#6:17am | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonlight-canavalia · 5 months

Text

Ch 3: It’s Love Isn’t It?

Pair: Satoru Gojo x F! Reader

Summary: Gojo doesn’t realize how much time has gone by while on a mission and misses a date you two had planned.

Cw: Bit of Angst, Smut,Mirror Sex, Bathroom Sex, Fluff, Pet Names, P in V sex, Teasing

It’s surprising how quick 6 months have gone by. Gojo had been talking up how amazing this date was going to be. Nothing was gonna come in between this celebration since last month the both of you were on different missions. And this marks half a year together.

At least that was what you thought.

Trying to call Gojo once again, nothing. The line rings and goes to voicemail after a few seconds. “The reservation was for 3 hours ago. You told me this was going to be quick. But here I am. Still waiting. You better have a good excuse. Bye.” Hanging up you throw your phone to the side.

“Oh I can’t wait. What is he gonna say tomorrow?” You think, knowing in the back of your mind this can happen at any moment. Gojo’s schedule is hectic; days for relaxation are rare. But you can’t help the way you feel. Getting ready for bed you decide to leave your phone away from you. Sleep isn’t easy to come by that night, but in the middle of all the tossing and turning your tired body finally succumbs to sleep.

Unknown to you Gojo is finally done with his mission. Furious and cursing himself for letting it drag on for this long. Finally being able to check his phone he’s met with all your missed calls and text messages. Seeing how late it was he still has some hope you were up. Ready to get some take out and wind down with you he tries calling. The line rings and rings, but you don’t pick up.

The white haired male hasn’t felt this defeated in a while, he’s come to the conclusion you’ve fallen asleep. Not wanting to disturb you he decides to go to his apartment alone. “Tomorrow”—he thinks—“I'll try making it up to you.”

Not being able to get you out of his mind he quickly sends a text “I’ll try making it up to you, my Angel, I didn’t expect this to take this long. I wasn’t able to give you a heads up, there was a lot going on.”

3:22AM reads the clock hanging on the wall at the entrance of his apartment.

Scoffing at the clock he takes off his shoes and starts making his way to the bathroom for a quick shower. Leaving a trail of his clothes behind him.

Turning on the water, he gets in. The shock of the first few seconds of cold water is quickly replaced by the welcoming hot temperature. Groaning under the stream he feels his muscles relax, he can feel the water washing the tension away. Reaching out to grab his body wash he grabs the one you’ve left, by mistake. With tiredness clouding his mind he hadn't noticed until the sweet scent of peaches invaded his senses. He feels like you’re there for a moment until he remembers you’re probably deep in dreamland.

Finishing up his shower he grabs a towel. Drying off and putting on some fresh clothes he makes his way to his bedroom; grabbing his phone on the way. Sitting on his bed, he’s thinking what is the best thing to send you. You’re probably mad at him or irritated at most. He knows you understand where he stands, he knows you’ll be there for him. But also acknowledges that you can still be upset. That’s why he’s unsure on what to write. Should he just explain himself and say he’ll try to not let it happen again? No. He can’t. Gojo knows how hectic his schedule is and missions don’t come with a set end date or hour. So it’s best to not lie that way.

He comes up with a simple one.

‘I tried calling but it’s late, you’re probably sleeping right now. I didn’t expect it would take this long. I’ll see you tomorrow Angel.’

Sending the message he still has the need to add more to it. So that’s exactly what he does.

‘I hope you’re sleeping well.’

‘I miss you :(‘

‘Can you wake up already.’

‘You stink.’

‘Last message is a lie. But can you wake up already? I can't sleep!’

Checking his phone for the time it reads 5:17AM.

Sleep isn’t coming for him and he knows it. So he decides to go and grab some snacks at a convenience store and warp to your apartment. You’re supposed to have the day off and Gojo is going to make this day free for him too.

Three phone calls later and you still haven’t picked up. He was begging to worry that you were actually pissed and didn’t want to talk to him. But none of the messages had been opened yet. It’s barely 7AM so you just have to be sleeping still, he tells himself to not break his heart a little. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever think he’d be so worried about having someone be mad at him. He annoys people for fun, some ignore him and others get away from him when he gets too much. But just the idea of you not wanting to speak to him makes his stomach tie itself in knots even if he doesn’t want to admit it.

Warping into your apartment he walks around to your kitchen. Sometimes you sleep with your door open so he doesn't want to turn the lights on and disturb you just yet. It’s bright enough for him to see his way around. The sun is starting to come in with its early rays of light. Leaving the snacks and microwaveable food on the countertop he starts making his way to your room.

Stopping to admire your sleeping figure he takes his phone out and snaps a quick picture before walking towards you. He asks himself how did someone like you end up with someone like him. It’s a question he’s asked himself time and time again. Maybe one day he’d get his answer; but for now he’s happy it happened. The pure warmth he feels just looking at you makes him want to scream. But he decides on just sitting beside you while you’re on your side. Gently shaking you to wake you up.

“Good morning Angel” he says in a hushed tone, voice so low it’s almost foreign. He laughs at the small jump and deep breath you take.

“What the fuck” is the first thing that slips out of your mouth, surprised by him being there.

“Well not exactly ‘good morning love of my life’ but I’ll take it, sweetheart.” He says while leaning in to press a kiss on your forehead. “You are absolutely breathtaking. Maybe it’s your breath though.” Before he can start laughing you hit his arm. Pouting he rubs his arm in fake pain. “Why are you being so mean so early in the morning?”

Groaning at him while you stretch your body to find a comfortable position as Gojo slips right beside you under the bed sheets.

“What are you doing here?” Voice still a little hoarse with sleep. “What time is it?” You ask touching under your pillows trying to find your phone. Coming to halt once you remember you left it in the living room.

Humming to himself Gojo starts off “Well I’ve been trying to call you. But I can see you don’t have your phone near you.”

“No. I don’t.” You snap, turning away from him.

“I can sense that you’re irritated. But I really didn’t think it would take that long. It just happened and come on,” -lowering his voice to a bare whisper- “I missed you so bad I’m here. I haven’t even slept.” He says throwing his arm over you—pulling you closer to him.

Nestling against you he starts littering your neck with quick pecks trying to coax you to at least turn towards him. You know he didn’t do it on purpose and you could see it on his face how tired he is. “Did you really not sleep?” Your voice cuts through his onslaught of kisses.

“Nope.” He answers and hides again in the crook of your neck.

How can he still sound so upbeat? He has to be so tired and you can feel him grinning against your skin.

Gojo knows you can’t stay mad at him for long and he’s grateful for it. All he wants is to spend the day with you—everyday really—but he will settle for this right now… Maybe he’ll ask you to move in together. ‘One day’ he assures himself. He already knows you’re it for him, he’s known it since you both met. But he doesn’t want to scare you away. He will do it, he will make you his wife one day.

At his lack of words you reach back and pat his face. He gives a quick peck to the palm of your hand, letting out a small sigh you turn to face him. First thing you see is his bright smile. The smile reserved just for you, an honest one.

“Hi, am I gonna get my kiss or not?” he asks—draping his arm around your waist—“I missed you.”

You feel warmth spread across your body looking at him. Giving in, you get close enough to whisper against his lips “I missed you too”, lips brushing tentatively against his first. A kiss so soft it feels like the first fresh breeze on an autumn morning. “Now can we sleep? I’m still tired and you really should get some rest ‘Toru, hm?”

