just that badly written?
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hey! This might sound like a weird request but would you be willing to write a fic with either Kurt Wagner/reader or Remy LeBeau/reader with hurt/comfort where the reader has bad period cramps? I’ve been struggling with them recently. The weird part is that I’m transmasculine and I was wondering if you could write it with a gender neutral reader or a similarly transmasculine reader?
thanks for considering, and have a great day :)
Hey anon! I'd love to write this for you! I also struggle with terrible cramps and totally relate (╯▽╰ )
Pairing: Remy LeBeau x gn!Reader
Tags: comfort and fluff
Cramps and Comfort
The groan escaped your lips before you could stifle it. A dull ache had settled low in your abdomen, a familiar and unwelcome monthly visitor. You shuffled to the bathroom, wincing as every step sent a jolt of pain through you. Sweat beaded on your forehead despite the air conditioning.
Remy, ever perceptive, materialized in the doorway, leaning against the frame with a concerned frown. "Rough morning, cher?"
You managed a weak smile. "Just cramps. Nothing a little ibuprofen and Netflix can't handle."
He wasn't convinced. He pushed himself off the doorframe and padded across the room, his bare feet silent on the cool tile. "Move over," he said gently, gesturing to the spot beside you on the counter.
You hesitated, not wanting to burden him. But the pain was a relentless wave, threatening to pull you under. With a sigh, you scooted over, surprised by the warmth that radiated from his body as he settled close.
Remy didn't waste time. He dug around in the cabinet under the sink, emerging with a heating pad and a bottle of pain medication. While the pills dissolved on your tongue, he expertly positioned the heating pad on your lower abdomen. The gentle warmth was a balm, a soothing counterpoint to the internal storm.
Silence filled the room, a comfortable companionship that spoke volumes. Remy didn't need to bombard you with questions or empty platitudes. He simply held your hand, his thumb brushing comforting circles against your skin.
The pain didn't vanish completely, but it dulled to a manageable throb. You leaned your head against his shoulder, a wave of gratitude washing over you. Having Remy by your side, his silent understanding, was the best medicine of all.
After a while, he spoke softly. "You know, cher, superheroes aren't immune to cramps. Even the X-Men get sidelined sometimes." A hint of amusement flickered in his voice.
You cracked a smile. "Maybe Professor Xavier has some secret mutant cure I don't know about."
He chuckled, the sound rich and warm. "Maybe. But for now, we have Netflix and overpriced drugstore remedies."
The day stretched before you, a blur of reruns and takeout. But with Remy by your side, dispensing gentle care and witty banter, it wasn't so bad. In fact, it was kind of perfect, a testament to the quiet strength that bloomed in the space between shared vulnerability and unwavering support.
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I have the silliest theory for pt.2 of Dark Cacaos showdown with Mystic Flour. (I'm gonna just call Dark Choco 'Choco' and Dark Cacao 'Cacao')
Cacao is quite literally on the brink of following the rest of his kingdom into flour. Before Choco appears through the flour, reaching out a hand and picking up Cacao's sword. Cacao is stunned silent and is pulled to his feet by Choco, and gets his sword put in his hands.
Choco is basically talking some sense into Cacao (in turn, stopping Mystic Flours hold on Cacao's soul jam) before Cloud Haetae appears, angry that "How dare someone selfishly stop Mystic Flour from reclaiming her soul jams second half!" and Choco argues back with that it's rightfully Cacao's soul jam, Mystic Flour is killing Cacao's kingdom, and that Cacao is here in the first place to protect and aid his kingdom.
Choco, while using only a normal sword, fights off Cloud Haetae while Cacao is still coming to terms with all that's just recently happened. later, while Choco and Cacao are trudging through the flour storm, Choco and Cacao end up fighting the Dumpling Kings(those four Dumpling guys from back in chapter one), having a similar argument that Choco had with Cloud Haetae.
