Gojou X F!reader

gojou x f!reader

summary - gojou does manage to escape from his current manga situation(not mentioned in detail) but takes severe injury to his spine and holes up in one of his empty mansions. you pull him out of his depression nest, literally and metaphorically.

warnings - SMUT(minors dni) margarita mix, daddy kink, reader’s in her twenties, gojou’s in his early thirties, so if that kind of age gap bugs you there’s that, lots of chronic pain talk, lots of healing, honestly, very soft for me. mention of an old fashioned arranged marriage. manga spoilers.

You take a deep breath before knocking on the door, shifting your weight on the stoop in front of his house. No ones seen him for weeks, and judging by the mail you found piling up in the little green mailbox at the end of the driveway he hasn’t been going out much. You knock, and hear how easily the sound is swallowed in the monster of a house, the mansion at the top of the hill was hulking and dark in the otherwise bright landscape. No answer. 

“Hello!” You call, “Hello um, they sent me to um, to help you!” No answer. You wait a few more minutes, but an early fall breeze rears its head in late summer, and you try the knob as you shiver. To your surprise, the door creaks open. You step inside, the house is filthy. Cobwebs on the corners of the high ceilings, dust has gathered on every wooden surface, and the gloom extends the further you move through the hallway. It must have been beautiful once, ornate, even, but something about it doesn’t feel like a home, there’s something empty here that even the large heavy furniture doesn’t fill. “Hello,”  you call again, “Hello, ah, Gojou-sama!” You hear slight movement upstairs and resolve to follow it. You keep your guard up, checking over your shoulder as you move up the huge entrance staircase, and then down the first hallway on the right towards the sound you heard. You come to a pair of double doors with intricate carvings, and realize this must be the master bedroom. “Gojou-sama?” You hear a soft groan, and push the door open. 

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You being the dendro archon who was in love with Zhongli but since Zhongli at the time didn't understand human emotions, didn't reciprocate. You ended up developing and dying due to hanahaki disease because of your unrequited love. Zhongli only realizes he longs for your presence, when you were no longer there.

Ehe have fun <3

出水芙蓉, as a lotus flower breaking the surface

pairing zhongli x gn!dendro archon!reader

genre angst... without comfort

warnings war, blood, death, injury, zhongli's name

a/n special piece for mika ily for this

a lotus bloom.

nelumbo nucifera. it is known to symbolise purity, enlightenment, self-regeneration and rebirth. even when its roots are in the dirtiest of waters, it still manages to produce the most beautiful of blooms.

some legends say it is a plant whose fruit induced a dreamy forgetfulness and an unwillingness to leave.

~

at your will, the snow melts and the blooms rise. pearly precious buds that are yet to develop and grow into the character that fate ordains them to be. they could easily be nipped, yet you protect them with all that you have. warm fingers tickle the horizon, and a palette of rosy hues spills across the the line where the lands of teyvat meet the enigmatic void above. zhongli approaches each one, observing their anatomy with a childlike curiosity. his blameless fingertips gently tip each plantlet towards his gaze. they are pure, not tainted by the cruel realities of this world. yet in the way that you both sigh and linger a little too long in the sunrise, you are both well aware that the crimson blood of demons and angels alike may soon tarnish their innocence.

~

pastel pink, like the sudden blush on the cheeks of a young couple in love. a soft, timid shade. one that brings butterflies to the stomach and lets them escape out the lips in the form of lighthearted teasing and giggles that float through the air like a melody. stolen, fleeting glances from across the room, glittering irises and widening pupils that absorb all of who you are. zhongli's gaze drips with the sweetness of saccharine honey, all golden in the sunlight. it is comforting, and you feel as if it coats every surface and seeps into every crack of your fluttering heart. but zhongli says fleeting emotions such as love are limited to the hearts of the human race. we are not human, he says. we are deities, gods of the heavens. you do not open your mouth to reject, but you can hear the distant protests of your heart, echoing in the emptiest depths of your mind.