“Fineee” he drawls. “But can you at least give me a real kiss? That wasn’t a real one”

Before he starts pouting you beat him to it and gently squeeze his face “If you keep pouting your face will stay that way one day. Then what?” you mutter.

“Honestly? I don’t think you’d mind.” Gojo says as he tries to smile.

You want to say the opposite but you can’t. Offering him a low hum as a response. It doesn’t matter what he looks like, how mad he makes you sometimes, you’d always be there with him and for him; the same can be said for him..

The feeling of his long, lithe fingers making their way under your shirt sends a shiver down your spine. A trail of warmth is left against the skin of your back. Giving you a squeeze you understand his signal of wanting you to lay on your back. Shifting your position to accommodate him,

Gojo settles himself on top of you. Straddling your hips, caging you under him. Resting his arms beside your head he speaks softly “Do we really need specific days to celebrate? Because I don’t think so, I’d celebrate you —us— every day. We’ve done good so far. But I’ll try to do better.” He punctuates each word with a kiss, starting from your shoulder all the way up until he makes it to your lips.

“Satoru, if you forget our actual anniversary you’re screwed. I hope you know that”. Bringing his left hand to caress the side of your face you feel any sliver of annoyance leave your body. Smiling up at him he gives your lips a quick peck and settles beside you once more.

Laying on his side, face resting on his open hand he looks at you. Really looks at you and the silence, though just mere seconds feels stretched. But before you can speak he cuts you off with “Your smile is a piece of art. You’re just the most precious little thing aren’t ya?”.

He surprises you in so many ways, and his words are the biggest ones. Feeling yourself start to get warm you lightly tap his chest “stop it”. And bury your face in your pillows. Grabbing your hand he gives a kiss to your knuckles and responds “I don’t think so”.

In the middle of the conversation you two were having you fall asleep. It’s funny how easy it came to you. Barely making it to 20 minutes, and you were already out. He could fill you in on what happened later. “Must’ve been tired, huh sweet thing?.” He murmurs to himself. Watching your sleeping face is one of his favorite things, he sees the movement behind your eyelids and wonders what you’re dreaming of. Hopefully it involves him in some way, you look tranquil, so peaceful. Slowly he brings his hand up, knuckles gently brushing the side of your face. He wants this —you— everyday. It’s the one thing he’s been sure about.

Easing himself in a comfortable position with such care as to not wake you up, he can’t take his eyes away from you. Picturing waking up next to you every day. He’s caught again in the same thought ‘I want her with me everyday’. At some point he fell asleep, hand covering the side of your face. So imagine his surprise when the both of you wake up some hours later trying to have a normal conversation but you’re still talking about the size of his hand.

“Well I won’t let it happen again if it bothers you.” He chuckles knowing well that’s not the case. Sitting down on your couch.

“ I didn’t say that; it’s just your palm alone is the size of my FACE” you deadpan.

It’s something you’ve known and noticed since you met him. But having him now always touching you, you find yourself flabbergasted.

“And even though I appreciate the fact you brought food and snacks, you better not let anything fall on my couch or so help me—“

Interrupting you mid sentence with his booming laugh “Stop exaggerating,”

Rolling your eyes at him “I’m not and you know that. I’m not gonna play this game with you.” You say as you’re cleaning your countertop.

“Aw come on”— he says “come here” he continues, grinning ear to ear.

“And why should I do that when you can come over here.” Raising an eyebrow at him, you wait for his answer.

“Because I asked nicely” and he smiles that bright smile of his that gets him whatever he wants.

Sighing dramatically you walk towards him. Standing in front of him you cross your arms and prepare yourself for whatever it is he’s gonna say or do. What you’re not prepared for is for him standing up and grabbing your face between his thumb and forefinger. Eyes slightly opening wide you look up at him and the smile hasn’t left his face. Applying some pressure he makes your lips pucker up.

“Well look at that Y/N you were right.” Taking a closer look at you he lowers his voice “you look cute like this.”

Your brain short circuits. Before you get a chance to speak he brings his thumb up against your lower lip. Slowly dragging it along. He knows you’re looking at him, but he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from your soft lips. Often lost in thoughts about how they feel, how you taste, the noises you make. Those are things he thinks about at night, in the privacy and comfort of his room. Still not fully grasping the fact that you both are together. It’s still so new to him. The fact that you’re still shy around him is something he relishes.

Right now an innocent jab is turning into something he’s not sure he wants to stop.

“Open” he says barely above a whisper.

With how loud your heart is beating you wonder if he hears it. Slowly you open your mouth just wide enough for him to slip his thumb in.

“Atta girl” comes out in a gravelly tone.

Sucking it gently, you make yourself hold eye contact with him.

Swallowing hard Gojo lets out a short breathy laugh.

“Heh, you really are something else. Aren’t ya? My sweet girl and look at her.” He speaks with heavily lidded eyes, focusing now on your mouth. The warmth of your mouth has his mind wondering. Without much thinking, he applied some pressure to your tongue and went a bit further in. Bringing himself closer to you, he rests his left hand on your hip and starts squeezing. “That’s it baby, I gotta start training you hm? That way you can take more of me.” Your doe eyes look at him in surprise,and he snickers at you.

Pink starts to dust his cheeks and it’s such a cute sight, contrary to what’s happening. And you feel heat start to make its way up your neck. Deciding enough with his game you take a step back. His finger leaves your mouth with a small “pop” noise and you’re not sure where to look.

“Well, I hope you had fun.” you try to say as stern as you can in your flustered state.

Gojos eyes go wide for a second, he was quick to wipe the shock off his face. Grinning down at you he gives you a tight hug, resting his chin on your head “you’re so mean, baby.”

Rolling your eyes at him “Gojo”

“Ew don’t call me that. You can’t call me that; it should be illegal.” He says with furrowed brows.

Laughing, you hug him. “Oh no yeah, I’m glad you're laughing while I feel dirty here.”

“Stop being such a baby.” You say looking up at him.

Chuckling he pinches your left cheek while leaving small pecks on your right one. “Do you want to take a shower together?” he asks after stopping. Rubbing small circles on your hips, he waits for your answer.

“Let’s go then” you say, grabbing his hand as you start your way to the bathroom.

"If you wanted me naked that bad you could've just asked sweetheart, I don't mind."

"Satoru, I will drown you." you bark at him

"Aw, anything that happens by your hands will make me happy. It doesn't matter what it is." he blows a kiss at you.

Deciding to ignore him you open the shower room door, and step inside. Turning on the water you turn around to start taking your clothes off and to you're stunned to find Gojo already down to his black boxer briefs. "What?" He asks as you look at him up and down. "You like what you see? I know, it's a lot to take in."

Rolling your eyes you turn your back to him, to start taking your clothes off. As you go to take your shirt off, you feel his hands on your waist, "let me help" he says as he gives you a kiss on the top of your head. Hands now roaming under your shirt all you mumble is a simple "mhm" back to him. Pinching the hem of your shirt you instinctively raise your arms so he can take it off. Covering your breasts you turn to face him. You suppress the laugh that wants to escape your mouth when you see your boyfriend squatting , he didn't have to do it. But he is a strange man sometimes, so you just let him do what he wants and not question it. Gojo leaves a kiss on each of your hips and starts to slowly drag your pants and underwear down. Kissing down your thighs and legs he tells you to step out of them as they bunched around your ankles. Standing to his full height he drags his boxers down and leaves them on the floor. You're bashfully looking away not being able to meet his gaze. Stepping in to the shower he lets you get under the hot water first, gladly looking at how the water glistens over your skin.

