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nathanbatemanfucker · 13 days ago

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The Little Blue Cottage

summary: clint and his daughter find a chance at love again with the neighbor across the street.

pairing: clint x f!reader

contents: FREAKY TALES SPOILERS, post freaky tales, neighbors to lovers, guarded!clint, grief, baby sickness, food mention, get together fic

wc: 3,863

an: i saw freaky tales on yesterday and i can’t stop thinking about clint and his story. warning there are SPOILERS.

writing masterlist

He moves into the house across the street, just him and a little baby girl. It’s the smallest house on the block, more aptly named a cottage. Pale blue paint peeling at the edges, with white trim faded to gray. A wild tangle of ivy wraps around the front porch post like it’s been waiting for someone to come home.

He doesn’t make a show of it and it doesn’t look like he has any help. No moving truck, no waving to neighbors. Just a slightly beat up black SUV that comes and goes at odd hours, and the occasional glimpse of him unloading cardboard boxes through the side door.

The baby is quiet; mostly. You only hear her in the early hours of the morning, and even then, it’s more cooing than crying — soft sounds that carry faintly across the street when your windows are cracked.

You spot him for the first time two mornings after they arrive. He’s on the porch, hoodie pulled over messy hair, coffee mug in one hand, baby monitor in the other. He leans against the railing like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. He looks exhausted, but you imagine that’s the life of a parent.

You’re on your porch, too, to water your plants. It’s a routine you’ve developed in your plant parent journey. The pots don’t need it — not really — but it’s a reason to be outside. A reason to get fresh air. A reason to look…at him.

He doesn’t see you at first. Or maybe he does and just doesn’t let on.

You watch him closely, how smooth his movements are despite his daughter’s novelty. The baby monitor crackles, and he turns slightly, listening. It’s a soft nod, like whatever he hears is good and then he takes another sip of his coffee. He stays there another minute before heading back inside.

No wave or smile, not even a glance in your direction, just a taste of his presence. It’s enough to make you wonder about the man across the street who never says hello.

—

The rain starts mid-afternoon. Its the kind that comes fast and stays, steady sheets drumming against windows, slicking the pavement, flooding the gutters at the ends of the street. You watch it peacefully from your living room, curled on the couch with a blanket and a half-read novel you’ve been pretending you like.

It’s only when you get up to make tea that you notice the box.

A plain cardboard package sitting on your porch — soaked halfway through, the label partly smudged. You open the door with a frown— you weren’t expecting a package— tugging it inside before the water ruins it completely.

The name on the label is not yours.

It’s his. Clint’s. So the man across the street not only has a face but now a name.

You hesitate.

In the months that he’s been here, Clint never talks to anyone. He never even lingers outside long enough to be spoken to (that’s not completely true, you’re just a little intimidated by how attractive he is). But now, here you are, holding something that doesn’t belong to you, something that can’t be ignored. The return address looks like it might be personal; not a business but a name sprawled across the corner.

With resolve you slip your shoes on, throw a rain jacket over your hoodie, and cross the street with the package hugged to your chest, head ducked low under the downpour. The street’s quiet except for the steady pulse of rain and your feet splashing through the various puddles.

You knock once and it feels too loud. You don’t know him but from what you observe it seems like the only sounds made are by his daughter.

There’s movement inside and you can hear the quick shuffle of feet, the faint hush of a baby’s voice before the door opens a crack. He looks like he always does: tired, guarded, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, baby balanced on one hip.

You blink rain from your lashes, a little overwhelmed with seeing him up close. His eyes are the deepest shade of brown, and there’s a shallow scar on his cheek that somehow fits his round face. He’s gorgeous– you knew that– but witnessing it now? In all its glory?

You blink again, forcing yourself to focus. “Hey, um, hi. Sorry to bother you. I live across the street and this got dropped at my place by mistake.” You lift the package slightly.

He stares at it for a second like he doesn’t quite trust it. Then he shifts the baby higher on his side and opens the door a little wider before taking the package from you.

“Thanks,” he says– voice low, a little hoarse, like he hasn’t used it all day.

You nod, starting to step back but the baby coos, tiny fist grabbing at the air in your direction, and something about that small gesture catches him off guard. His arm pulls her in automatically, protective. He doesn’t say anything for a second.

“She likes faces,” he offers, like an apology.

You smile, soft. “Curious girl.”

There’s a pause, the kind that could end a conversation, if either of you let it.

To your surprise, he clears his throat, adjusting the package under his arm. “Sorry it got left over there.”

You wave him off, smiling widening. “No harm done.”

Another beat. You start to turn.

“I’m Clint,” he says suddenly, almost like he regrets it the moment it’s out.

You glance back over your shoulder. “I know,” you murmur before telling him your name.

A flicker of something passes through his expression, maybe surprise or a tinge of embarrassment. Of course you know his name, it was on the package. Or the beginning of a smile that doesn’t quite make it to the surface.

“You didn’t have to bring it in the rain,” he murmurs.