Crunchy Chip, Caramel Arrow, and the rest of the watchers wake up in a place made of flour, and meet Peach Tree Spirit (that pink cookie next to Mystic Flour on the title screen) and learn some more about Mystic Flour from a different perspective, learning that many of Mystic Flour's followers died when outsiders came in to find treasure, and how it greatly affected Mystic Flour, the isolation and grief that came with the years after making her turn to apathy and futility, almost forgetting why she cared about life in the first place.
Peach Tree Spirit tells them that they're in a purgatory for those who chose to become flour, like she has been for many, many years, but she hasn't moved on to becoming fully flour, she doesn't want to leave Mystic Flour alone when she gets there.
Choco and Cacao go forward deeper into the temple, getting out of the flour storm, and finding Mystic Flour in the deepest part of the temple, infuriated that Cacao and this new person (she doesn't know Choco is his son, she didn't even know how Choco got there) survived. Mystic Flour goes off on them, and Cacao fires back with anger, but not a physical fight yet. Until she says that all connections with people are useless, and that's what angers both Choco and Cacao even more. The fight happens, and at its height, a wave of flour is flown through the room by Mystic Flour, which is then combated by Cacao's sword (The levels of magic present in the room is almost sending him into that berserk state), and the magic clash of Mystic Flour's Apathy and Cacao's Resolution, making the Flour start to twist and form into shapes (that kinda look like cookies) and Dark Choco takes a bit of life powder out of a bag, and throws it into the flour.
Due to Mystic Flour and Dark Cacao being busy fighting each other, neither notice that the cookie-like shapes in the flour are starting to look more like cookies and are starting to speak. Cloud Haetae enters and witnesses what's going on in the sidelines, the flour in the air slowly disappearing as it forms back into the cookies who died from the pale aliment, and Choco helping them get a grip on themselves.
Soon, the watchers (+ Caramel Arrow and Crunchy Chip) get to their senses, and nearly attack Mystic Flour, but a scream fills the room, putting everything to a halt, even Cacao and Mystic Flour's fight.
The scream was from Peach Tree Spirit, now just Peach Tree, in horror of everything that is happening. Yeah, she heard from the watchers and dark cacaoions that it was because of Mystic Flour, but surely it must've been a mistake, the Mystic Flour she knew wouldn't have done anything like that! But it was true, the Mystic Flour she knew is nothing like the one that is here now. Peach Tree questions both Mystic Flour and Cacao, and points out the hypocrisy in Mystic Flour trying to take Cacao's half of the soul jam, Cacao has the soul jam to protect and aid his kingdom, a task he has not strayed from unless he has strayed from the soul jam, and that Mystic Flour taking it would go against her own (once) morals. This shakes Mystic Flour only a small bit, but completely shatters Cloud Haetae's view on Mystic Flour, and he points out that what Mystic Flour has tried to do to Cacao's kingdom is the same thing that happened to her temple. Which stuns Mystic Flour more.
Then, Mystic Flour and Cacao fully realize that the people lost to the flour are back (minus those who moved on while in the purgatory). This is what sends Mystic Flour into a crisis, while Cacao directs the watchers to get out of the way of any attack that Mystic Flour might make, Choco goes under the raidar for only a momment, staying behind with Dark Cacao.
Mystic Flour retreats into another part of the temple, Peach Tree following a ways behind, while Cloud Haetae leads everyone else outside of the temple.
On the way out, Dark Cacao, Crunchy Chip, and Caramel Arrow ask Dark Choco how the witches did he do anything of what he did. Choco responds that he followed them and that there's a few more people from the Cookies of Darkness who are planning to leave and are willing to share information on how to combat some of the beasts magic.
They travel back to the Dark Cacao kingdom, get the information they need out of Dark Choco to cure the Pale Ailment, and cure the ones with the Ailment before Choco and Cacao actually have a conversation about what just happened, and Dark Choco goes into the wild of the Dark Cacao kingdom again willingly.