Getting harder the more he watches you he decides to ignore his predicament in favor of cleaning you first. Lathering you up he slowly drags his hands all over your body "I'm just gonna help."

"Liar" you think to yourself, as his hands are busy massaging your breasts. Thumbs gently rubbing your hardened nipples. You weren't gonna complain, he was doing a good job making sure he cleans you well. "Almost done sweetheart. You still had some soap here." He says as he has you pressed against his wet chest. "Oh, almost forgot her" he says cupping your pussy. "Spread your legs a bit for me." You take in a shuddering breath at his words, but do as he says. Dragging two of his long fingers up and down your slit you can't help the low moan you let out at the minimal contact. Smiling to himself you feel his fingertips circling around your clit, adding more pressure bit by bit. Grateful that he had his left arm around your waist for support, since your legs are starting to tremble; you hold on to his arm to maintain your balance. Closing your eyes you open your legs wider subconsciously. "Look at me pretty girl" he says as he lets go of your waist, angling your face up to look at him. Not opening your eyes, lost in the feeling he's causing between your legs he gives your cheek a few taps. "I said look at me." and you snap your eyes open at his rough tone. "Good girl" and at that you feel his slender fingers prod at your entrance.

"Do you want me to touch you...here? Hm?" he hums. With how close he's holding your body against his you feel the vibrations in his chest against your back. Latching his lips against your neck he leaves a mark against your soft skin. You're lost in the feeling of his lips against your sensitive neck you barely registered the stretching feeling until he started moving his fingers in and out of you. With how long they are you feel them reach so deep in you it always leaves your head spinning. Your sweet whimpers are filling the the space around the both of you, water getting lukewarm against your bodies, and all he wants is to make you cum before he buries his cock in you.

You're moving your hips, growing more desperate to get yourself off. "Aah-fuck" you moan as you stretch one of your arms so you can tangle your fingers in his hair "more" you say pulling at his roots; the stinging sensation making him groan. You feel Gojos warm lips against your neck speaking to you in a condescending tone "I'll make you cum baby. Is that what my girl wants?" feeling your pussy squeeze around his fingers he quickens his movements against your sopping cunt. The high pitched moans that you let out feel like a blessing to his ears each time he hears them. He needs to make you finish before he cums, he's been grinding his cock against your ass from the start and it's getting painful how much he want to cum. Taking his fingers out of your pussy he rubs your clit in circular motions.

Growing desperate he's begging for you to cum, its pitiful the whine that slips his mouth. It's wonderful, having such a strong man be putty in your hands. Not even properly touching him once, since you both got in the shower and he's ready to bust a nut by just the feel of your skin against his. Every small sound, rough touch with his free hand is going straight to your core. Satoru's fingers are drenched in your essence and he loves every second of it. Applying more pressure to your bundle of nerves while he keeps whispering how much he NEEDS you to cum, the band in your stomach finally snaps and you're coming and almost yelling his name. He slows down his fingers movements to give you a moment to breathe and come down from your high.

"Bed now" Gojo almost growls while reaching to turn the water off.

While you wobble a bit getting your footing you reach for a towel to dry off, and his hand stops you. "No time, I need you, and I need you now." the tall white haired male speaks against your neck.

"Toru, baby it's quick let me dry off" you quip.

Pressing his chest against your back he drags his lips against the conjunction of your neck, scraping his teeth against your skin, feeling your pulse pick up. Running his hands down the sides of your body squeezing as he made his way to your hips. Almost breathless he tells you to turn over. The moment you turn and are met with his eyes a shiver runs down your spine. He looks almost predatory, eyes sharp, pupils dilated to a point where the pretty blues you are so accustomed to see have been almost swallowed up. And you are his defenseless pray; for some reason that excites you. There's a dull throb between your legs looking up at him, wet hair clinging to his forehead, face flushed.

"Jump" and you do without hesitation. Feeling his fingers dig into the back of your thighs as he grabs you. "I'm just fucking you here, I don't want to waste more time."

Nodding your head signaling yes that's all the confirmation he needs to completely bury his cock in your cunt with one move of his hips. You feel the wind knocked out of you at the sudden feeling of being full and you wrap your arms around his neck while Gojo groans at the warm tight feeling of your walls. No matter how prepared you are it still feels like his thick cock is splitting you in two. He doesn't give you much time to get adjusted to his length, spreading his legs to stay balanced while he bounces you on his cock. Digging your nails into his shoulder blades to ground yourself you don't realize you've broken skin until you hear your boyfriend hissing.

"I-I'm s-sorry Sat-" you're able to choke out between his punishing thrusts up to you.

Shutting you up with a kiss he says against your lips "Do it again." The feeling of your nails sinking into his skin, breaking it, sends shockwaves through his body. Not used to the feeling of pain, he’s shocked on how much he’s enjoying it. The realization on how you really could destroy him and he’d still thank you is thrilling. His enemies would give anything for just a second of his vulnerability, and here he is just giving it to you without a second thought. Wanting to feel everything and anything with you he’d gladly let you do whatever you want to his body; it was yours, it belonged to you. Your walls start clenching around his cock and he throws his head back while you run your nails down his chest. "You feel amazing Angel. Do you feel good? Hm? Does my girl feel good? Oh, I bet she does with the way she's sucking me in" he gloats. Taking in a shaky breath he knows he's close to coming, so he makes his way to the sink "I'm gonna put you down Angel." Bringing his left hand to rest behind you on the sink, he cages you in with his body, using his right hand he lifts your chin up so you can look at him. You feel the sink digging against your back as he presses his sculpted body against yours. You notice his half-lidded eyes have a shine to them that takes your breath away. The humid room is starting to feel a bit suffocating, but he’s not done with you just yet. Closing your eyes at the feeling of his soft lips against yours you let yourself get lost in the feeling. He can be playful, needy or demanding; sometimes it’s a mixture of all three making it difficult to keep up. Both of his hands are now holding your face as he kisses you with fervor. Sucking and nibbling at your bottom lip, stealing your breath, thoughts, he's invading every sense of your being; and you're happy to give him anything he wants. Your lungs are feeling on fire, and he feels like he could keep going, but you pull back to give yourself a breather. Gojo repositions his hands on your hips while you take in shuddering breaths. Kissing his way down from your neck to your breast he gives them both a kiss, sucking on one of your nipples while he lightly pinches the other. You're not sure how your hand made itself at home tangled in his hair, but he doesn't mind; he never does. "Turn" he says impatiently. Leaning down you grab the edge of the sink, you feel Gojo's fingers on your waist as he guides his cock to your entrance burying himself with one move of his hips. Setting a slow pace dragging his hips back and thrusting himself back in harsher. Growing desperate at his slow pace you start moving yourself back, meeting each of his thrusts. Warm palms touching every bit of skin he can without his thrusts stopping, you feel the tip of his dick kissing your cervix deep inside you. There’s nothing he enjoys more than your flustered faced accompanied by your small whines and moans as he destroys your pussy. The way Gojo rocks his hips against yours is stealing every breath you try to take. Knuckles turning white with how hard you're gripping on to the sink to maintain yourself up and not fall flat on your face.

