Unfortunately, Ive Yet Again Joined Another Fandom, So Metal Family Fans, Hmu /lh

𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞 - 𝐬𝐮𝐤𝐮𝐧𝐚 𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐧

seeing his ex at an after party, but hey, who's to say he doesn't believe in second chances?

my masterlist | vogue collab masterlist !

✭ pairings: sukuna ryomen x oc actor! au

✭ warning: angst. sukuna trying to win his ex back. established gojo x oc. actor au.

✭ author’s note: first time writing for kuna!! gotta say, it was fun writing angst :)

✭ word count: 1k words

disclaimer: i’m not of japanese descent and am unfamiliar with japanese honorifics, etc. feel free to correct me!

“Oh fuck.”

Sukuna’s eyes widened, muttering in shock. His confident smirk dropped the moment Gojo Satoru walked into the room, seeing the cocky smile on the white-haired man’s face, his sky-blue eyes hidden beneath his rectangular dark blue glasses. However, the sight of Gojo didn’t catch him off guard. The sight of the black-haired woman with striking lilac eyes left him speechless.

Himiko Nakamura. The memory of her just sends a shiver down his spine, and he can feel her fierce gaze through the crowd. No matter where she went, an overpowering presence followed, even in a celebratory award-afterparty such as this. She made her name as an actress at an early age – and it was one of the things that drew him in.

Sukuna couldn’t help but plaster his pompous smirk back on his face, but the little twitch in his was evident when he spotted Gojo’s arm around her shoulder. He hated that Gojo could hold her so freely, so casually. He hated every second of it, he hated the way he smiled at her, he hated the way she gave him the smallest of smiles back. He hated the way she didn’t shove him off when he neared her, and most of all – he hated that it wasn’t him holding her in that way.

His red eyes followed Gojo with a burning stare, watching the way the white-haired man had his arm slung so casually around Himiko. He waited patiently, taking another sip of his wine as he swirled it around in the glass.

A minute or two passes before Himiko finally pulls herself away from Gojo’s arms, and Sukuna smiles to himself with a soft ‘Finally!’ as he exhales. He sees her walk further away from the popular white-haired actor and towards the row of tables filled with drinks and snacks, and his feet take him closer to her.

He takes a step closer to her, one foot in front of the other and he feels his heart pumping harder in his chest. He adjusted his scarlet suit jacket, smoothing his pink hair down with his other hand, and he couldn’t help but admire the way the dark violet dress she wore complimented her figure, the shimmer of the fabric and glitter with every little move she made.

Sukuna cleared his throat, his mind running wild with all the ways he could greet her, but none of them came up as he saw her bright lilac eyes stare into his crimson ones, and his heart stopped. She was just as beautiful as the day she left him, yet her cold gaze brought him back to reality.

“Sukuna,” Her voice called out, and the bitter way she said his name had him rolling his shoulders back.

Her tone was an ice dagger to his heart, her disdain for him evident just by how she held herself. She stood proud and tall – like the walls she had built for herself when she was with him.

“Himiko,” His smile grew, and he eyed her up and down. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

Her sneer deepens, eyes narrowing as she speaks in that icy tone of hers, “As if you’d miss me.”

Sukuna’s eyes soften the slightest, but it flickers back to his cocky demeanour. He sees it in her eyes from how she tilts her head – she knows. Neither of them said a word about it, the pink-haired man glancing at his wine glass with an amused smile. 

“You’re sharp as ever, darling.”

“I’m not your darling,” She mumbles, “Not anymore. I think we both know that.”

He lets out a bittersweet smile, red eyes locking onto her lilac ones, “A man can dream, can’t he?”

“He certainly can, but it doesn’t mean that it’s reality.”

“But he can try until it is.”

She gives him a look, her hold on her glass tightening, “Sukuna, don’t.”

“I’m not saying anything specific,” He rolled his eyes, but his tone was uncharacteristically soft. “But… but what if I were to try again?”

Himiko’s back straightens, “I assumed so since you did hint at it, but you know why I left, Sukuna.”

“I do. But I can change, you know that Himiko.”

“Do I?” Her eyes narrowed. “Sukuna, I left you because you were so, so manipulative, you did anything to make me stay with you. I couldn’t take it, and you knew it, so forgive me if I don’t believe a single word you say.” 

Sukuna opened his mouth to say something else, but a hand on his shoulder halted him, his red eyes met sky-blue ones, and the dreaded Gojo Satoru smiled over at Sukuna with a lighthearted grin.

“Hey Sukuna, long time no see!” His grin was too wide for Sukuna’s liking. “I see you you’ve met my sweetheart.”

This irks Sukuna to no end, a smile of disbelief growing on the tattooed man’s face, “You’re her sweetheart? Himiko, he’s going to ditch you for someone else by the end of the week.”

“Nonsense!” Gojo grins widely, pulling Himiko to his side. “Miko, has he been bothering you with his bad jokes?”

“...Yeah, definitely,” Himiko mutters, leaning into Satoru’s touch. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve had enough partying for tonight.”

Sukuna could see it in her eyes, the way she avoided his gaze now. Her posture remained upright, but everything in her body language was enough to tell him she was giving him the cold shoulder. He narrowed his eyes, ignoring the way his stomach tied into knots.

“It was nice to see you around, Sukuna,” Gojo grins, but it holds a dangerous glint. “But hey, it was fantastic seeing you again.”

Sukuna rolled his eyes red eyes with a grumble, but he fell silent as Himiko eyed him as she passed, Gojo’s arm a bitter reminder that she’s not his – and he doesn’t have a chance at redemption; not like deserved one anyway. 

As she passes, the speakers blare a song, almost as if fate was mocking him, heck he barely stood a chance the moment Gojo Satoru walked in with his arm around Himiko’s shoulders. Kali Uchis’ voice rings through the venue, the upbeat tempo a sickening reminder of his failures.

‘Why can’t you see you’re dead to me? Just leave it be, you’re dead to me.’

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𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓

୧ ‧₊˚ arguing with your boyfriend, miles, was always your least favorite thing. but when he accidentally raises his voice at you, accusing you of something you’re not, he'll do anything to make it up to you. so, he decides to come to your work. pairings & aus. earth42!miles morales x fem!black!reader warnings. angst | established relationship | fluff at the end | arguing | slight toxicity | arguing | reader owns a cafe author's note. changed the aesthetic of my posts!

"MAMI, PLEASE, IAN MEAN IT LIKE THAT."

The way your glossy eyes roll to the back of your head only further induce your oncoming headache, but you don’t care. Something about your boyfriend elevating his tone at you made you crumble, brown irises boring into his own as he pleaded for you to listen.

You hear him breathe softly, and then he picks at the calloused skin of his thumb as his mouth contorts into an almost-pout. It’s apologetic, you think— by the way his eyebrows are furrowed and his face somberly melts into a softer expression, contrasted to his normal stoic one. But his look isn’t enough. You want something verbal, something pleading, something so desperate for your forgiveness that it’ll be inevitable for your answer to be ‘Yes, Miles, you didn’t do anything wrong and I would love for us to be back to normal.’

But that’s not what you were getting.

Instead, he had yelled at you, and not just a normal yell, one that he would normally let out if you were pestering him or were about to run into an unknown danger. No— this yell was authentic and real, raw, on purpose. And his lips still couldn’t find themselves to say that he were sorry.

The argument wasn’t even your fault, and Miles had told you so, therefore it was verified that you weren’t in the wrong and that it was just some huge misunderstanding. Your phone had been left unlocked on the kitchen counter, and Miles being Miles, he picked the device up and snapped a couple of stupid pictures when he saw a notification pop up.

malachi: Yo u still wit yo man? I was thinking we go get sum to eat. Lmk!

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know that the message wasn’t from another girl, it was from a man. So he angrily swiped the device up and waltzed up to you, waving the florescent screen back in forth in your face, accusing you of cheating.

“YN, what the fuck? Why you tryna go out with this nigga, huh? He hittin’ it or sum’? Shoulda known you had me buyin’ them lil’ dresses for other reasons.”

Your shoulders dropped at him, tears clouding your unfocused vision as Miles’ words circulated in your head, swarming your conscience with emotions that you were unable to decipher yourself.

“Mami—“

“Don’t call me that.” You seethed, “It’s not what you called me when you was accusin’ me of lyin’ and cheatin’, right?”

“Ay, Dios Mío.” Miles mumbled, his footsteps filling your ears as he drew closer to you. He wanted to reach out to you, to pull you close and kiss your cheeks, but he just stood idly in front of you as he watched you cry.

It was almost like he was stuck. Guilt, maybe?

But either way, the effort was still vacant. His actions weren’t just mundane, he was shaking your phone at you angrily, spit flying and hands snapping as he tried to grab ahold of the messy situation. And what he realized what he had done, his mouth ran dry, eyes fluttering closed as he cursed underneath his breath.

What he didn’t know was that you were speaking to your friend’s boyfriend, and when he said ‘we’— he meant the four of you, Miles included. He was trying to set up a double date at a restaurant and wanted to confirm if you were with Miles to insure that you guys were on.

A stupid mistake.

A mistake so ignorant that it drove you to raise your hand at him, withdrawing it before slapping him on the cheek, hard. The sting that blossomed throughout your hand spoke of triumph, that he truly got what deserved, and your lips nearly curled into a smile when you heard him wince in pain.

You didn’t want him hurt, you just wanted him to understand what happens when you assume stupid shit. He turned around slowly to look at you, left hand massaging the flesh of his cheek as he gave you apologetic eyes.

It all feels like an emotional whiplash now.

“Get out.”

You finally spoke, lips trembling and hands balling at your sides so tight you were sure your fingers would snap.

“Baby, please, can we just talk about this?”

“Get the fuck out, Miles!” You shouted at him, body forcefully colliding with his as your hands met his shoulders, pushing him into the woodwork of your front door. He opens it without hesitation, fingers curling around the doorknob shakily as he walked through the doorway.

You hold the door and shove him, your boyfriend stumbling down the porch steps as you cock your head to the side,

“And don’t come back.”

With that, you slam the door.

It’s been three days since you’ve seen your boyfriend.

Which is extremely out of the ordinary.

He’s texted you numerous times, your phone nearly exploding from how often it rang with new texts or phone calls. You didn’t answer, you couldn’t, Miles’ words still prodding at your heart strings as you tried to go on about your morning.

Your bright pink polo slides it’s way over your head, thick curls bouncing against your shoulders as you smoothed out a tiny wrinkle at the collar, eyes picking apart your outfit in the mirror.