#cookie run#cookie run kingdom#dark cacao cookie#dark choco cookie#Crk#crunchy chip cookie#caramel arrow cookie#mystic flour cookie#Mystic flour#mystic flour crk#cloud haetae cookie#Dark cacao#Caramel arrow#lol. This is likely to not be accurate at all#and I am fully ready for that#But I want an excuse as to why Mystic Flour is playable#So her not actually getting banished again but retreating into her temple to question her morals#is the best I got.#Plus I think the idea of one of the beasts having a redemption despite their corruption is interesting
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On the topic of the humans, one of the things that really annoyed me about Resurrection F and the Tournament of Power, is how Roshi was brought back to the frontlines as pretty much the strongest human, with Krillin and Tenshinhan struggling to keep up, and Yamcha relegated to the sidelines as the comic relief who is laughably weak. Nevermind the fact that those three had surpassed him in their teens, and in the 25 years after that, they had improved significantly as martial artists. Have them pull off Mafubas or Shock Palms! And don't make it look like Krillin's special technique is one Tenshinhan developed, ffs.
Dammit, Toei's "worldbuilding" is just annoying.
Yeah, the DBS manga shills the Muten-Roshi too, to the point of having him perform Ultra Instinct. So I don't think that one's on Toei necessarily.
The way DBS handles Roshi is probably the biggest demonstration of its character regression. He was only competing in the 21st and 22nd Tenkaichi Budokais for the sake of helping his students grow, and he was proud of how far they'd surpassed him in the 23rd.
Making him top-dog of the humans again not only goes against the development of the story but it goes against his character. He's not supposed to be nor does he want to be the supreme martial artist anymore. He hasn't been for a long time and he's pleased by that.
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You Look Good in Red
Arthur Shelby x F!Reader
Summery : Your thought of Arthur in red as his wife
Note : This is a quick one and has not been proofread yet. Also dont mind the picture, there is no gorey scene, its quite wholesome?
Masterlist
GRAMMAR BAD, DON’T EAT ME!
You’ve always been a good wife to Arthur, at least that's what the family says. You were never nosy and always doing your wifely duties on the sidelines without much complaining. Sometimes outsiders would gossip amongst each other saying how much you don’t really fit in with the Shelbys or that the family trapped you into the marriage that you probably don’t want.
In truth though, you were deeply in love with your husband. The romance you have with him was not really apparent, when he was first courting you he wrote poems and drew doodles to give to you whenever he bought bread at the bakery you used to work at and you would respond with a poem of your own and a sweet kiss before he went. The look he gave you afterwards was enough to give you the energy to deal with your shift the whole day. It’s not something outsiders or even his closest brothers would think of when guessing how you two end up together so it's always fun to see their reactions when you tell them.
There is a disconnect with the Arthur strutting down the street and the Arthur you see in your shared bedroom but they are both sides of Arthur that you charised deeply. Countless times he would come home bloody, you would tend to him despite the stinging smell of iron, gently cleaning the crimson red blood off his face and countless times you can’t help but admire how the red blood in contrast to his fair freckled skin would make him more handsome in your eyes. You’ve never really said it outloud, knowing how much he hated being reminded of the things he did but you would always kiss him afterwards to remind you that you love him. If other people had the right to be afraid of him then you have the right to be in love with him too.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dressing up is the one of the privileges you have as a Shelby. Every party you attend you would have on your clothes each more luxurious next. Arthur would say it’s his way of rewarding you for always putting up with him which would return with a giggle and smile. You know that deep down this is also a reward for him too. He would touch you tenderly, feeling the softness of your blue silk gown, or mapping the rough intricate detail of the lace. He never would have said anything about it and dismissed that he even had any preference to begin with but you can tell he does by the twinkle in eyes, or how scrunched up his face would be. You get the feeling that it's more than just admiration you would see in other couples, there is a sense of envy and longing for something but you never really find out what it is or ask him what it was.
“That new lipstick love?”