The mischievous man you call your boyfriend has an idea as he examines the foggy mirror. "Wipe it with your hands so you can look at yourself, pretty, look at the filthy expressions you make taking my cock" Clenching at his words you stretch to wipe the mirror but are unable to reach it properly with how hard Gojos hips are hitting the back of your thighs. Clicking his tongue at you he reaches over with his long arm -chest pressing you down to the sink- and wipes it for you. "Can't even do a simple thing like that? You're so cock drunk." Bringing your hips back to meet his thrusts you take in a sharp breath when he reaches down to roll your clit between his fingers. The long drawn out moan you let out makes him more feral. "I want you to be louder my Angel" he praises. Chest flushed against your back, you feel how his chin is digging in to your shoulder as he looks at your face on the mirror. His breathing has grown labored fighting off the need to cum.

Your lower belly feeling tighter and tighter with each swipe of his fingers. "You're gonna be a good girl and cum for me right?" and he's desperate kissing everywhere he manages to reach. "YES YES YES" practically yelling at the top of your lungs. And with some added pressure, and sweet words from him you feel yourself tipping on the edge of your orgasm. You can feel his dick pulsing inside you and something inside you snaps. You start laughing breathlessly and his eyes are wide looking at you on the mirror. And he feels like he's going to go insane. Wrapping one of his big hands around your neck, he gives you back the biggest smile he can muster and his words are vicious. "You're such a little whore, I knew it baby, filthy girl". Applying pressure to your neck, he lifts one of your legs to the counter, helping him reach deeper in you. Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head as he hit that spongy spot deep in you. The restriction of air to your lungs has your mind hazy. As he keeps hitting that special place with precise thrusts it finally has you coming around his cock. White hot pleasure coursing through your entire body has you thrashing around.

Gojo throws his head back and lets a high pitched moan slip his mouth. Milky white lashes fanning over his pretty pink tinged cheeks as he closes his eyes, rutting his hips harder desperately chasing his own orgasm. Your pussy still pulsing around him fueling his desire to finish, switching between whines and moans. With quivering lips he says something before his brain can catch up and stop him. Too lost in the way your pussy is still gripping him, he pulls out to finish on your back with a loud groan. He's catching his breath when he hears your sharp breath. You turn, facing him with a bewildered look on your face. A look of confusion evident on your boyfriends face.

"What did you say?" you ask him, uncertainty in your voice. Were your ears deceiving you or did you hear correctly? Did he mean it or was it a thing spur of the moment of passion. Gojo is uncomfortably silent at your question. He looks almost frighten and that's a look that has your stomach tying itself in knots.

The strongest is currently at a loss for words and is in a state of dismay. He's still silent but moves so he can hide in the conjunction of your neck. Feeling how your heartbeat picked up. "Satoru?" Your hand coming up to touch the side of his face. "What did you say?" you ask urgently.

He's afraid of what might happen. But he means those words and he's not gonna take them back. "I love you. You do not have to say it back if"— he’s stopped mid sentence. Your eyes are misty and he’s afraid he might have said it too early and that it’s gonna scare you off. "No, wait, you really don’t—I’m—" stammering his words until you pull his face towards you kissing him in a way he’s never felt before. This feels different than the others and it’s the clash of emotions behind it that’s giving it that feeling. “I love you too”.

Pt. 1

Pt.2

Pt.4

Pt.5

#Satoru Gojo #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo x you #gojo satoru #jjk x reader #jjk gojo #jjk fics #satoru gojo x reader #Gojo Satoru Smut #jjk x y/n #smut #gojo fluff #Gojo smut #gojo satoru x reader #gojou satoru x reader

254 notes · View notes

valaruakars · 11 months

Text

Let's Get Physical (Part 7)

Viktor/F!Reader || 6.3k || Modern!AU + Gym!AU || SFW

Bitches hate you for your overzealous approach to supporting your friends and deeply anxious behavior. Viktor is not bitches.

A/N: Omg. We're here. We're back on our bullshit. Thank you to everyone who beta'd and/or provided me free therapy about this for that past um... seven months. Oops. Thank you to everyone who reached out over the (unintentional) hiatus with encouraging comments and asks. I hope you'll understand why I took so long to handle this with care and unpack some of my own issues. Very cathartic. Would recommend.

Part 1 → Part 2 → Part 3 → Part 4 → Part 5 → Part 5.2 (nsfw) → Part 6 → Part 7 (Ao3 Link)

Before you know it, two weeks and a day have passed. They make no palpable difference.

Except maybe in your quadriceps.

The same weights you’ve been using feel almost effortless, too easy. You don’t fatigue as quickly into heavy breathing and the urge to cheat yourself a rep or two—not lunging with the dumbbell gripped at one of its wide ends, not squatting while it’s clutched close to your chest. It’s suddenly not enough.

Nobody’s around to see it, but progress is progress. Turns out, you’ve finally graduated to heavier weights on this lonely leg day you’ve committed to.

That’s a bit of a misnomer, though. The day is mostly past you now. It’s evening—crisp and wispy, sky like striated fire outside the garage—and as the sun sets, you’re reminded of the late start you’re up against. All because you forgot something.

A good attitude is optional. A scrunchie you can live without. But your shoes? Leave them forgettably kicked off in two different directions on your bedroom floor and you’re fucked. It’s a small miracle you’re here, dragging around weight plates, setting up a barbell. There was a very real danger of tripping and falling into bed—totally by accident, never to get up again—when you drove home and stomped upstairs to grab them.

But whether or not he knows it, likely the latter, Viktor keeps you accountable when no one else can. It’s because the only running you truly love is the risk of seeing him, which still requires proper footwear. And for you to leave the house.

Though by the time you whipped into the driveway and thrust the gear shift into park, it’s empty. He’d left already; you didn’t get to see him off on his reluctant shuffle through the garage. But lucky you—he tends to come straight home after physical therapy. Call it friendly concern that you’re paying attention.

It’s probably an odd way to think about a friend. You need to work on that.

Your phone vibrates dully on the padded bench beside you. Nearly knocking your water over in the process, you grab it to find a text from Jayce—the usual culprit. You slide it open, accidentally brushing the top of the screen with shaky fingers. It catapults you to the beginning of your most recent messages before you can read the new one.

Mon, Oct 10

[Jayce Talis, 5:56am]: Did you leave the back door unlocked last night? [Jayce Talis, 5:57am]: And the pool lights on? [Jayce Talis, 5:57am]: Was Viktor in the pool?

[7:32am]: Holy shit. Good morning. [7:33am]: No, no, and why do you think I know these things??

[Jayce Talis, 7:45am]: Sorry, it’s all good. He’s alive.

[7:46am]: ???????

[Jayce Talis, 7:49am]: You guys didn’t hang out after I left?

[7:57am]: Idk if you would consider it that. [8:02am]: But has anyone invited him to cards on Saturday??

[Jayce Talis, 8:17am]: He already said no. [Jayce Talis, 8:18am]: Although… [Jayce Talis, 8:19am]: You could try telling him it’s strip poker. Haha :)

[8:20am]: Blocked. Reported. Banned. NOT DOING THAT.