A flick of your wrist tells you that you’re nearly late for work, so you swipe up your phone and purse and make your way outside, strutting to your car as you drove to your shop.

You opened your own pink themed, healthy cafe a couple months before you and Miles started dating. It was a real hotspot— business booming more than ever in the hot, humid summer of Brooklyn. People mostly ordered juice or açaí bowls, which you didn’t mind because it was your personal favorite on the menu and you recommended it to anyone who waltzed into your shop.

Pulling up, you stepped out of your vehicle and opened the door, greeting your employees with a flutter of your fingers and a superficial smile painted on your face. You were broken on the inside and it was a fact that even you couldn’t deny, and no amount of concealer and fake grins could conceal that.

“Everything OK, girl?” One of your employees chirped at you over the loud sound of a blender. And you just shrugged at her, faux smile still possessive over your lips, persuasion eventually casting her spell on your favorite girls as you covered your sadness up with ‘I’m just tired.’

Opening was running smoothly, and you were calming working register when you heard the sweet bells above your front door chime.

“Welcome i-“

Your sentence fades, dying off as you see your boyfriend walk through the door, walking up to the counter that you were standing behind.

“Can I get a matcha and that toast with the green shit on it?”

You grit your teeth at him, “Miles, what the hell are you doing here?”

He didn’t say anything, he just grabbed your hands and squeezed them, “Baby, I know you don’t really wanna see me here, but I need to say sum’, and it’s that I’m sorry. Ian mean what I said, I was dumb, jumpin’ to conclusions and shit. That’s not okay. You my girl and there’s no reason why I was treatin’ you like that. I’m…mami, I’m sorry.”

Miles stares at you, waiting for your rebuttal to his formal apology. No matter how much you wanted to be mad at him in this moment and hold out, you couldn’t by the way his eyes flickered at you, licking his lips as he shot you an apologetic smile.

“Miles….” You started, “What you said really hurt me, I can’t lie to you. But…despite all of that, I forgive you. And y’know, I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have put my hands on you or nun’ like that. I was just…angry.”

“Understand.” Miles told you, kissing your hand as he gave you a cheeky grin, “I love you, pretty girl.”

“I love you too, asshole.” You giggled as your boyfriend leaned over the counter to deliver a kiss to your cheek, a couple of your coworkers giggling behind the counters, but you didn’t care. You were just ecstatic that you had made up, a laugh tumbling from your throat.

“Y’know, Miles…” You started, earning a hum from your lover.

“I just want you to know, although you be actin’ hard…you’re actually soft as shit.”

tags!: @queenesther996 // @wydney // @rinnyisnothere // @brieryann // @starhrtz // @daisydark // @randomhoex // @solanawrld // @whore4hobie // @tanakaslastbraincell // @simp4miguell // @nyrovi3 // @aziulsworld // @enchantingfoxsparkles // @mancerseedu // @cafehyunji // @personofyou // @mcdvsr // @calliarlerte // @pr0wlerpunk // @tzuyuzzs // @clearskiiiess // @vienreina // @pixqlsin // @stvrgrl // @zerosinterweb // @mookiebut // @urmotherswhor3 // @cumbermovels // @asmobeuses // @yanghees // @popeheywardssecretgf // @mxspiderman2099 // @scryarchives // @rksses // @mmst4rz // @ilyless // @milesmolasses // @laylasbunbunny // @all444miles // @thecoloredpages // @bl00dsuccker // @adoremvney // @anikaluv // @qtdenks // @art-598

𝟏𝟐 | 𝐏𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫

ー✧ prince!bakugou x royal guard!reader

"You will spend summers in rainstorms and autumns in his orchids because you are Alderan and he will kill Takoban gods to get you there."

cw brief description of drowning and a claustrophobic struggle with the ocean. suggestions of suicidal intention and self harm. reader tries to fight the sea and your prince has horrible misunderstandings about it. bkg 🫱🏽‍🫲🏼 unethical rescue tactics pt 2, borrowed clothes, a fevered fireside confession in the bedroom you’ve been searching for 6.4k

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If Takoba is the edge of the world, Aldera is the center. You so starved for comfort, stand with your feet at the tip of the surf and tie your braids together.

You watch the sea at midnight and the winds coming off the water bite your scars before they chill your bones. Autumn at the edge of the world is miserable. Lakes freeze but the ocean is colder, and full of tides , like Todoroki said, which you’ve spent the day reading about. Unlike lakes and winter ice skating, the ocean has a taste. Salt and decay. It tastes unfathomably ancient. You watch its many maws foaming under the moonlight and seashells burn in frigid water when you step onto them.

In the view from Bakugou’s bedroom, you’ve lined your boots up neatly in the sand and stand watch beside them for a moment. You’re dressed to stop a midnight siege, in your white nightgown and padded habergeon, staring so small and far away from the warmth of his fireplace. You in a dark blue world, framed by his open window. Bakugou would have sipped his tea and rolled his eyes at his newly fucked up sleep schedule and how ridiculous you insist on looking in public if his cup wasn’t spilt on the rugs where he dropped it. If he hadn’t already ripped his door off its hinges in his sprint out of the castle.

You couldn’t sleep. You have no appetite and no mobility yet for sparring. Just books. Just Uraraka answering your questions about the sea while watching her men train. The ride with Todoroki yesterday was nice but it left your throat stiff and you are still in your kingdom’s service. Today in Takoba, tomorrow and forever behind your prince. Long before the blue gardens and scars, before the kitchen, before sticky crowds and white horses and cold hallways, something somewhere started to die.

You take another step into the swollen water, it rises with the moon, to confirm your suspicions and grimace when a crab scuttles over your foot. Another step and you’re up to your hem. It would all be easier if your heart was still a forest fire. When did that stop? When did the rain come? Up to your knees now. Seawater climbs your nightgown.

As it stands you’re no longer a dragon, just damp tinder. The black sea sways you side to side at the hips now so gently– keep walking, don’t look back. You will free yourself from doubt and you will fight a god to do it.

“Moon makes tides,” Uraraka yawned and slouched and stretched as you sat on your knees beside her in the pit.

“Can you swim in it?”

“In the ocean?” she squinted, “Yeah of course. But don’t tell me you want to swim in this weather?”

“I won’t.”

Shinsou could only pretend not to hear for so long from his spot beside you both this afternoon, “The moon makes tides, and tides make storms.”

Good. Up to your ribs now. Wear the rock there like an anchor.

In the cold water your body heat becomes that much more apparent and it’s lovely like home. Genuinely hot for a second. Your nightgown floats up around you and you sink quickly from chest to nose when the sand under your feet drops to freezing nothing. The sudden dip sends icy pain behind both eyes and the sensation of failing steeles every joint sickly sore. Walking through the ocean is like a fight, like driving a sword through someone solid, like braving a thunderstorm, but sinking into it is easier than sleeping.

You gasp and spit out the aftermath of losing your footing but you also fight too hard in anticipation of sinking and you’re suddenly in the open air up to your waist like a salmon leaping upstream. The weight of the nightgown settles you back down to your shoulders and it’s silent except for the sound of waves kissing the beach and one another. Whistling wind. You bob only some ten meters out from shore, just short of where Todoroki held you back for fear of drowning and something wild like greed blinks open a sleepy brown eye.

You hardly have to move a limb to keep your head above water; the sea is free and gentle. You float easily here, where a lake wants to watch you fight. It’s part of the fun at home and in exchange you are safe in freshwater. Salt stings– saliva pools under your tongue to keep it from getting inside– but it also holds you up in the foam like two hands under the hip.

Is this what you were so afraid of? This is the god you planned on killing tonight?

Every day in this miserable place you have been beaten. You have fallen apart in some way, your hair is too messy, your new clothes don’t fit right. You lose Aldera with every step, heel toe– earrings that are no longer yours, heel toe– a weapon you can't return, heel toe and stand at attention– a brooch you’re too afraid to wear, to lose too, so you keep it under your pillow and wear silver seashells instead. Blue fire took the first victory in the forest and you salvaged your prince with your life thin in your teeth. Takoba took the second victory and strung you out in your nightgown for nobles to pick at like crows. A driftwood table took the third and Bakugou stole the fourth. The only time you have ever won here is when you decided to die. When you churn the water with your arms a pain echoes across your back not quite inside your scars.

Kirishima on the verge of tears, Shinsou above your operating table, Uraraka at your side, Todoroki holding you back from the edge of the world– your prince, wet to his knees– you have never, not once in your life have you ever failed. Their gazes make your throat hurt and you spit again into a tiny rolling wave that lifts itself over your chin and into your ears.

The goddess of the sea does not pity you.

She pulls you into her arms and laughs when you rub your freshwater eyes. She tossels your hair with silent waves you could never have seen coming. She reminds you of her strength. And Todoroki told you that you couldn’t possibly challenge her– eat your words sealace prince. Even just this once, witness me. You are a gem in the crown of Aldera, the left hand of the golden family. Takoba is no setback the sea is not your master, you are a chosen servant, not a mistake. It is so wonderful to be in the presence of a queen again and at night her water is soft and black.

The shore is farther than you remember when you finally glance back at the world. You bob like a peach, a frozen peach, and realize you can’t feel the cold anymore. Time to head back. Today was just a test anyway, to make sure you could put up your fight. Maybe sleep will come now that you’re starting to breathe heavy and now that your muscles ache again after days without real training. Ice creeps up the back of your neck from wet hair.

The goddess of the sea plays with you for a few more seconds and you can’t wait to come back in the warmth of the sun to lay on your back with her to whom you no longer need to prove yourself. The ocean pulls in its depths just as much as it pushes at the shore so you brace your eyes for discomfort and duck under the surface to kick a good length forward. It would have worked in a lake, at the center of the world.

When you resurface you are somehow farther than before and considerably shorter of breath. The cold starts to press on your lungs now that you’re truly using them. It’s okay, one more time. You kick once to let the goddess lift you up with her salt and breathe in the free air before diving under again but all you actually do is stir bubbles around you exactly where you started. If anything even farther. Your boots are too small to see now.

There are no storms, no raging waves, no rain, no thunder, hardly wind, what is putting up the fight? Whatever. You paddle above water, thankful for light clothes, and weary of the growing ache under your jaw– the start of a pulsing headache. More than anything you are finally excited for bed, but no matter how hard you push there seems to be a growing distance between you and safety.