It’s midnight after another party and you wore a new color lipstick, crimson red, as supposed to your regular coral one and it’s the first time Arthur has seen you in it.
“Yes, I ran out of my regular one, so I bought a new one” you replied walking to the vanity where you saw your husband sitting on the queen size bed in only his trousers mirrored to you. His eyes look tired, half drunk, bore into you before he stood up to join you in front of the vanity.
“It looks good on you love” he said before reaching down to gently guide you to face him before kissing your soft lips. You can hear the sound of his heartbeat with the sway of the wind, enjoying his thin lips as his mustache tickles your nose. You deepen the kiss for a little while longer before separating to meet his blue eyes before realizing the lipstick has transferred to his lips.
“Oh the lipstick it transferred to you” you rush to try to find something to wipe it with only to find him looking at the mirror of the vanity with the same look you had seen but never understand until this moment. It’s the same look you’ve seen him make when drawing all those years ago before dropping the hobby to help his family; the same look you’ve seen him make admiring flowers when his brothers aren’t around; and the same look you see him look at you at the party across the room.
You approach him again, slowly wrapping your arms around his waist as you rest your chin on his tense shoulders.
“You look good in red, Art” you say as you can feel his shoulders loosen and his body slightly lean back at you.
“I think so too”
#arthur shelby#arthur shelby x reader#peaky blinders#peaky blinder#peaky blinders fanfic#arthur shelby x female reader#i don't know if the concept im trying to convey is made properly but I hope it does#but if not ill have to revisit it later on
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So it means something when Tommy is awarded and the camera pans to Buck, and Eddie is awarded and the camera pans to Marisol, but it means nothing when Buck is awarded and the camera pans to Eddie instead of Tommy?
This is the stuff I be talking about when I say BT shippers are being intentionally rude. Of course it may have just been an oversight on the editing team, but we don’t know that, do we? So when added to all the other times Buck and Eddie have been framed as a couple or parallel the other couples on the show… why are they mad?
Claiming the editors had to put the cut of Eddie there because he was up next, as if they chopped up the scene for any other character being awarded, is ridiculous. Because it once again proves BT shippers do not care about Buck, just his bisexuality. Because in what world is everyone else getting that wholesome little moment perfectly fine and sensible, but for Buck it’s suddenly meaningless and was the only editing choice left because Eddie was coming up next? Again, if we learn it was an oversight, sure. But until then, they’d rather we believe it to mean Buck didn’t get a shot of his loved one because the editors didn’t care enough to do it? Huh?
And no, BT shippers aren’t delusional, because at least their ship is canon, but they sure can be goofy. Like, even though we didn’t see it nor were told, it’s fine for them to headcanon Buck as having gone to Tommy’s place after his talk with Eddie, to get railed out of his sadness. But it’s the reach of all reaches to wonder why Buck and Eddie were yet again framed in a questionable way?
I don’t agree with majority of Buddie shippers in thinking BT will be over before s8, but I truly cannot understand where their shippers come from most of the time. They’re getting less than bare minimum screen time and plot, and as of right now, not even the editors thought to include Tommy in a scene where every other loved one was shown.
What makes how I feel about this worse (funny worse), is that I also don’t think any of this is intentional. The Buddie framing, yes, even if Tim or whoever tries to say it isn’t. But I’m referring to the lack of BT development. People keep saying they think Tim is purposefully keeping Tommy on the sidelines or as a Debbie downer to prove he and Buck are incompatible, but I really don’t think so.
I think they think they did their big one by having Buck come out, and I think they’ve convinced themselves that because fans will eat up whatever queerness they shovel out for Buck, even the smallest of bits, they don’t need to do more. I can 1000% see BT lasting as it is, because people love it. They don’t care that the nicest thing Tommy said to Buck was he’s adorable. They don’t care that Tommy did more exciting things with Eddie. They don’t care that Tommy has never mentioned anything he likes about Buck at all. They don’t care that Buck hasn’t talked to anybody about Tommy beyond telling two people he’s dating him, and coming out to the rest in one fell swoop.