[Jayce Talis, 8:21am]: No wait! I was kidding. He’s not a creep :(

Tue, Oct 11

[Jayce Talis, 3:38pm]: Wait did you actually block me?

[3:50pm]: Yes.

Sun, Oct 16

[Tayce Jalis, 8:00am]: Can I have my t-shirt back today?

[8:31am]: Oh the really old anime one? I left it with some stuff to be washed, ask Viktor. [8:32am]: Maybe the dryer did you a favor and ate it.

[Tayce Jalis, 8:34am]: Hey! Naruto is timeless.

Today

Tayce Jalis unsent a message

Not fast enough to scroll back down, caught revisiting those unremarkable little messages, and now you’ll never know what Jayce’s butt managed to text you this time. Oh well. Keep your secrets.

You toss your phone down behind you with a leathery slap. Back to working on the whole stop pining after Viktor thing.

Right, and your legs.

The barbell bites into your hips as you roll it into your lap and adjust it, the bench presses into your shoulder blades. It’s heavier and harder to manage, but you do, driving down into your heels to get your ass off the ground, hefting yourself into a nice, solid bridge. From there it’s as easy as dipping your hips, which isn’t quite easy at all. No, it’s brutal.

It burns from your core down to your thighs; has you clenching your jaw, gritting your teeth with the strain. Even your biceps are active, lifting some of the steel-hard pressure off your hip bones.

You’re so zoned in—no thoughts, head empty except for the number six over and over until it’s seven—that you only hear the hiss of your breath in and out, the hammering rush of blood behind your ears. You don’t hear Viktor come home.

Not until he’s standing above you.

He had the heinous metal on metal sound in his old beige car fixed—that grinding, grating death knell in its engine. One of several potentially life threatening reasons the check engine light was always on—maybe still is. And though you much prefer him living, it’s harder to hear him coming over the steady music without paying attention.

Bad timing for Miss Carly Rae Jepsen on your Upbeat Workout Jams playlist, considering you do really, really, really like him. Him and how he stands at the end of the bench, staring down; how he fixes you with that sliver thin smile, a manila folder tucked under the arm of his long cardigan.

You seize with embarrassment, frozen on the upswing of your hips. “Hi,” whispers out on the end of an exhale, caught ragged in your throat.

You can’t do pelvic thrusts in front of him.

You just can’t.

It’s bad enough that you’re sweaty in every skin to skin crevice and certainly flushed, t-shirt sticky and legs trembling as they hold your awkward position, but then there’s him.

He wears that same look much better. On him, it’s healthy color across the cut lines of his cheeks; it’s still-damp curls at the nape of his neck and the jump of his lean throat when he swallows, dry when he must’ve forgotten a water bottle again. It’s suggestive. It’s hot.

And it’s the endorphins that make you feel that way, surely, more than any affinity for men in gray sweatpants that are far more revealing than they must realize.

You clear your throat, finding your own parched voice. “Watch your feet,” you warn, on the side of caution, dropping butt and barbell to the ground with a metallic thud. You let your head drop back against the bench pad, staring up at him with the dazed satisfaction of calling it quits. Only for the moment, of course, as you blindly feel around for your phone to turn the music down.

And good fucking god is what you see unholy. Viktor shifts his weight before you can look away, and the ache in your core redoubles—different, deeper than any lactic acid buildup. Did his pants shrink in the wash or is it really that m—?

Nope! Absolutely not!

You can tread no further with that thought because, really, there’s no such thing as having a platonic appreciation for your friend’s dick. Not when the friend is Viktor.

“You’re not finished yet?” he asks. Innocent. Oblivious to your mental struggle out of the gutter.

Typically you would be by now. Equipment racked, the citrus scent of disinfectant on your hands, picking at innocuous conversation while you walk inside together. How was your day? Did you hear they’re demolishing the old physics building? There’s a guest lecture next month that might interest you.

“About another thirty minutes,” you breathe, “and then I’ll be done. I’m running behind.”

“Ah, interesting. That looks to me more like sitting,” he says, which is terrible enough to earn an eye roll, and snarky enough that your lips wobble and break into an insurmountable smile.

“It’s called resting, thanks. This would go faster if you stopped distracting me,” you huff, muscles loose, lips looser.

The little spark of mirth in his eyes, so bright and awake, makes your stomach clench vice tight. “Mm. There’s no rush,” he shrugs, “but… Rio might enjoy a visit.”

Your smile is skeptical as he pulls the file folder from beneath his arm. “Oh really?” It widens as he starts to fan you from above—chilly in the garage, but you’re still sweating buckets. It’s futile, although he’s sweet to try and help.

He nods, gravely serious, “She told me herself.”

You crane your neck unconsciously to let it cool the sweat that lingers there, sighing as little wisps of loose hair billow feather light and tickle your feverish skin.

He isn’t holding it right, though. His grip is too loose on the edge.

At once, a flurry of white comes raining down on you. It’s instinct that your eyes clamp shut against the onslaught.

“No, no, no,” he hisses as if begging could stop gravity.

It doesn’t, of course.

His papers flutter and scrape across the floor. An unlucky one sticks to the sweat on your scrunched up cheek. He’s quick to dip forward and snatch it back first, the easiest to reach.

You blink off the surprise and snicker, “Oh, how the tables have turned. Who’s the clumsy one now?” Rolling the barbell away over your outstretched legs, there’s nothing in its path to be crumpled beneath the weight.

But Viktor doesn’t answer with a crooked smile or a quiet laugh, no dry wit to be found. His dark, heavy brows furrow and he insists, “No, just—just let me,” while he crouches to the ground, distributing his weight between his cane and the end of the bench.

“It’s okay,” you insist, reaching to gather what’s scattered between you, “I’ve got it. No big deal.”

“To you,” he mutters, snatching two away before you can turn them over. Makes him lose balance. He narrowly catches himself before he can veer face first into your spandex lap,, blunt, bony fingers digging into your thigh at the hem of those skin tight biker shorts. It crushes the papers all the same.

“Top secret nuclear codes?” you tease, drowning his muttered apologies. It sounds stupid and obvious that you’re trying to distract from the fumbling tension when his hand stays put for moments too long. Yours, too, on his shoulder to brace him.

Just until he’s able to sit himself solidly on the ground beside you.

He purses his lips, “My work is with reactor cores, not weapons.”

It’s only been a week since you got an impromptu lecture about nuclear fusion in the kitchen. It’s not like you’d forget so quickly. “I know—”

Impatient, Viktor reaches over your lap, too close for comfort. Whatever you were about to say is struck from your train of thought.

His cardigan drags soft and pilled with wear across your beat up knees. Beneath it, his sweat smells sharp and strangely appealing. It’s fascinating, that draw to something so base and human. It’s unsettling, the way your heart responds like it beats between your legs.

You follow his hand, unabashedly curious, and watch him pick up another overturned paper. Below it, the next sheet is stuck face up to the floor with what you cringe to assume is a drop of your sweat, bleeding the ink of a diagram. Multiple diagrams, actually.

Of stretches.

The familiarity sparks excitement.

By the time he peels up the corner of the page with his fingernail, you’re sure of what you’re looking at. It’s common ground, of a sort; the excuse to end all excuses.

“These are from the physical therapist?”