Dread drops in your peachpit stomach and you start to feel long pretty fingers tickle your heels in black water. The ghost of the flame mage happy to drag you with him to the bottom of the sea. Irrational like a fear of the dark, but still there’s no more time for testing pride, you have to get back to shore. The little girl inside of you cowers when you take one more heavy breath and then release it to sink yourself as deep as the salt will let you. You can see the breaking point, all you need is to reach the seafloor and kick yourself to it.

As you drift down into the pitch black something so much better than sand or ghosts meets your feet. You connect with rock as your lungs begin to ache for air and kick with every well trained muscle your legs have, forward towards the shore. Faster than freshwater, you rocket to the surface and gasp excitedly, blink rapidly, and infinitely closer to white sand, and then immediately the goddess pulls you under again.

Sure you found the breaking point, sure your toes tease the start of the shore you want to reach so badly, but that’s what waves do here. Break.

Something so silent couldn’t possibly be this powerful, but your head is forced back under as your hips are pulled back out and you tumble head over knees, mouth filled suddenly with salt and sand in the darkness. Resurfacing is no fun task, choking. You’re thankful it’s easy to float in the ocean but saltwater dries out your mouth as you retch it back out from your throat into the foam and then there’s another break over your head to remind you that humans should stay far away from god.

You’ll die just thirty meters from the shore. Salt blinds you. Water deep in one ear keeps you just dizzy enough to let this sea carry you out once again, and shouting isn’t an option. Shouting or gasping, you have to pick one. Ache has turned to paralysis; muscles so beaten and a heart beating so fast you’re already at the last limit reached by your master, training to failure. Striking and swinging until you can no longer hold your weapon. Hours of training reduced to fifteen minutes at sea.

The bruises of your shoulder protest every paddle you force out of them and go much stiffer much faster than the rest of you. In a way, the mage is drowning you. In every way the sea is much more claustrophobic than a war room.

The moon watches you heaving for air stuck between beating waves and being swept back out to sea. She doesn’t do anything. You are pulled under again. The rocks beneath you scratch your soft skin this time and your instinct is to flinch which fills your nose with water and drowning is certainly not as peaceful as poetry makes it out to be.

Of course it ends like this. A soggy creature fighting gods alone.

Of course he’s watching you, his Captain, being stolen by the sea.

You surface forcefully with a grip on your scruff and while your body remembers how to breathe, magic every furious color of the rainbow arcs above your head. The water recoils for a moment around you in the force of his impact. Bakugou erupts from the sky as he always does into the tragedy of your life in Takoba and you have no control over your searing gaze when it turns to him above you, framed by sparks and stars. Halo from the moon.

You both fall back into the water but not so helplessly as a moment ago. Your prince hooks and arm across your chest, pressing your back to his front and with so much more strength than you could ever muster, rips his way through the water in half of a backstroke. Half of him focused on keeping you afloat and only half of him conquering the sea. His legs create their own current. He holds you and you’re sure you’re breathing loudly enough into his collar to hurt his ears.

You are an excellent swimmer. Weak children, drunk diplomats, tests from your master; you have dragged your fair share of victims out of rivers and as the victim yourself you know better than to struggle or panic in your prince’s grip as he drags you from the goddess, but you can’t help how your fingers scratch at his translucent tunic. Cling to the warmth of his bicep.

In twenty seconds he has reached the break. Strength like a war criminal, like a godslayer. He turns in the water, times it to match the swell of a wave for height, and pulls you chest to chest with a guiding hand on the side of your head to fold you into him. The sea drops you and you know what comes next. Bakugou anticipates your struggle, or a drowned man’s panic, any logical thing and wraps another arm around you tight as he pulls you both under, but you don’t fight a single second and neither do you breathe.

He knows the sea so much better. If you weren’t unraveling like a common soldier you would have realized too, just how much calmer the water is underneath its surface. Even with ears full of sand you can hear the wave crash above you but there is no pull underwater. The roll of the goddess back out to sea twirls through your hair but nothing else. She lets your prince push up to the surface and doesn’t stop you from catching your breath inside the crook of his neck. Eleven seconds to beat the break. What does he even need a captain for?

This time when the tide drops, you don’t quite drop with it. Knees in the sand. Back on solid ground you realize how hard a body can shake and then water is beating you down again from behind, and a warm hand has you by the back of the haubergeon to keep you from slipping out to sea or laying flat down to sleep in the surf.

Both hardly walking, and you more-than-half carried, you and your prince stagger over seashells like glass back to the spot where your boots rest like nothing bad has ever happened at all, chased the whole time by a disappointed tide. You collapse the second he lets you. You, useless with cold and vomiting seafoam.

“Why?!” Your prince chokes, similarly out of breath beside you, hunched over his knees from the effort of winning your war. You can feel the glare. You are warmed by it and then entirely numb again, in a terrible turn of events, to even his attention. The very last ember dies without smoke.

Bakugou, even in a temper tantrum, has never looked quite so disheveled. He’s been wet before, and pushed his hair back with big hands and caught his breath through his teeth just like this, but he’s never looked at you with such confusion. His eyebrows don’t sit right. Without a scowl his whole thing really falls apart, huh?

“Answer me, Eyes!”

You wheeze instead of speaking when you try to use your voice for the first time and spit out the last of the salt that comes up with it. He doesn’t move, catching his breath across the sand at midnight. Your prince really is so pretty and something inside is eating you alive to the beat of the wash of waves. He is a star and you are the bloody little creature beneath him always, not chosen at all.

You sit yourself up. Bakugou is beautiful. Broad chest and shoulders trained for his magic and a wet tunic that clings to every lovely shape, just a few feet too far away to touch. Unmarred face and shaggy hair. His eyes. His jaw slopes sharp, sharper still in the moonlight and dripping with water, up towards his hungry red eyes that eat everything they’ve e–

“Wake up!” He barks.

He’s not eating you. He brings back your focus and when you hold his stare this time it’s so obvious he’s not confused, or angry, not exhausted or embarrassed or exasperated. He’s six and he’s holding your hands in a velvet carriage, terrified.

Oh boy. You guess self-control died with your heart, because your shoulders start to shake in a chuckle. Bakugou stares. Any fold of his brows melts immediately at the sound of your soft laughter but he hardens again when he speaks.

“What about this is funny?!” and pulls himself up to his knees as you lower yourself to clamshells, not-quite-laughing but not fighting the smile either. This is exhausting. “You just tried to kill yourself!”

This makes you snort, which is ugly, and shuts your prince up entirely. One laugh like a lie and then another and you curl in on yourself, shivering arms folded above your head and forehead pressed flat to the sand. Something like an apology. You are redundant, not suicidal.

If it were a real apology you would wait until he spoke again to raise your head like Todoroki in the stables, but that’s not what you’re doing at all. You ache from the inside. Burn in fact. You chuckle again and spit salt one last time when you sit up, then grab for your shoes with muscle memory instead of feeling since the cold has stolen that from you too. Bakugou is staring again– it is irritating, you should do it less.

The ocean makes a lovely noise when you are not drowning in it. It’s much quieter and sounds a bit like laundry sliding over itself. Or apples tumbling into a basket. You are the first to your feet, clumsily, and you are not so delirious that you forget you need proximity to a fire. Anyone else might not be able to stand through this adrenaline trembling but how many apprentices have come so close to death so many times as you?

“Oi,” Bakugou growls, confused again by the wrong emotion for just long enough to let you escape.

The hill between the castle and the sea is overgrown with dune grasses tall enough to tickle your hips and that is what you decide to climb. Empty stomach, ruined shoulder, shaking legs, deep dead eyes.

Your clothes cling to you. They make you small. He can hardly breathe in the cold as he rushes to catch up, dripping what he's sure are icicles, and you look as if you could hardly stay conscious in it. Does your face feel as red as it looks? Friction or fever? “Captain!” And it’s obvious Bakugou can’t decide on his volume, but bulldozes after you nonetheless husky with exertion, “fuckin wait–”

There are sandy paths beaten into this seaside hill, small like children made them on their happy little way to swim. Bakugou makes quick work of it. You hike. You put all your effort into staying on two feet through a chill you could hardly ever imagine. Heat pounds in your temples, cruelly imitating Alderan fire when really it’s something poisoned like liquor.

“Please don’t follow me sir,” you call over the wind when the prince gets a few steps too close to catching up and he makes a sound almost like words, like words you shot dead in his throat. You know that sound because you have been shot at the same exact angle. Deadly isn’t it? He falls back.

Just for a moment Bakugou stops and watches, filled with something neither of you have the words for yet. Recovering just as quickly as you are succumbing to exhaustion.

Wait, he stares. Just– “Y/n.”

Wrapped in white, you are framed by rolling seagrass in the moonlight. You finally stop climbing and turn. You like a half-drowned painting. In a furred cape you might be a queen. From your spot smiling sadly at the edge of the world, your nose has started to bleed.

“Give me an order.”

Six and shaking in his hands. Eleven soaked in a fruit filled hallway, always working and fond of libraries. Sense of humor that doubles over his queen. Often covered in blood, staring too earnestly right now for him to remember that anger might fix this. Bakugou doesn’t breathe.

You turn back towards the castle alone and for the very last time, your body keeps the tears at bay. On a hill of swaying green grass and bright in the moonlight, your prince, frozen, looks so much like his mother you should kill him for it.

You always thought you were hiding from him on duty, only slightly more stealthy than a dragon. It got better when Jeanist stopped training you in chainmail, but your excitement at every small job bounced off the walls of his castle so obviously. Squirrel duty? You helped a hundred bastards back outside without pause. Sent up to swept bookshelves under the Great Oak and you're the only person he’s ever seen hum to themself so high in the air. Stable duty? Stable master more like. Seven and stacking stools to reach the saddles before Jeanist set you back on the ground by your scruff like his kitten. Bakugou can’t remember what went first, your heartbeat or his hearing.

The very first time you snuck up on him was in August under a plum tree, nine years old. He slept beside his book in the shade on a perfect day, perfectly alone and free of tutoring for the afternoon. Maybe because you were barefoot, but somehow even out of breath, the only thing that gave you away was your voice.

“Careful Highness.” He shot awake with that and figured for a moment that you were a dream while his eyes adjusted to the light through the leaves behind you– panting above him and holding tight to a plum. Like premonition your other hand lurched to catch another as it fell toward him, “they’re ready for harvest.”

Bakugou sat up. Off at an impossible distance for you to have run to catch plums, Jeanist stood beside a hanging line of red uniforms waving a beckoning hand.