vibrant magenta. glaring noon light and the sound of crickets in the middle of the night. petals begin to burst forth, unfolding and unravelling a secret you cease to hide. your eyes lock from afar. his strength extends beyond the endless expanse of plains and mountains and waters that stretch between you. he turns to you, and you willingly ignore the fact that his spears and boulders have formed a forest of geological remains. you do not know what souls are pinned below the earth he once summoned, and you do not wish to find out. in the rare ceases of fighting and bloodshed, zhongli says the earth allows a pool to form from the tears of the sky; but the muddy waters do not stop you from letting the lotuses thrive to their fullest potential. they are as beautiful as ever, you breathe. they are, and he nods slowly, his smooth voice ringing in your ears. he takes your stained hands in his own and speaks lowly. these hands have suffocated the lungs of many in vines of restraint, promising release but growing ever tighter; yet you see how they still wield the capability to nurture a species of such purity? it truly is remarkable. the corners of his lips turn up into a slight, rare smile, and even the scrutiny of celestia seems to fall away.

indigo, then violet when the celestial lights dim. in the shadows where the heavens' gaze does not fall, ignorance is bliss, it seems. it puzzles you, because neither of you are ignorant, nor innocent. your hands have wielded weapons of war and the cold, shrivelled hands of your dying friends alike, prayers to celestia falling on deaf ears. he is, arguably in a much more augmented way than you, painfully aware of the realities this world has been facing, the memories the spirits of the land crying out in desperation for his assistance. yet between the two of you, bliss seems to only come to zhongli, who does not share the rush of euphoria you experience each time his hands connect with your own in a steady, secure hold; nor does his heartbeat begin to race when you barrel into his chest. zhongli has always been one to see even that which does not fall below his gaze. but you make sure one thing is certain- he does not hear the rumble of pistils in your lungs when the moon begins to rise, nor does he see the vermillion petals that litter the earth below the haven of your people. you have always been one to protect, to foster, to nourish. now your very own blessings have twisted themselves into a vine of thorns and roses, and you cannot help but feed the needs of the savage, reckless blooms. for the memory will die with the wilting of the flower, and you hope that even when all else erodes into the flow of time, the vulnerable work of your hands may prove to be a symbol of uncovered secrets of the past.

crimson, the life that flows like rivers of human blood in human veins. the iron encapsulated in the warning shades of red are created in none other than the remains of dying stars. fascinating, isn't it? you turn your head to zhongli. he seems enamored with the glittering specks of light above. a single meteor streaks into vision, its tail slowly burning; like the passion crackling away in your heart that eventually will degrade the very existence of your body and soul. for the god of wisdom, you are being awfully unwise, he states matter-of-factly. rigid as always, your inner voice mumbles to itself, and your suppressed frustration seems to bubble up until all you can see is the colour of blood; the blood of all you've let fall at your hands. your throat begins to scream as zhongli's palm makes contact with the bumps and curves of your spine. florets erupt from the very organs that sustain your life, and to your surprise they do not seem to sprout before they bloom. scarlet, ruby, carmine, crimson. red. why is everything red, morax? you sputter out words in between strained breaths, and from the way his eyes pierce into yours, you know he is aware. he knows. that is all that matters, correct? is this not the moment you yearned to witness? the memory of your foolish emotions will live on, etched in the rock-hard tablet that is the heart of the man you love. the vines squeeze, and for once, you do not resist fate, the haze of a dream overcoming your senses. pouring rain, newborn lotuses, and a sunrise. why didn't you give up? a foreign voice resounds in your mind, and here i was, thinking i was the stubborn one out of us two. but your earthly body is already vacant; and a pitiful, longing smile graces your features as you wrap yourself around zhongli, his body hunched over your own, crying out in vain for you to stay. these bodies, you whisper, are none other than containers, vehicles that hold our eternal souls.

black. the absence of all light, devoid of life.

white. the presence of all light, the pinnacle of purity.

~

zhongli's fingers dip below the surface of the water. a drumming drizzle has ceased, and as the last of the sun's rays slip below the horizon, he lifts the bud out of the water. a white lotus, cradled in his tainted hands like an impeccable specimen of porcelain. it has the potential to become any colour it wishes to be. a pastel pink, a vibrant magenta, indigo, violet, crimson. yet it remains pure, it remains innocent. or perhaps the perception of this flower is flawed, zhongli thinks. you knew far too much about this world to let a flower of such endurance represent a nescient innocence. perhaps this white bud was meant to encapsulate the paradoxical essence of everything and nothing at the same time. the promise of a soul that requires it to slowly destroy itself in the process. is this what you had wished to speak? as twilight seeps across the endless sky, zhongli stoops to his knees and raises his gaze to the sky. but he is not searching for the guidance of celestia, nor is he searching for their authoritarian gaze. he searches for you, and you only. the stars will be able to provide answers, won't they?