I would love for s8 to bring up the possibility that Buck is both frightened by and idealizing his relationship with Tommy and that’s why he won’t talk about it, and Tommy’s lack of screen time and sarcasm is the “reality” of their coupling. And I wouldn’t be mad about that. It would actually be a solid story for Buck to have, because he does idolize people and bury his own wants in order to be accepted and loved. So imagine him learning something new about his sexuality being the catalyst for him to stop just letting relationships happen to him?
But again… I don’t think they’ve gotten that far in brainstorming for s8, and I don’t think they even really see what we see once the finished product airs. The actors and creative team have so many different versions of the stories they’re telling, I imagine it’s impossible for them to recall all the correct emotions and tethers needed to react and respond accordingly. That’s what show bibles are for though, and based on the timeline and ages in the show in general, it’s clear Tim doesn’t have the best one or at least it’s not being used to it’s fullest. Either way, I think BT shippers are absolutely loose in the brain if they think the only scenes that make it to air that matter, are all except Buddie.
No, Buddie isn’t canon and fans have spent six seasons theorizing, but in a season where the show runner has stated he’s open to making them a couple and has made one of them canonically queer, it doesn’t make any sense to act like Buddie shippers are reading too far into things. The only reason Buck is bisexual, is because of Buddie shippers latching on to the ship and Oliver and Ryan saying they’d be down. The only reason BT is canon, is because Tim wanted to canonize Buck’s queerness and didn’t want to write a new character into the show.
It was not built up. It was not some red string of fate inevitability. Tim and Oliver both have spoken about how it came to be at the last minute, but BT shippers flat out refuse to listen. Buddie may never become canon, but it won’t change the fact that because of the dedication of Buddie shippers, and Tim and Oliver liking the idea of Buck being queer, BT is happening. Which is not a gotcha or me trying to be petty. It just is the unbiased truth.
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Through the power of dimensional travel, I WILL make both KOBD and Breakbee coexist.
Here’s my idea (not sure if I’m going to write it as a fanfic, but I like it enough to share):
During a space/groundbridge incident, TFP Knockout and Breakdown from another dimension are pulled into Earthspark. They soon flee after seeing the sight of so many Autobots
Eventually though, the Maltos + Megatron (since they are “Decepticons”, they think they might listen to Megatron) track them down and explain they just want to send them home. But surprise… it turns out Knockout and Breakdown actually really like the ES dimension even more than their own.
They were already on the run from the Decepticons in their own world after Breakdown nearly died, they both already like earth and don’t mind staying, and they find the idea of being able to actually make a life outside of war appealing. Since medics are desperately needed, even with the few remaining still working, they are allowed to stay in Witwicky and even give medical help with the kids when needed.
Ideas!
they are their usual selves with everyone else, but when they hear about the Terrans they go absolutely soft. They’re the rich aunties now, and will not be hearing otherwise (this includes Mo and Robby too, once they find out they’re family.)
They get along with Alex and Dot well, since they genuinely care for the kids and just want a life outside of war. (Breakdown admits they did awful things at some point, expecting the humans to recoil, but Dot says “My best friend is Megatron, I know many Cons who made mistakes. But everyone deserves their second chance.”)
Knockout notices ES Bee has been looking at him weird, sees ES Breakdown and Bee together for five minutes, and goes “I’m gonna set them up”. This breakdown deserves a happy relationship too, and Knockout can see how close ES Breakdown is with Bee since he’s already married his own Breakdown, so he ends up giving bee the perfect advice to finally confess. Or he messes with him, 50/50 really.
TFP Breakdown is the best babysitter when Bee is away, since he actually knows how to handle younglings very well. ES Breakdown sees this as competition for HIS Bee, and there’s a lot of silly shenanigans around it until TFP BD goes “pfft, I already got a conjunx, and I’m already with someone wayyy above your Bee”
This is how the Terrans learn what a conjunx is, and react the same way most kids do to learning what marriage is (curious but also going “ew! Kissing!”)