“Laundry calls,” you whispered. As the little prince turned stupidly back to you above him, you set both plums on the grass beside his book and bowed.

Wait.

“Maybe a nap in the vineyard? Grapes won't bruise.”

Wait, I know you.

He watched you bow one last time and jog out of the shade back to Jeanist and Alderan laundry, just as he watches you stumble now in the dark, towards the faraway lights of a castle without the fire you need.

Wait!

“Y/n!” Bakugou bursts over the ridge and back onto marble pavement, what the fuck is he gonna do– your name won’t work twice, he’s wasted too much time. “Captain!”

You pay him no mind drifting away with your back still turned and with even less coordination than when you dragged yourself from the sea. You are deteriorating– fuck, fuck it. Bakugou, brimming with something to the left of anger, charges. If you hear him coming you do nothing to stop him. Not as he closes your distance with eight good strides and slings you over his shoulder.

"I–!" you jerk to strike instinctively, “Put me down!”

Good, you can shout. He still has time, you’re still alive. He’ll apologize for touching you later, for hesitating and staring, he will say everything he set aside in anger when you are not trying to kill yourself.

“Put me down,” you hiss like you know you’re one of three people that can make his skin prickle with threat.

“Not a chance.”

You grip the back of his tunic, clinging so wet to his body that you grab equal parts flesh and he turns away from your path to the glowing front gates all those hundreds of meters away, to kick in a door on an insignificant corner of an insignificant annex in the shadows of the castle that is only unlocked because it’s the same one he flew from, instead of his window, when he was trying not to startle you with his magic and into the sea.

You will spend summers in rainstorms and autumns in his orchids because you are Alderan and he will kill Takoban gods to get you there. Your nails on his back begin to burn with your silence and it’s haunting not only because you weigh less to him than a phantom, but because the smell of the sea follows you inside when there is no one else left to close the door. Immediately it is warmer without the wind but he will not slow until he finds fire, because you are gripping him instead of screaming again– because you are freezing to death and he will not let you win under new circumstances after he worked so hard to save you from the first.

This part of the castle is his, below the kitchens, the deep white underbelly in the cliff over the sea where no one will find him except cooks and staff who keep his secret and the queen who kindly ordered these quarters before she lost her mind. There is no difference of weight or warmth when he sets you down without a fight in front of the only red door in the hall. You aren’t a ghost. Even if you aren’t convincing. He throws the door open.

You would win in a contest but Bakugou too can make a steady fire. It’s still chirping bright in his fireplace when he crowds you inside of his quarters. Wood and furs. The smell of bread, everything so unlike Takoba. Small. Hard surfaces cushioned or covered in anticipation of winter, with red and gold and wool, forest tapestries from home– and it is a small victory that you take another step, then another, deeper inside without hint or suggestion.

“where are we?”

“You need to change,” Bakugou dismisses when you’re far enough inside to close the door, and pulls open a cherry chest of drawers at the foot of his bed. It’s draped in pelts and pillows. Faded herbs hang in bundles above you.

“have clothes in my room.”

“Didn’t ask.” When he looks over his shoulder, you are wobbling towards the fire like a starving woman, with two hands reaching subtly from your side. Good, shut up and warm up. Bakugou rifles through his options one more time and grimaces, raising his own black Alderan riding tunic aloft; it’s the only thing that’s going to be long enough to cover all of you.

He’ll sort out this shitshow step by step– dry you off, shout scream scold, get you warm, shout some more– a good Alderan lecture, and then tie you to him if he must since you obviously can’t be trusted alone. Walking into the sea when you thought everyone was sleeping. And for what? He grinds his teeth and grips the sids of his dresser with the realization that he’s probably not going to sleep again tonight. He’d kill you if that wasn’t what you so obviously wanted.

“Alright asshole, get ch–” Bakugou chokes when he turns back to you, sitting politely fireside with a dagger materialized in your good hand, blade pressed flat to your collar. He jumps, black tunic flying and shouts indiscernibly in a lunge for the weapon.

Not fast enough because by the time he makes one step, you’ve driven the blade down your chest and clear through your shirt. It falls open and your bare ribs seize in goosebumps this close to the fire, “told you I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Drop it!” He wails, as if to a dog.

Oh how you will haunt him until the end of time. A month with you, just some soldier from his castle– a prodigal apprentice in a kingdom of geniuses– an impersonable, silent, invisible guard, who should cause harm only when necessary and appear only in danger– a woman who does this job to a tee, and still somehow steals his attention to any corner of the room she conceals herself in– just a month and you have beguiled him. Reaping grim satisfaction from watching you wreak havoc in this place he loathes.

You sit in front of his fire in his secret room, half bare now that you’ve decided to cut your clothes off of yourself, and entirely bare when you run the lip of the dagger across your shoulder to catch the fabric and then rough straight down the other side. You are pink from heat and staring through him entirely unfocused, all chaotic braids and parted lips. There’s a dry track of blood smeared under your nose and he shudders to think what part of his back it was wiped on while he was carrying you away. The fingertips of your scar peek into free air. Bakugou can’t spin around fast enough, howling in anger.

You sound like you’re smiling again mournfully like last time, “following orders, sir.”

“Don’t call me that!” He roars and shoves the black tunic behind his back towards you. This room is small, maybe five paces wide, and so he sits as far as he can from you on the floor beside his bed, still within arms reach. Back turned.

What the fuck is so funny? This isn’t a headache this is sustained torture. Bakugou’s own wet clothes cling to him in dry patches of salt and stick and grit that he’s desperate to bathe away just as soon as you are tethered to another magician. In another kingdom. You breathe heavily behind him in a mismatch between effort and task and then a sopping thud reminds Bakugou that you are stripping to nothing behind him and piling your rags onto his fine rugs.

“You’re a fucking nightmare.”

“you’ll be free of me in a moment.”

And it dawns on him, seasick irony, that there isn’t a person alive in this kingdom but him who could stop you from doing a single thing.

“If you think I’m letting you out of my sight you’re concussed.”

You pause your fiddling behind him for a second before resuming and you’re close enough that he can still hear your less than methodic pulling and ripping. A huff here and there. In the seconds it takes you to speak again your voice is still laced with the amusement that makes his skin crawl, “third time I’ve told you I’m not trying to kill myself.”

“Save it– just hurry up.”

“was just saying a prayer.”

“Save. It. An excuse that fulla holes wouldn’t even work on Kirishima the naif.”

“because nothing gets past the Champion.”

Bakugou erupts, out of unwounded fists to clench, and jerks around with every intention of barking at you. He’s not sure what he pictured before turning and he’s not sure where his voice went, but you are sat beside his fire draped in his black tunic with an expression he can hardly find the words for.

What is it in the way your shoulders hang? Exhaustion? The way your chin tips or your eyes flutter? Hunger? You watch him like you’ll eat him alive, like your life is the least of his concerns. The laces at your collar drape limp over your fingers from where you gave up their tying and so the shirt hangs loose and open, and much much too big. Bakugou has never thought of the shape your sternum makes between your breasts or what color the fine hair on your thighs might be. He knows the answers now because you’ve given up on posture like a selkie out of water and everything so unlike his Captain– because something inside of you is slipping.

“don’t bother the Champion with this,” your voice is still draconian. Even as your body fails, your eyes are still dark and infinite and possessive beside the glow of his fireplace and under a window that looks out over black water, “or Lady Mina, or your Lords. Don’t worry them with me.”

Bakugou mirrors you unconsciously in the way he sits close enough to touch. Why do you say that? You keep saying it, ‘Lady Mina,’ all month the same thing. Sir Sero, like he’s not a soldier in Jeanist’s rear guard. Like Mina and Denki didn’t grow up in the castle with you all to learn magic fifteen years ago.

“They’re not,” he admits because something about you unraveling by the sea sucks the malice like marrow from his bones. Maybe something inside of him is slipping too.

The pair of you slouch on the soft rugs from home and sticky with foreign salt, looking. Your next smile seems to take every ounce of strength, “what?”

“They’re not lords.”

And in a rush, such horror ignites in the eaves of this tiny room like an Alderan dollhouse. It is a grease fire film of oil on water. He is the match. You drop your head to your shoulder and start to laugh like Bakugou isn’t watching the life evaporate from the top of your head and out his window in the heat that pinks your cheeks and blotches your chest. You laugh like you have life to spare, “course they’re not.”

You manage enough coordination to hold the chest of his tunic closed with one hand as you rise, still giggling bitter, nothing like the bells you rang for Todoroki.

“Stop–” Bakugou reaches for you as you walk past him towards the door but stops short of touching even the air.

“dream something sweet Highness, I won’t interrupt again.”

“Oi, wait–” He gathers himself awkwardly barefoot and still dripping seawater, to catch the door before you pull it open. You bow your head and reach for the knob at the same time as he manages to slam his palm and weight against it in case you decide you have enough life left to fight.

“Told you, you’re not leaving my sight.”

Maybe staring isn’t so much a habit as it is a system to keep you from collapsing under the weight of Alderan sun. You who watch the world carefully so that when you attack it is silent and succinct. As long as you’re only looking, just watching carefully, the world will never be in danger of you spilling the secrets obvious only to you, and your kingdom won’t have to acknowledge the war crimes it takes to teach a kid how to kill.

Bakugou looms above you and rests against his door on a forearm. You raise your head like it’s lead to look at him. Your mouth even opens to speak but then something like fire punches to life in the blacks of your eyes.

It’s not a blink this time, it’s a stutter at first– and your face is so flushed that it almost looks like you’re glowing– before something you see feeds the kindling to roaring. For a blessed second you aren’t smiling. You stare so deeply into your prince he can’t look away for long enough to realize that you’re reaching for him.

Why? Why are you leaning closer?

The first heat pools at the hinge of his jaw and then scalding follows. Why are your hands so hot? You pinch his earlobe between thumb and pinky and let your fingers graze over the ridges of ear just so gently that sparks itch where sweat prickles at his neck.

It’s still for a second before chills, agonizing, erupt up his spine, bone by bone as he realizes– as your prince’s face drops and his own hand jumps to reach his ears and what’s no longer there. His right hand grasps at Alderan gold, a tiny sun. His left only cups yours, so much smaller– and the ghost of your earring lost somewhere deep at sea. Six and bleeding in his hands, all grown up and at his mercy.

“I hate you.” You smile in anguish.