you smile softly, watching as the bud in his palms begins to bloom.

taglist (open): @chichikoi, @noirkkat, @azumira-404, @starglitterz, @urujiako, @abyssheart, @sincerely-mai, @zierx, @dragon-void, @mikachuchu, @eternism, @shxnosuke, @stupidbirdcentral, @icecappa, @ayra2452008, @luceyluce, @masterofbrioches, @upsetpotatoo, @ariesreii

Separate, ofcourse.

Until some scenario like:

Scenario #1

After Yor’s final job as the Thorn Princess is completed, Garden hoists a party in her honor, in which she gets really really drunk. First is a glass or two, and she is smiling at everything and everybody. After a bottle, she cries, emotional about having to leave her colleagues behind. After two, she confesses to Shopkeeper how much they mean to her. After three, she’s trudging back home, feeling as free as a bird, her inhibitions worn away with the drinks.

Its late at night, but not too late for Loid to be sleeping. She looks at the lights in the apartment and knows Loid left them on for her. My husband, waiting for me. The thought makes her heart race. From today on, she would not be hiding anything from him. She would finally get to be a full time wife and support him and raise Anya. How much work had he done as a good father and a mindful husband (to a wife like her, no less) managing everything with his doctoring profession of insane hours? Now she could support him without having to worry about any secrets or misunderstandings. Maybe they should go on an outing tomorrow to celebrate? Maybe she should tell him how grateful she is to him and this family for keeping her grounded.

Maybe she should tell him how much she admires him, too.

Upon arriving, Yor takes her time taking a bath and changes, donning a baggy shirt and a pair of shorts, her limbs on autopilot, her mind still plenty inebriated. She switches off the lights, more out of habit of waiting for Loid for so many nights because he overworked at the hospital.  Before she heads to her room, she glances back at Loid’s. Should she check on him? Maybe he’s fallen asleep with a book on his face, or with the light still on? 

Why could she not just go into her room right now and sleep the whole day off until she could think rationally again? He’s your fake husband Yor. Fake. Husband. But she wants to see him and tell him that from this moment on she would be a real wife and mother, no shady profession on the side.

Yor shakes her head vigorously, almost enough to make herself nauseous. Room. Now. She yanks her bed room door open and closes it with enough force to rattle the doorframe. Or maybe it was her own body rattling off with this unnecessary and newfound want. She huffs out loud, cheeks flushed from both her thoughts and the drinks. She paces the room, up and down. Maybe she didn’t actually drink much at all, but her mind is making up excuses for her bizarre thoughts of wanting to bid Loid good night, or see him on his bed. Yor almost pulls her hair out of her head. She needs to sleep.

So she does, plopping on to her queen sized bed, and gets under the covers and turns off the lamp switch and arranges her pillow and tucks into a foetal position and grabs another pillow to hug and-

How empty. she thinks. How big this bed is and how much I regret ever agreeing to have separate bedrooms.

*** 

Loid isn’t asleep. 

He listens to the clock on his nightstand ticking away the seconds. He listens to the breeze and the distant sound of the still busy city. He listens to the trudging steps of his fake wife going about preparing for bed.

No, that was some time ago. He had listened to it. His mind still plays it out loud in his head and he can’t help but fret about it. 

She’d told him that it was an office party for a retired colleague of hers. She had looked positively radiating when she had prepared for the dinner. Nothing overly done, just a simple dress and almost no make-up, but she had looked nice. 

Today’s the final day Loid! she had said with a melancholy smile that had made his shady brain come up with a thousand things she could mean with the wording. A departing colleague was such news? What kind of relationship did they have? Was she planning to take a vital decision in her life? Move out from Ostania perhaps? Was she changing professions? Or maybe there was someone special she was meeting at the party? It didn’t make sense, but he couldn’t help thinking about them. 

More than anything, was she alright? 