He sighs, sitting back in an awkward fold of spindly legs. Looks wearier, now, with his shoulders collapsed like the exhaustion of going has finally caught up. “Yes,” he admits, because you’re smart and he’s smart, and any other answer would be an obvious lie.

You’re doing it again—digging your fingers into a soft spot that feels as ripe as it does intrusive. We do not talk about it much, he once said, but it’s hard to stop once you’ve started. You just have to know: “Do you do them?”

His eyes cut down to the papers in his hands. “When time permits.”

“How often does it permit?”

“Occasionally,” says Viktor, which might mean somewhere between rarely and never.

Early mornings, late nights; classes to teach, lab hours to log, projects, papers, and a dissertation that looks done to you, but he laughs bitterly when you suggest it. Still has to find time to eat and shower and sleep, but his eyes are always restless purple and there are wrappers from meal replacement bars scattered around the house, too high calorie for Jayce to be the culprit.

You wonder what will happen when it all catches up with him. Worse, you worry.

Beseechingly, you reach out. Your grip is gentle as you take hold of the printouts at their edge. “Can I see?” you ask, not grabbing or pulling or taking, just there and ready.

His lips form a tight, considering line. “If that is the last of your questions,” he slowly replies. Prickly, but relenting, he lets go before you can ever agree.

So you don’t.

His eyes are on you as you flip through the stack—you can feel it as a strange, shy tension like bated breath, watching and waiting.

Page by page, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before. Some you’ve even done yourself, but with simple modifications. Hell, bridges are just hip thrusts performed flat on the floor, without the weight. Nothing he’d need help with, which is ideal when you’re not qualified to do anything but make space for him; to emphasize that he’s welcome and wanted, maybe offer up a sweaty-palmed high five if you’re feeling spunky.

You peel your legs off the floor and resituate, tucking them as your turn to face him, direct in every sense. “You could come do these with us on Sunday mornings after we run, before you get started on work. It would make Jayce happy, and Vi has a really funny way of being encouraging—”

He pulls a face—a nose scrunched up, barely concealed, abso-fucking-loutely not sort of scowl.

“Or…” you’re quick to try, “Just with me, when I’m here. It’ll take, what—fifteen? Twenty minutes?”

“It’s a poor use of time,” he says. It’s as avoidant as it is clumsy, with a dismissive edge still dull enough to bruise.

And that’s because: “You stop and talk to me for longer than that sometimes,” you remind him flatly.

He sighs sharply, toying absently with the cane laid across his lap. “That is different.” He says it like it’s obvious; like it’s frustrating that you don’t know how obvious it is.

“Well, what if we could do both at the same time?” you propose. After all, he’s got such a hard-on for efficiency, if that’s what’s stopping him. “I know you’re a good multitasker…”

His jaw works, trapping his thoughts behind imperfect teeth.

“And we probably keep this floor cleaner than the carpet…” you prod, because the silence of a man who can and has talked your ear off is disquieting; because you don’t always know when to stop; because this feels like a negotiation.

“My bedroom suits my purposes just fine,” he says, eventually.

But you never said which carpet. The thought of him sequestered in there, even for this, is fucking depressing. Arguably disgusting when you’ve walked across that rug and felt the grit of dirt, crumbs, and debris that the pattern hides through your socks. And worse: It’s a choice, so why is he making it?

Abruptly, the rubber tipped end of his cane meets like against the rubber tiled floor. He pulls himself up on it with difficulty you can’t ignore, but shakes his head when you move to help. The only thing you do is hand him up the battered stack of papers, tucked back into the folder from which they came, when he stands up fully. You won’t hold them hostage, even if part of you wants to. It wouldn’t keep him from leaving, his back to you such a familiar sight.

You just want to understand, though, if nothing else. To crack him like a cipher.

Softer, you try: “I wouldn’t judge you.” It’s the last, desperate little thing you can think of. They’re like magic words to you.

But the problem is: They don’t work on everyone.

To his credit, his tone isn’t harsh. It’s indifferent, like stating a sterile fact. “This has nothing to do with you,” he says. “I haven’t skipped an appointment recently, and that should be enough.”

Indigence might suit you in those moments you grow a seedling backbone, but it doesn’t suit this. You can’t help it though. His frustration has bled into you, caught like kindling. “Is it?”

“You and I do not share the same sense of priorities,” he replies, but it’s not an answer. Not really.

The urge to turn him upside down and shake him until something definitive comes out is overwhelming—so straightforward until he just… isn’t. “If you’re not going to say yes or no, can’t you just lie and say you’ll think about it?”

He looks you over inscrutably, sitting there in his shadow. “Why would you assume it’s a lie?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” you huff. But you do. Experience and a certain friend who actually bothers to text you back have given you the answer. “Jayce says you’re stubborn and I’m starting to think he’s right.”

Viktor nods conclusively, but doesn’t care to share what’s going through his head. As evasive as ever when he cares to be, just murmurs,“You should finish this.”

And then, for a reason that is simply beyond you, says: “I will see you later.”

But for once, you’re not sure if you want to.

—

You rap your knuckles against his open door.

Seriously—who were you kidding, thinking for even a second that you wouldn’t be here, doing this?

Yes, it’s well after eight now and you’re pitifully hungry, but it wouldn’t feel right to leave without saying anything. In writing a note or sending a text, you’d simply be spelling out, ‘I’m a coward!’ in far more words. It’s best, you decide, to be polite and mature and just say goodnight despite the awkward taste in your mouth that is very reminiscent of your own foot.

And you get to say it to his back, which should be easy.

But then there’s Rio on his desk like a pissed off paperweight, swimming the foggy side of her holding tank—sorry, prison—without any hope of escape. They’re the angriest, most pathetic wiggles you’ve ever seen. Habitual, given how tongue-smudged and abraded the plastic has become.

“You see?” he says, gesturing to the sound of her scrabbling in his bright rubber kitchen gloves. “It’s just as I said.”

“I think it’s more about you ignoring her.” Rio pauses, slipping down the side. Her little face conveys it perfectly: “Father is cruel? Father is… unyielding? Father hates Rio?”

“No, no… Although, eh, yes, I suppose she does sound like that…” he muses, nodding. “I think she must wonder those things about you, actually.”

Your shoulder hits the door frame, shrugging against it where you lean. “I probably don’t matter much to her.”

There’s a heavy pause, enough for him to breathe in and hold it. Breathe out, softly: “You do.”

And suddenly, you can’t find it in you to leave. Did you ever truly have the will?

The truth is there on your feet—those perpetually mismatched socks. You’d hoped for this, secretly, else you wouldn’t have left your shoes off at the door.

It’s warm when you walk in. A space heater that’s been running too long glows electric orange on the floor near his desk. Makes the smell of churned earth and vinegar cleaner that much stronger. And while the clutter is clearly endemic, it seems the fuzzy, stagnant mugs are not. They’re all gone from his desk and the bedside table, replaced by sticky notes, pill bottles, and an avalanche of papers.

You come up and give Rio’s tiny, clawed foot a high-five through the plastic. “Has she been doing this all night?” you ask, looking over.

Knee on the desk chair for leverage, he’s elbows deep in her tank, rooting those waxen, fake plants back into the substrate with unnatural posture. It’s that stiffness you’ve always noticed—ramrod straight from the mid-spine up. It’s easier to see in profile, in a thin shirt that clings to his back, that there’s nothing visibly forcing it.