Knockout isn’t a great babysitter because he spoils the kids rotten. He needs Breakdown supervision at least so the kids don’t gain an extra pound from sweets lol
Knockout and Breakdown stay in Witwicky because it’s a nice change of scenery, and because they need to be under the supervision of Autobots until they can be fully trusted. They do sneak off for dates sometimes, but over time the bots just get used to it
At some point TFP KOBD and Breakbee go on a double date on a racing track. ES Breakdown is horrified to learn his alternate is slow as fuck. Luckily Knockout can match them for speed, and have a good time with TFP Breakdown on the sidelines offering coolant to the racers (and kisses for good luck for his Conjunx).
Basically this is a wish fulfillment au where Knockout and Breakdown can live happily while in the more wholesome Earthspark universe (until the horrors come for the Terrans again)
Feel free to add extra ideas for this AU :3
#tfp au#tfe au#earthspark au#KOBD#tfp kobd#Breakbee#tfe Breakbee#tf earthspark#transformers earthspark#transformers prime#tfp knockout#tfp breakdown#tfe breakdown#tfe bumblebee#Earthspark breakdown#Earthspark bumblebee#tfp/tfe crossover#Earthspark crossover#crossover au
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Thoughts on JJK chapter 261 (Spoilers)
The Fuck
We start with Yuji's last attack and a redraw of last chapter's last scene. Yuji didn't manage to injure Sukuna's heart further and gets thrown to the side being forgotten immediately together with Todo because Sukuna has a new/old opponent now: fucking Yuta.
We do get one more panel of Yuji thinking of Choso which fits my recent post about Yuji's accumulated trauma. Other than that Yuji/Todo get sidelined for the rest of the chapter but that was needed to explain what the fuck Yuta had done
Also, Okkotsu Yuta is now on name-basis with Sukuna, a place only very few people have reached at this point like Fushiguro Megumi and Gojo Satoru.
When I first saw the stitches on Gojo's head, I thought of Kenjaku and Kenjaku only. Even after Sukuna called him Yuta I needed a moment to understand what had happened here. Do you all understand how awesome that is 👀 JJK has an active theory based fanbase and I at least have never heard or thought of this possibility 😣
We get a flashback to explain how we got to this point: the idea of taking over Gojo's body came from Yuta and most people were initially against it. Of note: Yuji was not part of this discussion probably for the same reason why no one told him about Todo.
We get a reminder why it has to be done this way but Maki throws in that Yuta's copy only lasts 5 minutes. So the question is, what happens when those 5 minutes are up?
Yuta dies because Kenjaku's possession ability needs to be active constantly
Yuta dies at some point because Kenjaku's possession ability needs to be activated again and again
Yuta's new body permanently becomes Gojo's body
Honestly, I don't think 3) will be endgame for Yuta. It might happen that he will become Gojo in body permanently but story-wise his death signs are through the roof. I don't believe that Yuta will survive inside Gojo 😢
1) is has to be false otherwise Kenjaku wouldn't be able to use other CTs like CM and AGS. 2) is a probable option as in Kenjaku had to intermittently re-activate his original CT but he still had the option of using other CTs as well.
Also, secret 4th option: Yuta dies but his body hopping shenanigans bring Gojo back to life.
It's good to see how Yuta is concerned about Gojo. Yuji would've been right there with him. He told Gojo about his plan but the guy was absolutely sure that he wouldn't lose anyway, haha...
Gojo speculates that Yuta might also be the descendent of the Fujiwara in addition to being one of the Sugawara and I'm not a genetics experts but I'm pretty sure that after 1000 years without migration happening in your family tree that you're descendent of everyone who lived that long ago. Except for Sukuna because he never had children.
Also, the original gang from JJK 0 came together to be part of some murder. The deaths of the higher-ups we saw at the very beginning of the Sukuna fight is now explained: Gojo killed them for a better future of the JJ Society but he was a little hesitant about it.