You don’t bother pulling your hand from his, only rest your head against the door and let your heavy eyes finally close. Nothing to hold back the freshwater tears now.

Bakugou almost isn’t fast enough in his shock to catch you when you begin to slide down the wall in collapse, “Y– shit– Y/n!” One hand pulls up on your own and the other reaches around your back to try and bring you into him instead of hard against the wooden floor like he’s still a prince and not just a man whose heart won’t stop racing.

“Y/n? Y/n,” he shuffles you in his lap where you landed, and breathes the shapes he hopes make the sound of your name as he searches, distracted. You are limp in his arms and entirely too warm to have been freezing to death a few minutes ago. Lips parted and rolling like you’re trying to speak. Running to safety with you on his shoulder, the seachill must have hidden your fever from him. He cradles your head to check for blood and holds your cheek when his fingers come out dry from your hair, "c'mon, Captain."

“majesty..”

Your heartbreaking laughter still bubbles up in quiet sobs and incoherence murmured through abandoned ego, “..m sorry,” when you manage to see through the tears for a moment before falling unconscious again. Every apology laced always with “mitsuki.” You must have been holding it back. You must have been keeping the fever at bay by sheer force of will because now on the floor against him, your body is so hot it’s making his chest clammy. Sweat has soaked into the nooks of your black tunic and pools in salt licks between your breasts. Fuck Alderan fire.

Your prince gathers your shoulders and chest, your waist hips and exhaustion, into a bundle in his arms and pulls himself up with his doorknob because he will not let you drown, he will not let you freeze, and you will not win by setting yourself on fire. As he rises, blood leaks again from your nose. Tears fall aimlessly against his heart split to six like a pomegranate. When Bakugou is king there will be no child soldiers.

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sukunas fav concubine being bullied by the other concubines?? maybe they push her into the fountain 👀👀👀

·.⌇ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. being bullied because you’re sukuna’s favorite concubine is nothing out of the ordinary. when sukuna finally notices the harassment you’re going through, he doesn’t hold back.

wc. 2.2k-ish

tags. true form!sukuna x concubine! female reader. fluff, angst (hurt to comfort). heian era. bullying. one mention of d.ecapitation. vile language. reader gets called ‘brat’. beta reading? what’s that

“she’s got nothing going on for her,” “right? i don’t get what he sees in her,” “tch—he’s only using her for her body anyway,” “duhh. he can’t be pleased by her looks. i mean, she’s really ugly. i bet he thinks of her as just ‘nother hole to use. . .”

and the shushed gossips continue. the concubines hanging around the garden have noticed your arrival, though do nothing to stop badmouthing you. they couldn’t care less if you hear what they say.

you’re used to it by now. you’ve adjusted to this life of yours as one of sukuna’s concubines. his favourite at that—which automatically makes you a victim of verbal (and sometimes physical) harassment. the other women in the ruthless sorcerer’s harem can’t stand you.

your eyes are glued to the path you’re walking on. your lady-in-waiting doesn’t utter a single word as well, holding her head low as she follows behind you. you know that the concubines will immediately pick on you if you make eye contact with one of them.

it’s moments like these where you actually miss sukuna. his intimidating presence and (in)direct threats would immediately make the others fall silent. you wouldn’t have to hear them call you nasty names.

though, unlucky you, sukuna’s out on business. uraume is left as a temporary supervisor of the entire estate. to make sure nothing goes wrong. despite all of that, you still find yourself in an unfortunate predicament.

“hey. we’re talking to you,” a female voice rings from behind you. it isn’t your lady-in-waiting, but the brown-haired woman whom you recognise as one of sukuna’s concubines. her name. . . you can’t recall.

she forcefully pushes your shoulder with two fingers. you stumble backwards, nearly tripping over the material of your kimono. you look down at the hem and notice a subtle muddy stain on the cloth now that you’ve accidentally stepped on it.

you curse the woman out under your breath. the kimono is one of your favorites since sukuna had it made and tailored to suit your taste.

“my apologies,” you mumble politely. you do not wish to make a scene as much as you want to defend yourself. not in front of those poor servants who are simply minding their business and tending to the garden.

the lady scoffs. another one joins. soon, four of them surround you, leaving you no place to escape the situation. with every step you take back, they take one forward. it’s intimidating, though you try to make it seem like you’re not afraid of their words.

“tell me,” the blonde one speaks up and her hand trails up your arm. she twirls a strand of your hair around her index finger before harshly tugging at it. you wince, but she doesn’t budge, “tell me what sukuna sees in a worthless slut like you.”

it’s about sukuna every time. you’re getting sick of the way they treat you because of something you can’t control. you don’t know why he favors you out of all the other women at his service. the way you’re treated because of something that you cannot change is getting frustrating.

the brown-haired woman follows the other lady. she pushes you until the back of your shoe bumps against the edge of a fountain. the grande fountain in the yard that you always love to admire.

the tugs at your hair get stronger. your patience is wearing thin. you take some time to reply to the other concubines, hoping to silence them for now.

you look up at the group surrounding you—a grin tugging at your lips as you decide to taunt them. you scoff, “hah. you cannot blame me for satisfying my lord better than all of you could do together.”

audible gasps sound from the group of concubines. they can’t believe you had the audacity to talk back and be disrespectful about it. the comment you made clearly struck a nerve. or in this case multiple.

“oh, you slut!” the blonde one shrieks, clearly more than upset by your doubts about her services as a concubine. in a flash of rage, she gives you a firm push, sending you backwards until you fall into the fountain with a loud splash.

your lady-in-waiting is the one gasping this time. she looks at you with great worry in her eyes, not knowing if she needs to go fetch uraume or not. she doesn’t have much say in the matter either way.

you’re humiliated by this. you can feel the water seep into the robes of your kimono, staining the beloved material. your hair is wet as well, the water droplets falling off the ends of your locks.

“pah, you look pathetic,” one of the lower ranking concubines chimes in—giggling at the unfortunate situation you got yourself in. the others follow with their own high pitched laughs, “serves you right.”

you don’t even know what you should do. your body feels heavy because of the water wetting your clothes. your nails drag along the fountain’s surface, trying to compose yourself before you do anything irrational.

you grit your teeth and take a deep breath. you’re shaking, both because of the cold settling over your body as well as the anger simmering inside of you. you open your mouth to say something, only to be interrupted.

by someone you didn’t expect to see any time soon.

“enough.”

the deep tone sends chills down your spine. the volume of the male voice nearly shakes the ground. it’s powerful, dominant and quite aggressive. as if the owner of the voice is pissed. no, more than that.

the group of concubines freeze, not even daring to turn around and face the unexpected visitor. you notice your lady-in-waiting immediately falling to her knees, bowing at the man whom you know very well.

“my lord,” you stammer out, being the first to speak up and address him. you’re surprised to see sukuna back this early from his business trip. he normally stays away from the estate for days on end.

sukuna’s footsteps are heavy. his strides are menacingly slow. the aura surrounding him makes the others shake—one concubine being smart enough to bow to him. the king of curses is not one to be messed with, especially when he’s angry.

“tsk. have you lost all your respect while i was gone?” sukuna growls, seeing how the group of concubines are frozen in place with fearful expressions on their faces. the fact that they’re not bowing before him worsens his temper, “kneel.”

he raises one hand and they all knew what was going to happen. you squeal and shut your eyes, hearing that familiar and dooming sound of slashes around you. it doesn’t sound like they’ve hit anything, so you peek through your eyelashes.

you see how the group of women have dropped to their knees the instant sukuna raised his hand in that specific manner. everyone knew just what that meant; death to anyone who’s got their head held high in his presence.

you’ve all seen enough people get decapitated by that same action to know that the sorcerer was not playing around.

sukuna scoffs. he walks up towards you, ignoring the pleas of the other concubines that are begging for his forgiveness. his bottom set of eyes look down at them with disdain before focusing on your figure again.

he silently stands still at the edge of the fountain. his large frame looms over you and you find yourself struggling to get up from the water to bow at him as well. you keep your eyes on your lap, “i’m sorry, my lord.”

sukuna hisses at your apology. a warning for you to shut your mouth. you’re apologising when it’s not your fault and that irritates him more than anything. two of his strong arms reach down to pick you up from your vulnerable position.

the king of curses hoists you over his shoulder like you weigh nothing. he’s not bothered by the fact that you’re dripping wet. in fact, both of his left arms wrap around your torso in attempt to warm you up.

“stay. you’ll all be dealt with accordingly when i return,” sukuna harshly orders your aggressors as he turns around and walks away from the group. he carries you in his arms, not sparing a single glance at his concubines.

he doesn’t even care that he stepped on one of the women’s hands as he passed by. the high pitched shriek only serves to annoy him, which you notice by the way he squeezes your waist in response.

it’s silent between you two for a bit. sukuna steps inside of the estate, his ominous aura making you hesistant to speak. you decide to stay quiet for the sake of keeping the peace. for now.

sukuna’s breathing is a little heavy. he’s trying not to lash out or say anything hurtful. he doesn’t like raising his voice at you—but sometimes he feels like he needs to. especially when you land in situations like those.

“how long has this been going on?” sukuna asks through a heavy sigh. his red eyes are focused on the end of the hallway, where his chambers lay. the veins in his neck look like they could pop out any second now, “and don’t you dare fuckin’ lie to me, y’hear?”

you gulp. you’ve never been so nervous to answer him, ever. you attempt to respond, “uhm, for quite a while, my lord.”

sukuna breathes in sharply at the revelation. the fact that you did not specify your answer only made him think that it’s worse than you’re making it out to be. he stops in his tracks, two hands on your waist as he forces you to face him.

your body dangles in the air as sukuna makes you look at him from up close, showing you that dangerous look in his eyes. you do not dare to avert your gaze from his as he speaks.

“you should’ve told me the moment they started disrespecting you like that,” sukuna grunts. another big hand grabs your jaw firmly, squeezing your cheeks together. you whine as it hurt a little. he scoffs and releases your jaw with a light push, “pathetic.”

you feel your body get thrown into your original position once more. your head is upside down and your legs hang limply over his shoulder. you try to defend yourself in a quiet tone, “i thought you were too busy. i didn’t want to bother you with such unimportant matters.”

it’s true. as much as you wanted to tell sukuna about the mistreatment you were receiving, you knew how busy he was attending to more urgent business. you didn’t want to annoy him with your own problems that you could easily solve.

if only you could stand up for yourself.