“On and off. She tires quickly now,” he says, arranging a broad-leafed plant near her favorite rocky shelter—scrubbed clean, still damp. “When she was younger, it would go on much longer while I did this.”

“How old is she exactly?”

His sigh is almost lost beneath the hum of the space heater. He answers, “Fifteen,” in the soft, subdued way of someone who hates to be reminded.

There’s many things you’re too afraid to ask him. Such hits as: Why did you dig yourself a hole this deep, does Jayce text everyone about you, and would I even stand a chance if things were different? But right now, most of all, it’s how long do geckos live?

You don’t think you’re going to like the answer.

Viktor clears his throat. “She’s very, eh… spritely for her age,” he adds, fondly this time.

You hum a soft sound in agreement, too shaky through the legs to squat down to eye level with her. When you bend your knees to try, you realize you’ll probably never get up again.

He glances over as you straighten up. “You can sit,” he offers without really saying where. It’s obvious, though. The only option—his rumpled bed, never made, with all its mismatched pillows. One has definitely been stolen from the couch, three are yellowed and missing pillowcases which is… ew.

But you’re not going to refuse. You’d like to hold Rio, after all.

You swallow hesitation and tuck yourself onto the end of his mattress, balancing on the firm edge. At least the intrusive thoughts are fleeting. Only briefly do you wonder what he thinks about at night. What he does. What he wants for.

Not you. That’s for sure.

Your elbows lock out where you grip the ridged edge of the bed. The weight of things gone unsaid, of things left unresolved bears down; it prickles warm at the back of your neck and you can’t stand the waiting silence.

“So…” you drawl, letting your voice fill the void.

“Hm?”

“Are you going to hand her to me now, or…?”

“Ah, no, I’m finished,” he says over his shoulder. “She needs to go back in the tank.”

“Then why am I sitting here?”

“Because I have something to ask you.”

Straightforward. Right. You forgot just how terrifying that can be.

“That sounds just as bad as saying we need to talk,” you mutter, heart twisting into a suffocating, arterial knot.

“We do, though,” he says, too literal, too preoccupied with placing Rio back in her clean terrarium to notice your soul leave your body—preemptively abandoning ship.

But he’s merciful, at least. He doesn’t keep you in suspense.

“I just want to understand at what point you developed such a vested interest in, eh… fixing me, I suppose,” he asks, like wondering what the weather will be tomorrow or what the dining hall might serve for lunch. Conversationally. “Did Jayce put you up to this?”

Your eyes narrow in thought. “No…?” you reply. It comes out too shifty as you toy with the serged edge of his blanket. Jayce put you up to something alright, though that hardly matters anymore. But, in a way, does this count? Would Viktor think that this counts?

“A sure answer, please.”

Fuck.

“It’s just that I would lump that in as part of being friends with you—except I’d call it, y’know, caring?” You draw your leg up onto the bed, closer, tucking your foot beneath your thigh. “That’s all I’m trying to do.”

Viktor flips the grate down with a finality that lights your nerves like a beacon to flee. “So he asked you to do what, exactly?”

“Nothing,” you squirm.

He pivots, solidly on two feet. Doesn’t sit down in the desk chair quite yet. “It wouldn’t be the first time for this behavior, and, with you, I’m sure it was not the last. Do you know that he once provided Caitlyn with a written list of topics not to bring up to me?”

You shrug, “He’s a good friend...”

Now you’re staring down the barrel of being just the opposite—of throwing Jayce under the bus.

“What did he ask?” Viktor presses.

And you break. Made brittle by your desire to put him first, of course you do.

“All he wanted was for me to give you a chance, which was pretty reasonable after you called me annoying—” that word comes out with a bite to it you didn’t intend; sensitive, sore, “—but I never told him about that. He’s just… worried about you in his own way, I guess.”

Viktor quietly raises an eyebrow, and that’s all it takes to snap you into fours next. It practically falls out of your mouth: “He keeps texting me to make sure you’re still alive. Sometimes I think he’s joking, but then one time he told me he had a nightmare that you drowned in the pool, so part of me actually thinks he’s being serious.”

“He is.”

“Wait, really—?”

“Is that why you come so often now?”

Wednesday. Friday. Sunday. Monday too, sometimes, if the day before hasn’t left you sufficiently sore enough. The pain means progress. It must.

“Well, no,” you blink, “that’s mainly because I have a lot to work on.”

“Do you?”

You gesture to yourself. All of you. The way your stomach folds and rolls and fucking exists unappealingly beneath your sweatshirt when you slouch—it could be better. The way your thighs pancake out, smushed against the bed—not getting better, but discipline and toning might shape them into something near desirable. “Yeah, obviously.”

He treads lightly. “I… would not say it’s obvious.” But his eyes are cast down as he carefully removes his rubber gloves and discards them in a bucket of cleaning supplies. He’s not rude enough to agree, but you worry, in all those moments you can feel him looking at you, that he’s thinking it. After all, he’s willowy, sharp and elegant in a way you’ll never be. Soft and fleshy. Never quite right.

“And that’s because you’re, what, zero percent body fat?” you sigh, gesturing to him incredulously. “I’m not implying that’s healthy or ideal—honestly, I’d share some if I could—but…” Your hands curl to your chest, clasped tightly in one another when there is no one else to hold them through the indignity of admitting, “I’m the one that needs fixing. Not you.”

He was right, though, when he said it earlier. This isn’t about you. “Where did you come up with that, anyways?” you ask.

The lines on his face, those deep, concerned creases between his brows, spell out what the fuck. You don’t understand what’s so hard about that question—what he can’t figure out, why the confusion lingers in his eyes. “This… This is the second time you’ve offered to help me.”

“I was trying to be supportive. Encouraging, even—that’s also a good word for it.”

“It all feels the same,” he tells you, taking his turn to sigh. “Which is to say patronizing, sometimes.”

And that was not what you intended. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be a saint or anything. That’s not entirely it.” You fight the turtle-like urge to retract into your sweatshirt, which would arguably be more stupidly embarrassing than admitting: “I was just looking for… common ground, I guess. Ways to hang out without dragging you out with us.”

“Are we not doing that right now?”

“Sure, but I feel bad about it.” There’s the silvery peek of his computer, buried on the desk. “I’m keeping you from more important things.”

“You’re not,” he says—no, placates, but the disbelieving press of your lips makes him reconsider. “Well, eh, perhaps, but I can manage. I’ve dealt with Heimerdinger’s high expectations and, mm, sadistic deadlines for years. The weekends work well to make up for lost time, and there is all night after this too.”

“You should sleep.”

“I can’t. Not well.”

You give a creaky little bounce—not much of one, no spring to it—to demonstrate: “Maybe because your mattress feels about as hard as sleeping on the ground.”

“One problem of many, yes.”

You count yourself among them, in one way or another. You’ve been leaking these awful insecurities all night.

Is it any wonder that another slips?

“It’s just—the last thing I want is to bother you. Everyone, really, but especially you.”

“Is that because of me?” he asks quietly. “Because of what I said?”

Oh, you’ve carried this around since day one. Let it color his tone and his words and his actions. Let it haunt you trying to reach for others, the freshest nick in a line of scars that was never stitched properly. That’s what you get for letting all those little anxieties run wild with knives in their hands. That’s what you get for forgiving him before he ever asked for it, as if that would make things easier. For you. For him. For everyone.