The flashback jumps first to Yuji's old friend who's name I forgot. We learn that his CT is sugar (??) based which leads to him becoming part of the medical team. Then the FB jumps to the aftermath of Yuta's fight against Sukuna: he was cut in half and is about to die
In a funny call back to when Yuji died at the Detention Center, Gojo is both dead and completely naked on a table. Just like Yuji, he also rises again albeit not completely alive when it comes to himself.
(Why did Yuta waste crucial seconds to put a shirt on?)
Shoko says that she fully sutured Gojo's bisected body and because Kenjaku's CT (as far as we know) only works on dead bodies, we have the confirmation that Gojo has indeed died against Sukuna. Except of course that he's about to be revived again.
Let's not forget that as far as Kenjaku's CT is involved, body and mind are treated the same. Something that will involve Gojo and his consciousness is going to happen at some point because of Yuta's decision to do this body hopping.
A new Domain Battle between Sukuna and GojoYuta is about to start. Yuta not only watched the previous battles, he also acquired Gojo's memories so it's exciting to see how that will play out.
It's also interesting how the visuals of the domain clashes changed so much. GojoYuta's is still the same (the first confirmation that a possessor can use the possessed's DE) while Sukuna's deteriorated somewhat, represented with the beastly construct in the background. He also has to use Gojo's handsign.
Break next week but now we can speculate to hell and back about what will happen now.
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This episodes today... Damn. I was shocked that Sun was not mentioned when Moon hit him. And oh boy, the boys are fighting and Moon is hesitated when Sun said he would not be happy? Delicious.
Seeing these episodes make me think back Sun in the past. Sun in the past definitely break down and cry and let his anxious flood his mind. He would begged and pleased , he would been so helpless and lost . He would accept his fate with a thought in his head that he was useless.
Now... I don't know if people see it but I think Sun is given up. Not in terms that kill himself or depressed so much he is self destructed, but in terms that he is no longer given a damn. Seems like his emotions becomes so drained that his empathy slowly get sweep away.
Why I say that?
1. He has tired of Moon's crap. No "it's not you, moon." No "we can fix it together, moon. Just let me help you." No "it not true Moon, don't talk to yourself like that."... Just balantant accepted. The past Sun might thinking he was a problem and try in some unlucky ways to self destructive himself only to try to get Moon sane again. (Sun is not dumb. He is just very unlucky.)
The present Sun? The "I am not afraid to beat the shit out of you if it means I will bring your sanity back?"? Mr-maybe I - will - lock -Moon-just -a- little -bit-until-he-cool-down?
Sideline, Have you ever thought the reason why Sun decided to build a box to stop Moon was because in the past, when Sun had a mental breakdown, it was Old Moon who did that to cool Sun's head?
Something about the history repeats itself, about the cycle of trauma continues. (Sun is not an abuser, I repeat. Sun is not an abuser) But I would be lying if I don't think it is poetic that Sun will not have any other single thoughts about locking Moon.
Sun is not even suprise that Moon insane at this point. He just looks so disappointed and be like: "Oh well, doomed my Friday I guess. " And thinking about solutions. Not single bits emotions attract.
(just like when my mom struggled to go to hospital so bad, she hit my glasses. All I feel was annoyed that I can't get her to the hospital sooner, and only some shallow anxious about her health on the surface.)
2. Death threat
How many death threats Sun have said nowadays. Catnap. Eclipse. Papyrus. Ban ban. Creator... And now... Moon.
Sun is not saying that directly, but "you know I would be not very happy" and "I can talk to him or something... action" heavily implied in Sun might hurt Moon. Not in the term of kill New Moon, but Sun will hurt Moon to save him, because turn out, violence is the only thing Sun Knows. Violence is the only make things work. Eclipse taught him that. Old Moon taught him that. Monty? Even Lunar taught him that.
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