“nonsense,” sukuna raises his voice in a moment of weakness, though remembers that you’ve probably been through enough for the day. he doesn’t need to add to that by treating you like shit as well.

he simply sighs it off, “unimportant, huh? ‘s that how you think i view you?”

you raise an eyebrow at sukuna’s last sentence. you’re at a loss for words. you know sukuna values you more than any of his other concubines—it’s the main reason you’re getting bullied for—yet you never heard him speak to you in such a surprisingly soft way.

almost like he’s disappointed that you don’t realise the extent of his favoritsm. he cares about you more than you actually think he does.

“i-i’m sorry, my lord,” you stutter. you really do not have a clue about what to say. all you can do is apologise as you’re left overthinking that one little sentence he said.

“what a brat,” sukuna quickly regains his usual stoic and stern composure. he reaches his chambers and enters his personal bathroom before putting you down on your feet. he looks down at your short stature, feeling the warmth of your body leave his skin once you’re separated.

sukuna watches you shiver. he wants to get angry at you for not telling him about anything that’s been going on while he’s not present, though he simply cannot at the moment.

he’ll let you off the hook for now. but, he’s surely going to give you your own special scolding after he’s taken care of the other concubines. the man grabs a large towel from nearby and messily wraps it around your upper body.

sukuna turns around to walk out of his bathroom, looking over his shoulder once more, “get dressed into something else before you catch a cold.”

he calls for a couple servants to tend to you while he’s away to take care of those deviant concubines. sukuna watches the three maids rush to your service, preparing you a new set of clothes as well as trying to dry you off.

his gaze lingers on you for more than is necessary, his jaw clenching at the sight of you trembling from the low temperatures you’re experiencing. sukuna’s going to make sure those other women pay for what they’ve done to you.

he leaves the bathroom after that, though not without leaving you an order to follow;

“you’re staying in my chambers tonight.”

i am recieving lots of questions as to why i am not in contact with abbie, and heres what i have to say about the matter --

DISCOURSE mentions of pedophiles, comments towards minors, so on..

1) me and abbie’s friendship had taken a rocky start, where the first time she had interacted with anything of mine, was her replying under a post where i thanked my followers for reaching 2k, in which she had said something along the lines of; "woah 2k you have nearly 4x my following" which, could be brushed off as admiration/support. i found it flat-out weird since i think comparing yourself and someone else is completely weird in itself especially being a first impression – and it only gets weirder with time. while abbie’s and my friendship progresses. abbie had took it upon herself to post about creating a collab with me, without my prior knowledge to the fact we were to maybe do a collab together. After that, friend x, comes into the story and he invites me and abbie to join a server (the people in said server are lovely, and have no relevance, and dont play any part in any malicious things mentioned to be done by abbie, and generally aren’t involved in the situation, outside of the second paragraph).

2) Once we joined the server, abbie had been nice, and sweet in general to all members of the server, which i had no issues, or no comments about. However, something peaked my attention, when writers in said server began to exchange tumblr users with abbie, she had immediately acted as if she had known/read the work from those writers, despite saying “she only writes jjk for the notes” while those said writers were predominately jjk writers. Now the real issue applies when abbie begins to bring up follower counts, as she had previously done with me, mentioned above.  I was viewing, but wasn’t fairly active in the chat, i had seen my url come up alongside one other writers, being mentioned by abbie. Someone had brought up the fact that said writer was famous, to which abbie responded, agreeing and calling them famous alongside the other people. Someone had told abbie “you’re famous too abbie” in which they had a playful back and forth about their followers. i hadn’t been involved, let alone hadn’t been adding to the conversation, aside from me encouraging and supporting those who had mentioned their follower count. Abbie had begun bringing me into the thing they had going on, saying “SAELESTIA AND @(URL) ARE FAMOUS” “RAIN IS MORE FAMOUS THAN ME” etcetc.

Side note ; abbie had come to me while on the discussion of a previous situation happening on tumblr, about how, “if it were to happen to her, she would change her name to ares” which caught me off guard, as a long term online friend of mine’s name is ares, and had a few days prior, sent an ask to my inbox, addressing himself for the first time on this blog. 

(Click to Read Full. )

3) I hadn’t brought the topic up to anyone, aside from friend x, i had told friend x that “if i texted abbie about important things, she wouldn’t care unless it is something to do with my followers” as i had begun growing more suspicious as to why she had been doing the things she was/acting the way she is. Friend x had suggested i a.) drop abbie, or b.) sort out miscommunications, as after i did end up following through with asking/telling abbie about stuff i had found important, such as ; a friends art, my puppies opening their eyes, me getting an 100 on an exam, me having an upcoming exam, etc. to which she had simply responded with “oh?” until i had mentioned that i had reached 3k. She had immediately begun typing in caps, calling me famous and so on. 

4) After i had sent that message, i had sent the screenshots to friend x, who had begun to see the way that abbie was acting had affected me. Friend x had advised me to drop abbie, but i had wanted another opinion incase i was looking too deep into the matter. I had begun to talk to friend y. Friend y had immediately understood and agreed with my concerns about abbie, and was being very respectful and helpful with the matter. I had question abbie as to why she only excitedly responded to my message when it was about my followers, to which she’d respond how she didn’t see anything else as worth caring about. ( in the screenshots above and below)

5) Abbie had then reached out to friend x, asking them for advice on how to pursue the situation with me, which i found odd, considering:

1. Abbie has used the fact she has communication issues to avoid conflict, while also stating she likes and enjoys drama. 

2. Abbie hadn’t brought these issues to me. 

after a discussion with abbie, friend x, had given abbie a little bit of advice, and what he thought was input on how i felt, to which, abbie had come out with excuses for herself as to why she had been acting the way she was. Saying how she couldn’t tell when i was “joking or being serious.” but any person who could pick up on social cues could realize/pick up on a joke based on the joking tone. From then, abbie had apologized, one sentence, and without any accountability being held. In response, i said “k” and hadn’t texted her all day, my final text being one of me dropping her. In response to me blocking + dropping her, she went to the server that was mentioned earlier, and ranted in the vent channel that her life sucks because i dropped her, while also providing little to no context as for why.

6) After being informed that i was still in the groupchat, she had went out of her way to dm friend z about her side of the situation, still leaving out key details. Friends x and y had felt bad for the stuff abbie was saying, and had both reached out to friend z to let her know the truth about the situation, after which abbie would continue to talk about me, resulting in me sending out a second message, and eventually needing a third. After the final message, abbie had blocked me, changed her discord url, and her display name to mirinae, and jinko. recently, a new account has surfaced on tumblr, and has been shared to me by others. the url belonging to abbie, who has begun acting like a friend of herself. after i left the collab, she was persistant on regrouping friend z into her collab, in attempt to save her collab, rather than hosting on her own.

7) Now you might be thinking, how does this situation become more serious? In between the story, abbie has done other things to further cause distaste, and discomfort between her, x, y, z and myself. General Summarized List

Being upset when me and x jokingly flirt in front of her

Calling friend z (who’s a minor) “bae” 

Sympathizing for a ped0phille

Supporting a racist artist

Victimizing herself 

Manipulating and guilt-tripping people into joining her collab after i had left

Misgendering someone

Misgenering X countless of times (despite them going by the same pronouns the entire time we’ve known him.)

She then blocked me, changed her discord url to Jinko, and mirinae. Her new account is @mirinae, her old blog was haithamvoid and that is all i have to say as of now.

𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 - 𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐲𝐚𝐦 𝐬𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐲 | 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

with näytle's birthday arriving soon, neteyam rushes to get her a gift, consulting his youngest sister for some help.

– pairings: neteyam x oc

– warning: fluff, canon divergent, cross-posted on wattpad, not edited!

– author's note: as requested by @xoxobabe , this oneshot is part 2 to this oneshot! i recommend reading it first before this one!

“Neteyam! Neteyam!”

The said older brother turned around with a confused glance before his eyes landed on the youngest of his sisters. Tuktirey ran towards her brother with the widest of grins, a small, unknown beaded item in her hands.

“Tuk? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Neteyam rushed to the thirteen-year-old’s side, kneeling down to her height as he lifted her arms to check for wounds.

Despite the six years the Sully family had returned to the rest of the Omaticaya clan, Tuk’s spirit remained young, almost as though she was still seven. And she explored the Pandoran forests with just as much vigour and wonder.

“No, I’m okay, Nete!” Tuk grinned. “But look what Näytle made me! I saw her by the river picking up some pebbles, and I told her how pretty they were, and she gathered some string and made an anklet for me! Isn’t it beautiful?”

Neteyam gently dropped Tuk’s arm, glancing at the anklet that Tuk raised up at him in excitement. Little blue pebbles glimmered in the light, surrounded by brown streaks of leather. The young man wondered if she had been planning to weave something in the first place, and it was just luck that his youngest sibling had stumbled upon his match.

He hummed in thought. Her birthday would be approaching soon, and he couldn’t find a gift that could match her radiant personality, her enchanting grin, and her wonder-struck eyes. He needed to think of a gift fast… and maybe this was his chance.

Gently taking the woven accessory, Neteyam rubbed his thumb against the shiny stones before looking at Tuk inquisitively.

“Tuk-Tuk, do you know… could– could you teach me how to weave?” Neteyam looked over at Tuk hesitantly, almost as though embarrassed that he didn’t know much about how to weave. 

Now, Neteyam was a master of many things; tracking, making the perfect, clean kill, and being the bravest warrior in his home clan. He even adopted the culture of the Metkayina clan and was the diplomat between his siblings and the Metkayina Olo’eyktan’s children. 

But one thing Neteyam could not grasp the concept of… was weaving. 

When Kiri and Lo’ak had decided to make Tuk a reef loincloth as a welcoming gift to warm her up to their temporary new home by the sea, he had only gathered the dried seeds. He was embarrassed to say that he had messed up the braiding of the leather strands so badly, that Kiri had taken over weaving the cloth pieces together.

Ever since then, Neteyam had never touched the topic of weaving, living in fear of being ridiculed for his lack of knowledge or skill in it. 

Tuk raised her browline at her brother’s sudden interest to learn, remembering how reluctant he was to relearn her hobby. A smile grew on her grin as she came to a realisation, scooching closer towards her eldest brother.

“If I help teach you how to weave a pretty bracelet for Näytle, what’s in it for me?” She smirked slyly.

“I never said that I wanted to weave her anything!” Neteyam protested, but the warmth in his cheeks was what gave him away as Tuk nodded her head with her sneakiest grin.