Loid knew how Yor couldn’t handle liquor and how much her inability to refuse got her into drinking too much(or doing anything too much honestly). He remembered too vividly all the times destruction has come after Yor got intoxicated. He could still recall the powerful kick he’d received and it’s been his fault. Loid never blamed her for getting drunk, but he did worry about her possibly dying if she didn’t watch it. On all the occasions before, he’d been there to keep her in line. But today she must have downed at least a bottle. Was she alright? But he had only heard footsteps and doors closing, no loud thudding or furniture breaking. She must be fine and sound asleep by now. She always did sleep fitfully after getting thoroughly drunk. Maybe he should make some breakfast tomorrow to help her with the hangover that is sure to come. No, maybe he should let her sleep in tomorrow. She must be exhausted.

Why are you thinking so much of Yor anyway? She handled her liquor before you came into the picture. Still alive, isn’t she? His inner agent chided. 

Because she is my wife and the mother of my child and for Operation Strix to be a success she must exist in good health with a sound mind.

‘fake wife and the fake mother of my fake child’ You don’t have to say that out loud, but you used to do so at least in your thoughts. 

Loid pushed his head deeper into his pillow. 

Used to. 

This was normal. He had lived with them for months; it was only natural for him to assume them to be real, it was his own subconscious helping him to play his role as husband and father optimally-

His door opened.

Loid almost whipped out the gun he had secured under the bed, but stopped himself as the clouds parted and the light hit the silhouette standing at his door.

Yor, clutching a pillow, in her night attire, hair unbound and cheeks so red that the colours of everything around her seemed dull in comparison. He switched on the bedside lamp. Her gaze seemed unfocused. Inebriated.

Still Loid’s eyes flitted to every one of his secret spots in the room within the span of a second to make sure nothing was out of order. It was also enough time for him to calm the racing in his heart and the pounding in his ears. And then his eyes fell on her person once again.

‘…Yor,’ he carefully moved his legs to stand up. He knew how she was on edge when she was drunk. But before he could ask what she was doing in his room or before he stood up, Yor made her way to his bed, got under the covers beside him and snuggled in to his pillows.

And just like that, they were on the same bed.

Today’s the final day, Loid!

Had she come to say goodbye in her own weird way to tell him she was done playing family and would move on?

It was almost believable because Yor never had so much as knocked on his door/stepped into his room without his permission. But now she was in his bed, under the same sheets that were draped on his person. Drunk and maybe thinking this was the best what to say that she had always been in this exclusively for the fitting profile it provided. 

He wanted to ask her. He wanted to know what she meant by her actions. But he also knew she would remember nothing come tomorrow. It shouldn’t bother him. He should just go sleep on the couch and give her space. Loid didn’t know how long he sat on the bed dumbfounded until Yor got up, leaned over him and turned off the night lamp.

Whatever that was happening was not real. Yor would never be so brazen as to even accidentally brush her skin with him. But he has to accept reality as he feels the pressure of her hand on his shoulder to lie down, Loid. And Loid, upon seeing that she is facing his side, turns away from her because he just can’t keep looking at that heated sleepy face. 

Twilight was screaming bloody murder inside but Loid could hardly hear him with the pounding of his own heart. He tries to compartmentalize what he is feeling, tries to shut his emotions in a locker to be thrown away in a raging sea like a precious treasure that is never meant to be found again. He tries to rationalize whatever he thinks his wife must be thinking-

Loid’s whole existence comes to a screeching halt as he feels Yor snuggles her body to the curve of his spine, as she hikes up a leg to drape on his thighs, as she puts an arm around his torso and as she rests her head between his shoulder blades. Loid thinks he’s stopped breathing. He wants so much to untangle himself, run away out of the house.

Or turn around and hold her in return.

For the first time in a decade as a spy, he doesn’t know what to do.

‘I’m so lucky…’ he hears Yor murmuring and feels his cheeks flush. His reactions are atrocious! The one time he had blushed so hard before was playing Anya’s saviour at the castle in front of all WISE personnel. What was this feeling in his belly? 

‘Yor?’ he calls out experimentally, cursing his voice that sounds thick with emotion.

‘I’ll always be your wife, Loid,’ she says, rubbing her nose on to him and sighing contentedly. It tickles and sends shivers up his body. But not more than two minutes later, Loid can hear her breathing evenly, utterly dead to the world.

Sleep could never have been so farther from him in a long long time.

***

The next day, Loid only wakes up because Anya is banging on the door. 

‘Papa! It’s past ten and I watched spy wars and didn’t wake you guys up, but I’m hungry! I want croissants!’