It hasn’t.

Viktor crosses the three steps between you on bare, nobby feet. His weight dips the bed beside you ever slightly, like he’s hardly there. But he is, by the way his leg bumps your knee, and you scoot over to give him space.

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, grasping at some distant thread. They’re as awkward as he is in saying, “I can’t recall what I meant at the time, but it… it wasn’t that. It would’ve been fine if you thought less of me for it, but not of yourself.”

You shake your head. “It’s—don’t worry, it’s not all you,” you say, softening his guilt, perhaps at your own expense. “I have a lot of anxiety, and that’s a long running thing, okay? It’s mostly… me.”

“That’s… good to know. About you, I mean. Not that it’s—it’s good. Just, eh, helpful to know.”

“I guess that’s generally the benefit of being upfront about things,” you shrug as if it comes easy.

“I would prefer that, I think.”

It doesn’t, but the light, fizzy feeling of relief makes you want to try, if only to have more of it. Maybe more of his shy little smiles too. This time with more intention, and less leaky word vomit.

“Okay…” You shift to face him fully, mirroring his posture in leaning back on your hand for support. “Then in no uncertain terms, I want you to know that I’m not trying to fix you.” Been there, done that, got the shitty dunce hat. People don’t change unless they want to. You know that. “I just wish you were kinder to yourself, but that’s on you. So if you ever decide you want better, whatever that means, I’ll be there. Only if you want me to and only on your own terms—no physical activity required.”

“I might want to consider it, you know…” His voice lowers, softer and softer with hesitation, to the point that you find yourself leaning in. Noticing, as he seems to have noticed, that your hands are a hair’s breadth apart. “As a future prospect, if anything. But you have to understand, I don’t enjoy being watched.”

“I get that.”

“Mm, no, I imagine people stare at you for very different reasons,” he mutters. “Not pity. Envy, perhaps.”

“I promise, most people don’t want these thunder thighs,” you huff, resisting the urge to slap them like a used car salesman. These babies can fit so much soul-crushing insecurity, which is a terrible pitch, really. The occasional bouts of self-loathing are not your strongest selling point.

He lets out the strangest bark of a laugh, so dry it’s almost ugly, as if he can read your mind.

But you didn’t mean to derail. “Sorry, continue.”

“Right…” Viktor draws in a long breath, quiet for a moment before he figures out how to word it. “It’s as simple as that I would rather go unseen. It’s very, ah, personal. And painful, sometimes.”

You think of the age old adage: If it hurts, don’t do it. “Um, not a doctor, but I don’t think it’s supposed to be?”

“So they say,” he nods pensively, eyes ticking over some distant thought, maybe a memory. “It wasn’t like this before. The discomfort wasn’t… serious. That’s how I was able to ignore it for so long.”

“Ignore what?”

Not the brutal slam of the garage door across the house, for one thing. The pictures on the wall must be hanging crooked now.

Viktor sits straighter—if that’s even possible—and calls out: “Jayce?”

Footsteps—softer, distant.

His eyes snap back to yours. “It’s been a week since he’s come home,” he tells you in a quick whisper. “Mm, well, in the evening. He’s here in the morning—”

“To work out at the ass crack of dawn? I know.”

“You were invited?”

“He knows better than to think I’ll get up that early. I saw on his Instagram.”

Footsteps—louder now.

Viktor nods sagely. “Ah, yes, the stories. By my count, he has written, eh, ‘rise and grind’ forty three times since the first of the year.”

“That’s…” Your math isn’t great but, “More than once a week,” you whisper back, on the cusp of giggles as Viktor nods. And then, it hits you. “Wait—”

But the footsteps have stopped.

And instead, there’s Jayce’s stoop-shouldered figure braced in the doorway. He sniffles loudly.

He’s still dressed in the khakis and blue button down he wears to work—rumpled, sleeve cuffs smeared darker. His eyes have that red, raw, burning swell of someone who's tried very hard not to cry, and failed spectacularly.

Viktor finds the words you’re looking for with immediate precision. “Has something happened?” he asks, voice tight, hand tighter on your shoulder as he leans around you to look his roommate over. “Jayce?”

They spend a lot of time apart. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that they’re best friends too.

He swipes at his nose as it runs into the raw little divot above his lip. Beyond sadness, there’s a guilty cast to his dark, hazel eyes, turned down to the floorboards, but you can’t find your voice to tell him that this isn’t what it looks like.

“Are you… injured?” Viktor tries again.

Jayce shakes his head. No.

“Is your mother alright?”

“She’s fine,” he rasps. “Um… Can I just—?” he asks, gesturing weakly to the two of you.

Which you think must translate to: “You want to come sit?”

“Yeah.”

Viktor’s of course comes without apprehension, without judgment. Only with the apparent surprise that he even needed to ask.

But Jayce, in several long legged strides, doesn’t come sit. No, he collapses face first onto the bed behind you, all broad, shaking shoulders and quiet sniffles seeping out from behind his arms. They hide his face and nothing else. Hands curling, clenching into his shirtsleeve, there’s the thick band of a tan line striped across his middle finger.

You turn yourself around, scooching closer, folding up cross-legged to face him.

You’ve never seen him like this—laid so low. A sweat stain blooms dark at the small of his back, up between his shoulder blades, but sweat is sweat and Jayce is Jayce. You reach out to rub his back despite it. “It’s alright…” you whisper. Feels like putting band-aids on a bleeding heart, but it’s all you have.

Soft cotton weave catches the peeling skin of old blisters as you soothe your hand in circles. His shirt leaches the vetiver smell of cologne, but somewhere beneath it, there’s an elegant, cloying perfume still lingers. It’s no secret where he spends most of his time these days.

You meet Viktor’s searching eyes and mouth: Mel.

He nods gravely as if to say he drew the same conclusion.

Say something—that’s your next silent suggestion, canting your head toward Jayce.

But instead, Jayce takes a deep, wet, shuddering breath and asks, muffled into the mattress, “Can… Can we go to Taco Bell?”

“Sure…” you murmur. He could’ve asked you to drive him two states over to bury a body and you would’ve agreed just as thoughtlessly. Anything he needs. “We’ll take you.”

He doesn’t move. Just sniffles at a prompting little scritch to the nape of his neck, where his hair fades out to shadowy, peach-flesh fuzz.

So you ask, “Do you want to go change, and then I can drive us?”

“Can I just have a minute? Please?”

“Why?” demands a perplexed Viktor, still soft spoken. Desperate for an answer that isn’t made of cobbled assumptions; blunt in its pursuit.

And worried. You can tell that he’s worried.

As if you’d been the one to ask, the personification of wet, doleful misery lifts his head and looks up at you. His face is a ruin of dark, clumpy lashes and tear-tracked skin. His lip wobbles, the pressure of withholding little sobs building, building, building. But speaking it aloud makes it real. Speaking it aloud breaks the levee.

“I think we just broke up,” he finally whispers.

And cries face-down for another hour after that.

#arcane #viktor #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #reader insert #arcane x reader #my writing #literally beating tumblr with a stick i've been formatting this for fOURTY FUCKING MINUTES #GOD.#negl crying like a little bitch from the relief of finally posting this #pour one out for heraldeez who has to listen to me #just like jayce fr fr

262 notes · View notes