“No, but you sure implied it when you asked me to teach you what you hate to do.”

Neteyam stuttered, wondering where his sister had learned to be so cunning. 

He finally let out a huff of annoyance, realising that if he didn’t ask her, he would never learn how to weave, as Kiri would be too hands-on, taking over if he made the slightest mistake. And Lo’ak would be quite useless, laughing at his every error until he would feel like giving up. Tuk was the nicest and most forgiving person to teach him if anything.

“Fine,” Neteyam scowled, sitting down beside his sister. “I’ll let you join us on our weekly tracking sessions.”

“Then it’s a deal!” Tuk grinned from ear to ear. “Now all you gotta do is be patient, and watch carefully…”

“Tuktirey are you sure you are teaching me the right method? Because this looks terrible!”

“Nete, you’re being too impatient,” Tuk groaned, untangling the mess her brother had made of the leather strands.

Two days had passed, and the bracelet was almost done. But unfortunately, Neteyam’s impatience had begun to drag him down.

The youngest Sully gently pulled the beads and pebbles that her brother had carefully selected for his beloved, placing them on the ground as she used her demonstrating leather strings to show him the right way to weave the band once again.

“Watch carefully. And take it in slowly,” Tuk eyed her brother. “You still have time to give the gift to her. It is not like her birthday is tomorrow.”

Neteyam frowned, his browline furrowed before he let out a sigh. He remained silent, letting his thoughts consume him as he slowly followed Tuk’s actions, the brown strings overlapping one another as he added one bead to the ribbon.

What if it looked messy? What if she didn’t like it? What if he disappointed her so terribly?

“Neteyam.”

What if after knowing him better she thought that he was just an average member of the clan? Would she leave him for someone better?

“Neteyam!”

Tuk’s voice cut the thoughts short, the eldest son turning his head around to look at her as the beads in his hair softly knocked against one another. Tuk knew that he was lost in his thoughts, and as much as she loved her brother, his only downfall was how scared he was of failure.

Tuk let out a soft sigh, placing her hand on Neteyam’s shoulder, the future Olo’eyktan watching her movement in confusion.

“Don’t worry so much about how it looks,” Tuk smiled gently. “You’re making a great effort and I know that she’s going to love it, whether it’s messy or not.”

Neteyam’s expression softened, a small smile growing as Tuk continued to weave, her brother watching as he copied, adding more glittering beads and small stones. He smiled to himself, glad to have his sister help him try. He was glad that his growing affection for Näytle gave him a reason to try.

“Tuk-Tuk?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you. For your patience,” Neteyam smiled softly.

“I’m always happy to help you, Nete,” Tuk smiled, completing the demonstrative bracelet. “But I’m glad you put in the effort.”

Neteyam looked down, discovering that he had finished the bracelet sooner than he expected. He lifted the string, passing the accessory to Tuk, who secured it all together tightly so that the beads wouldn’t fall out.

“Now don’t forget the promise you made me,” Tuk grinned cheekily, Neteyam chuckling as he ruffled her braided hair.

“Never, Tuktirey. Even if I did, you’d never let me forget it!”

Tuk giggled along with her brother, the two smiling as the youngest sibling handed the now-completed bracelet back to her brother.

“Good! Now go and think about how you’re gonna give her the gift,” Tuk pat her brother’s back proudly. “We can’t have two days of effort go to waste if you’re going to be a bumbling mess.”

“Really Tuk-Tuk?” Neteyam deadpanned, huffing playfully with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

The young man’s sly grin grew, lunging towards his sister as his fingers ran all over his younger sister’s torso. Her howls of laughter filled the air as she struggled to push her brother off.

“I was joking! I swear!”

Näytle’s birthday had finally rolled around and Neteyam watched from afar the woman he had grown fond of, sitting by the same river Tuk had found her by previously. His breath was slightly shaky as he fiddled with her gift nervously.

As weeks passed from the day they had met, he had grown to see her as a trusted friend, and his affection for her surely grew with every passing day. He began to see the world around her through her eyes, just like his father had done with his mother, and he loved every bit of it.

He took in a deep breath, internally praying to the Great Mother that he wouldn’t look like a fool as he heard her voice humming a little melody. Slowly, Neteyam approached his partner, a soft smile gracing his face as he saw the way she turned to face him.

“Teyam!”

His heart fluttered at the way her smile grew. The way she was so eager to see him, to be with him. He watched the way she stood up as she walked towards him, the young man taking a few steps towards her as well.

“Oel ngati kameie,” Neteyam grinned as she hugged him tight.

He buried himself in her presence, hugging her just as tightly back. When they pulled away, he missed her warmth, but calmly brought his hand up to her cheek, resting his larger palm on it.

“I missed you,” Näytle placed her hand atop of his, leaning into his touch. “When you didn’t show up I was concerned.”

“I apologise, my love,” He pecked her forehead as she flushed. “But I heard from a little bird that it was your birthday, and I simply had to get you a gift.”

“Teyam,” Her eyes widened and a small smile appeared. “You didn’t have to get me a gift. Your presence is simply enough.”

“Well, I couldn’t help myself. So I…” Neteyam took in a sharp inhale. “I made you this.”

Neteyam’s grip on the bracelet loosened as he held the item out before her. He heard her gasp, watching as awe and adoration growing clear on her visage while she gently held the item. 

He saw the way she smiled, a smile of his own creeping onto his face. He tilted his head, finding her expressions adorable as her tail gave away her excitement.

“Do you like it?” He hummed, watching the way she nodded.

“Yes, yes! I love it, Teyam! It’s beautiful,” She placed her hand on his cheek before pecking him briefly on his lips.

Neteyam’s eyes widened and his pupils dilated as he felt his heart pump harder. His smile grew wider as he gently took the bracelet in his hands again. It was that moment when he let all his doubts fade away.

It was the moment that he saw how genuinely happy he made her. How her glowing smile and love-filled eyes were caused by him.

“Would you like me to put it on for you?”

“Of course,” She hummed as he held her wrist gently, almost as though she were made of glass.

Neteyam gently tied the string around her wrist, admiring the way her smile shone so brightly. He tugged at the string softly, just as how she had tugged at his heartstrings. Finally, it was around her wrist, and he had never felt more pride swell in his chest than he did at that moment.

He was definitely going to thank Tuk for her help with a lot more tracking sessions later.

“I love it, so so much,” Näytle whispered in awe, looking up at him as she held the bracelet. “I’m never going to take it off.”

With the way she had said it so seriously, Neteyam let out a boisterous laugh, genuinely happy that she had adored his gift so much so that she would never let it go. He hoped that she’d do the same with his heart.

“Ma Näytle,” He cooed, pushing some stray strands of hair behind her pointed blue ear. “I see you. And I’m glad that we were matched.”

She smiled up at him, tip-toeing as she placed a soft kiss on his forehead before she cupped both his cheeks. She hummed, placing another kiss on his lips as he wrapped his arms around her waist, trying to hold her closer than he possibly could.

The two lovers then pulled away, Näytle’s hands still gently cupping Neteyam’s cheeks as she rested her forehead on his, trying her best to steady her rapid heartbeat.

“Ma Teyam,” He still adored the way his name rolled off her tongue.

“I couldn’t have agreed more.”

theme inspired by @aokoaoi !

gif by @peace--n--love

taglist: @mooncleaver @moonie-writings @peacelovepandora @neteyams-tsahik

— dm me if you want to be apart of my taglist!

Brilliant Girl

A/N: I just remembered how much I love BBC’s Sherlock so have him bonding with a tiny genius who is also brushed off and misunderstood. Also the reader is like ten, so she sounds/is a bit mature but is still not taken seriously bc of her age (based on how my ten year old brother acts, so it’s realistic lol)

Warnings: just fluff

Word count: almost 1k

~~~~

“But why doesn’t dad just look at his shoes?”

Sherlocks head snapped up from the paper he was reading, gaze landing on the ten year old sitting on the couch in the break room.

“Your dad is very busy, Y/n,” Donovan said, annoyance slipping into her voice as she handed the girl a coloring book and some crayons. Y/n took them with a sigh and Donovan left the small room. Sherlock covered his surprise when she actually stopped to talk to him. She tilted her head toward the girl.

“Lestrades daughter, Y/n. She’s not right in the head, that one. Lestrade had to bring her with today. She laid down next to the body we had just found. What reason could anyone have for doing that?” She seemed to remember she was talking to Sherlock and her nose turned up. “Although I suppose you’d do the same.”

Without another mean word, she turned on her heel and left.

Sherlock hadn’t visited this particular crime scene Donovan had mentioned; he’d been at the grocery buying tea for John after burning it for an experiment. (Conclusion to the experiment; John got very angry when he didn’t have his specific kind of tea. Never burn it again.) So, naturally, he was curious about what had happened. And why a little girl would lay down next to a dead body.

Glancing around, Sherlock quickly stood and made his way into the break room, stopping in front of the little girl. She looked up from her coloring, regarding him with interest.

“I know who you are.” She said simply. “You’re very smart.” With that she resumed her coloring.

Sherlock let the surprise linger on his face for a moment longer than he normally would before squatting down in front of her.

“What were you saying about that man’s shoes?”

She sighed and looked up again. “You’re not gonna listen to me either. None of the adults do. They’re too busy.”

“I’m not. I promise.”

She gave him a long look, setting her coloring aside before speaking. “His shoes were wrong.”

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Well, they were wrong. They were too big, and they were green. He was wearing a purple suit; he wouldn’t have worn green shoes.” She stated obviously.

“How did you know they were too big?” He asked as he shifted to sit on the floor. The girl peered out the door into the hallway, sitting back with a disappointed look on her face.

“He’s not here. You know the army doctor you’re always with?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “John Watson?”

“Yes him. The man was shorter than he was.”

“Is that why you were laying on the floor? You were measuring?” He interrupted. She nodded, eyes lighting up.

“Yes! And the shoes were almost as big as yours,” she reached down and touched a spot a few centimeters from the end of the detectives shoes. “Right there. They looked like clown shoes, but nobody would take me seriously.” She huffed. “‘They’re not that big, Y/n.’ ‘People have big feet sometimes.’”

“Someone said that to you?” He asked, face pinching in what could be considered sympathy. She nodded.

“My dad and Miss Donovan.”

Sherlock tisked, unfortunately, able to relate to the young girl. “They’re all very small minded. Just ignore them. What else did you see?”

“Well, the shoes had mud on them.”

“Really?” A lock of dark hair fell across his face as Sherlock tilted his head. “What did it look like?”

“Like splatters. But he didn’t have mud on his trousers, which was odd.”

“Are you sure of that?” She nodded.

“It was like somebody else gave him their shoes.” She said thoughtfully. “Except it was probably the bad guy.”

“What makes you say that?” He asked.

“There was a name on the bottom of the shoes.” She said. “Written in the mud. Mr Anderson made it come off when he moved the dead man.”

“Of course he did. The idiot.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do you remember the name?”

“Yeah. Dads been talking about him for a while. It said Jim. Jim Moriarty.”

Sherlock nearly jolted with excitement. “You’re sure?”

She nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. But you’re probably gonna say what Miss Donovan did. I imagined it, cause it wasn’t there when they looked again.”

“You didn’t imagine it.” Sherlock said with surprising gentleness as he stood. “You’re very bright, Y/n. Now, if you’d like to come with me, we’re telling your father about this.”

“We are?” She asked excitedly, jumping off the couch to join him.

“Of course.” He said, taking her hand. “The game is afoot, little Lestrade.”