He bellows an ‘okay, coming right up!’ but turns around to snuggle Yor for just a few more minutes.

He had never slept so soundly in an entire decade.

And his mind doesn’t register how Anya knew they were sharing a bed. Ofcourse. 

no need to be brutal

||  getou suguru x reader || T || hurt/comfort ||  wc: 4.6k || ao3  ||

There’s no need to be cruel to yourself. Suguru reminds you of this.

minors, antis, and ageless blogs dni

a/n: hurt/comfort with suguru!! AU where everyone lives/nobody dies. no spoilers! just some happy, jujutsu tech moments. student is a student, prolly a third year but its unspecified. 

warnings: unhealthy coping with drugs and alcohol, reader’s body size is referenced (wearing getou’s clothes, being picked up, etc) 

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it ends with us.

pairing. okkotsu yuuta x fem!reader

word count. 2.9k

genre/warnings. friends to lovers, one mention of suffocation, jjk 0 manga spoilers. reblogs/interaction highly appreciated!

summary. a lesson in friends, moving forward, and sleepovers.

or, four times you and your friends have a sleepover, and the one time it’s just you and yuuta.

The moment Gojo suggests a “first-year bonding sleepover,” Yuuta feels like crawling into a very tiny, very dark hole and never re-emerging. His first introduction to the class had already been disastrous, so he’s not sure why his teacher thinks this is a good idea—in fact, he’s quite sure it’s a dangerous one.

His other four classmates—Toge, Panda, Maki, and you—only stare at your teacher in slack-jawed shock. Surely he hadn’t forgotten the earlier Rika incident? Maki is the first to argue, and she and Gojo go back and forth before she has enough.

“Ugh, fine! But you can’t stay,” she hisses to Gojo despite his protests, cementing her hands on his back and shoving him outside. He smacks his forehead on the doorframe; you and Inumaki snicker to yourselves.

Once Gojo leaves, it’s extremely awkward, to say the least. Yuuta’s sure the four of you have had sleepovers together before, based on the organized way that you arrange yourselves for sleep. No one really speaks; you shuffle around the room, rearranging pillows and blankets and settling into your respective beds.

Yuuta situates his sleeping bag in the furthest corner of the room, nearly chewing his nails to the root with nervousness. He hopes Gojo’s room isn’t too far; if something goes wrong, the older sorcerer needs to be close by.

He lies awake for another thirty minutes, about fifteen minutes past the point where he’s sure the rest of you have fallen asleep. A pounding fear squeezes at his heart. He’s afraid to close his eyes for even a moment.

“Ah, Okkotsu?”

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𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄

incubus!Ryomen Sukuna x f!reader

genre. forbidden love, romance, smut

s. who knows how many lives we have lived and how many we have forgotten in the course of our existence. “you should be grateful ….” he says with a smirk as you feel a strange connection building between the two of you

cw. huge cock!Sukuna, mild dubcon at first, size kink, dirty talk, oral, fingering, squirting, manhandling, creampie, praise, tits play, belly bulge, cumflation, 69, doggy, mating press + plot twist | wc. 6K

cw. lower-ranking incubus!Yuji — Yuji is Sukuna’s underling

an. Sukuna in his incubus form has 4 arms and horns + his usual tattoos — rbs + interactions are appreciated — m.list

There is a sculpture at the entrance to the private college you attend.

A beautiful naked woman lying on what is supposed to represent a bed trying to push away a monstrous being, with horns and wings, who wants to lie with her.

You have always found the work interesting. The way the artist carved into the white marble the woman’s frightened expression, the draping of the sheets beneath her, the scary being laying its claws on her flesh.

“You’ve been looking at this statue for three years, it’ll be there tomorrow too,” the blonde’s voice made you wrinkle your nose, “the new sensei is coming today, come on, I’m curious”.

They were all in trepidation for the arrival of the new art history teacher. The only man who would be present inside the women’s college you’ve been attending for three years now. Everyone had been talking about him for weeks and finally, after winter break, he had arrived.

The art room had never been so full and after getting a glimpse of the new sensei you could see why.

He looked anything but like a teacher. His pink hair was pulled back tied in a small bun, his tattooed arms were clutched in the white t-shirt he wore, and his biker boots pulled tight around his ankles.

Something about him made your stomach tickle as the lessons got deeper.

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