~~~

_______

(Bonus Scene)

~ ~ ~

Lestrade sighed, dragging a hand over his face before glancing up at the duo standing in his office.

“So, taken to my daughter, have you Sherlock?” He asked tiredly.

“Well, if you can’t nurture her mind she’ll turn into a female M-o-r-i-a-r-t-y,” he spelt quickly. “So if you won’t, then I will.”

Lestrade sighed in frustration. “You don’t even like children!”

“Well yours happens to be exceptionally bright, and holds a better conversation than most adults. So, Graham, are you going to listen to her now?”

“It’s Greg,” he muttered, sighing again before looking at his daughter. “Alright then, love. What have you got?”

Te little girl grinned excitedly, looking to Sherlock. He gave her an encouraging wink and she looked back to her father.

“The man had a name on his shoes, dad...”

~~~

_______

(End)

this is Dee's reaction to discovering metalcest and other sick ships in the fandom.

𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 - 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨 𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮

gojo satoru and himiko nakamura have always been rivals, however, working on the same movie has put himiko at her limits.

my masterlist !

✭ pairings: gojo satoru x oc actor! au

✭ warning: gojo's probably out of character, the ending's rushed as hell. actor au.

✭ author’s note: got sick of this just sitting in my drafts tbh

✭ word count: 1.5k words

disclaimer: i’m not of japanese descent and am unfamiliar with japanese honorifics, etc. feel free to correct me!

Himiko hated everything about him. She hated his brilliant blue eyes that glimmered like ocean waves, his charming grin that brought every woman to his knees, and most of all, she hated that he knew how to press every one of her buttons. Every. Single. Time.

At this point, it was well known that the two were rivals in the industry, and it was entertaining for all to see; both actors and fanbases.

And unfortunately, it was during their meeting for a chemistry read that Himiko found out that Gojo Satoru was, a little too eagerly in her opinion, playing the main character. She wouldn’t have minded that fact one bit if it weren’t for the luck she had, scoring her role in the film as his love interest. ‘Quite the dastardly bit of luck,’ she groaned to herself.

She felt her eye twitch as he waltzed into the studio with his cocky smirk as per usual, it was rare to ever see him without it. His circular dark blue sunglasses didn’t hide the mischievous shine in his eyes, and Geto Suguru walked in, his brown eyes grazing over every little detail of the studio. The two were known to never be apart, almost appearing in every film together, with a rare few exceptions.

However, the moment Gojo’s sky-blue eyes met her lilac ones, she knew from the way his smile grew that he wouldn’t be leaving her alone anytime soon.

“If it isn’t little Miss Nakamura!”

“Impale me now,” Himiko sighed, turning to her agent, Chizuru. “Must I work with this… moron?”

Chizuru scrolled through her phone, her thumb flicking the screen, tucking the silky stray strands behind her ear as Himiko’s lilac eyes stabbed into Gojo’s lanky figure, his best friend, another fellow actor with black hair and brown eyes lurking behind him. A click of Chizuru’s tongue was enough to tell Himiko everything.

“Unfortunately, yes…” Chizuru winced, “The movie’s set to be one of the biggest names this year, and if you back out now, it’s going to be a great loss for both your reputation and in terms of revenue. It’s a little late for that in my opinion.”

The shorter woman then leaned closer to Himiko, whispering in the fierce lady’s ear, her voice barely audible over the blasting of the air conditioning, “Besides, as your cousin, I just say go for it. Grit your teeth and bear it – in the end, you’re probably never gonna see his face again.”

Himiko dragged her manicured hand down her face, her black nails softly scratching against the side of her face in irritation, her lilac eyes rolled back at the pesky white-haired man in the room. 

“Bargain for me,” Himiko sighed, crossing her arms as she made her way to the seats where the men all stood around, and she watched Gojo interact with the directors and producers with a ridiculous amount of energy that he could’ve been mistaken for a child in a candy shop, “I’d like a higher pay as compensation for dealing with his stupidity. I’ll add a small percentage to your pay as thanks for handling my nonsense.”

Chizuru sighed, fixing her bun the slightest, pocketing her phone, “You got it, Miss Nakamura. Just don’t try to tear his face off while I’m gone.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” The star huffs, hearing her younger cousin leave the room with the ‘click!’ of the studio’s door.

Seeing how much the man-child she despised with a burning sense of rivalry managed to light a fuse of anger in the producer, Utahime Iori; an already well-established actress often known to be patient, amused the lilac-eyed actress. At least she wasn’t the only one who felt a tingling sense of irritation at the sight of Gojo Satoru.

Himiko felt her irritation build as Gojo sauntered his way towards her, his friend watching from the corner of the studio, his arms crossed as he watched Gojo’s antics towards the irked actress.

“Nakamura! Have you watched my latest movie? It’s a box office hit, as per usual,” Gojo smirked, Himiko’s hands on her hips as she raised her eyebrows.

“No, I didn’t watch it. I don’t waste my time on cheap catchphrases and explosion effects, Gojo,” Himiko huffs, Gojo opens his mouth again to say something back, but the clearing of a throat pulls him out as he turns to the blonde man in the room.

Nanami Kento, the director of the whole film, rubbed his temples in annoyance, his baritone voice muttering silent curses at Gojo before beginning with a tone of a sigh.

“Please, Gojo,” Nanami sighed. “Let’s get started on the chemistry read between the both of you.”

Gojo shrugged with a smile, “No objections here!”

Reluctantly, Himiko sat herself at the table, joining the younger director and the thorn in her side. Despite Nanami being younger, she admired him quite a bit, and it was enough to keep her around for the movie – with the exception of the paycheck, of course.

Himiko eyed Gojo’s partner-in-crime, Geto Suguru, as he sat on the couch behind them, her thumb pointing back at Suguru with her voice low towards Nanami, “What’s he doing here?”

“Moral support, ever heard of it, Nakamura?” Gojo smiled over at Himiko with a teasing smile, leaning closer to whisper in her ear. “Don’t worry about him, he’s harmless.”

Himiko grimaces, gently pushing Gojo with two of her fingers, Geto snickering from behind them in amusement. He could clearly see why his best friend liked to irritate her, and she made it all the more fun by not lashing out like Utahime does. Her annoyance with Gojo’s antics was like a pressure cooker, building up until it exploded.

“Now, we’ll be recording this whole session,” Nanami spoke, dismissing Gojo’s antics, “We’ll let you know when we start rolling the cameras. I assume you both have memorised your lines?”

“Of course, who do you think we are, amateurs?” Gojo chuckled, not missing the way Nanami rolled his eyes.

“Then we’ll start in three… two… action.”

Himiko takes a deep breath before turning to Gojo, running her hand through her hair, getting into character, her expression morphing the moment her eyes meet Gojo’s.

He can almost feel his heart wrench with the hurt in her eyes, and he sees exactly why she’s made it as far as she has as a rising actress. The crack in her voice really sells it all for him.

“So what now?” She whispers, her eyes filled with betrayal and ruin, “You’re just gonna take off and leave me alone again?”

Tears began to appear in her eyes, and Gojo felt his heart lurch seeing her pretty lilac eyes all glossy and shiny, tears falling from her eyes that glimmered like amethysts. His hands reached up to touch her cheeks, his expression softening into a matching one of heartbreak.

“Baby, that’s… that’s not it at all,” He shakes his head, his voice soft. “I promise, I promise I’ll come back. I could never leave you, not even if I tried.”

“Then stay.”

Gojo couldn’t tell if it was the way she leaned into his palm when she said it, or if it was her watery amethyst eyes, but it made a knot grow in his stomach. He tucks her ebony hair behind her ear, cupping her cheeks as his thumb swipes over her waterline.

“I’ll stay,” He whispered, “Just for tonight. Just for tonight, I’m yours.”

“I don’t want it to be just for tonight,” Her hand clasped his, tearing it away from her face as she entwined her fingers with his, “I want to be by your side as long as you’ll have me, whether it’s for months or years.”

Himiko’s heart fluttered like a bird in her chest having Gojo’s blue eyes staring so intently at her, so gently, as though just the slightest touch of his fingers would break her.

She couldn’t deny that he was attractive, it was a worldwide fact at this point – however, Himiko refused to boost Gojo’s ego further, even if she couldn’t help the pink blush that grew on her cheeks as Gojo’s face neared hers.

“Then I guess we’re stuck together for a long time,” He cupped her cheeks again, leaning down to gently press his forehead on hers. Himiko’s breathing hitched as he softly placed his lips on hers.

She felt her eyes slowly close and her lips glide over his soft ones, their kiss soft and gentle, and she felt herself get lost in his touch, letting herself lean into his touch as he still cupped her face.

“And, that’s a wrap,” Nanami called out, the two actors pulling away, Himiko’s cheeks dusted with a warm shade of pink as her frown returned, clearing her throat into her fist. She could feel Satoru’s eyes on the back of her neck as she turned back to Nanami, smiling at him as she put on her façade of confidence.

Utahime’s was one of disgust, but really, when was she ever not disgusted at Gojo?

“That concludes today’s session, so you’re both free to go. Thank you,” The blonde-haired man curtly nodded his head. He didn’t say much, only turning to Utahime as the two began to talk in hushed whispers, Geto lingering around as Himiko dashed out, Gojo following hot on her trail.

Neither began to question why they returned on set a few weeks later, holding hands, and a scarf around Himiko’s neck despite the warm weather.

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