“I know but it looked kind of important.” He doesn’t say anything, the silence a breath between you. His daughter makes another sweet little sound, drawing your eyes to her. “She’s beautiful.”

He looks down at her, eyes much softer now. “Yeah. She is, she’s perfect.”

“Well, I’ll let you get to it. Take care.”

“You too,” he murmurs, voice sandy.

The rain keeps falling. You head back across the street, heart beating louder than it should. And the next morning, he’s on the porch again with the baby monitor in one hand.

But this time, he sees you first.

He waves.

—

The knock comes on a late, sunny afternoon; soft, uncertain. Frazzled if a knock can communicate that.

You open the door to find Clint standing there, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows, shadows deep under his eyes. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stands there, like the words are stuck in his throat.

“Clint, is everything okay?” you prompt him gently.

“She’s sick,” he finally mutters. “I think. She’s burning up, and I haven’t been able to get her down for more than ten minutes. I just— I need to shower. Make something to eat. I didn’t know where else to go, who else to ask…”His voice trails off, jaw tense.

You blink, trying to process. The standoffish man from across the street– the one who refused to even acknowledge your presence until he was forced to is asking you for help?

He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably. “Could you— would you— I know we don’t—“

It's clear how much effort this is taking him. You won’t make him ask again . “Of course. Let me grab my bag.”

He nods once, short and sharp, and leads the way back across the street. The sun’s started to slip behind the trees, casting the little cottage in soft shadow. From the moment you step inside, you feel it — the heat, thick and close, and the shrill cry of a baby who’s miserable in her own skin.

She’s on the couch in a nest of blankets, red-faced, sticky with sweat.

“She won’t let me put her down,” Clint says, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been holding her all day. She won’t eat much. I don’t know if it’s teething or something worse. I’ve never— I don’t know what I’m doing.”

His voice cracks at the end. Just barely. But you hear it. Part of you wants to address it, to tell him that its okay and he’s just trying to figure it out but somehow you know that’ll rub him the wrong way. It’ll make him retreat.

Instead, you kneel beside the couch, pressing your fingers gently to the baby’s forehead. “She’s definitely running warm,” you say, your tone calm but careful. “Do you have a thermometer?”

He nods, disappears down the hall, and comes back with a baby thermometer and a half-empty bottle of children’s Tylenol. Her fever isn’t dangerously high, but enough to explain the fussiness and flushed cheeks. You feed her the medicine carefully, rocking her gently while she squirms against your chest.

“She needs to be cooler,” you murmur. “Would it be okay if I gave her a lukewarm wipe-down? Not a bath — just something to bring the fever down.”

Clint nods without hesitation. “Yeah. Anything.”

Your heart squeezes for him and his baby girl. It's clear that he loves her more than anything, adoringly so. Of course you’ll do what you can to wipe that look of worry off his face. To make sure the most precious little girl is okay.

You find a clean cloth and a bowl in the kitchen, soaking it with cool water before sitting back down. The baby cries, but not as loud now. She’s too tired. You stroke the cloth gently across her forehead, over her cheeks, down the back of her neck. Eventually, she relaxes and her breaths come slower.

Clint exhales slowly from where he’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, face unreadable.

“She’s going to be okay,” you say softly.

He nods, looking a little more relaxed. “Okay.” Then, after a beat: “I’m gonna shower. Will you be okay with her?”

You smile reassuringly. “We’ll be just fine.”

He vanishes down the hallway, and you settle in on the couch with the baby on your chest. Her body is heavy with exhaustion, breath shallow but even. The fever’s already starting to come down and as it does, she slips further into slumber.

By the time Clint returns, he smells like soap and looks a little more like himself. You only get a glance because he ducks into the kitchen, moving quietly. But you see the wet, slicked back hair, the white t-shirt that clings to him well. When he comes back, he’s got two plates — grilled cheese and soup, simple but warm.

He offers you one with a nod, like the food is a thank-you he can’t quite say out loud.

You take it, curling into the opposite end of the couch while the baby sleeps in the middle, swaddled in a light blanket.

“She really is beautiful. And so sweet,” you say after a few bites. “What’s her name?”

Clint stills. His gaze drops to the sleeping baby. “Grace.”

You let the name settle in the quiet room. “That’s lovely, it suits her.”

He shifts, running a thumb along the edge of his plate. “Her mom’s name was Grace, too.”

There’s something hollow in the way he says it. But he’s saying it and you’re letting him say it, so he doesn’t stop.

“She passed away when the baby was born– unexpected complications. Everything was fine until it wasn’t. I didn’t even make it to the hospital in time.” His voice is rough now. Low and worn. Sad. “I named her Grace because… I didn’t know what else to do. It felt like the only thing I could do.”

You set your plate down, the sound soft against the coffee table. “She carries her mom with her that way.”

Clint doesn’t answer. Just leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. Neither of you says anything. The house is quiet now, except for the occasional creaks of the old house and the soft sighs of Grace asleep between you.

Clint doesn’t move to take her. Doesn’t rush to reclaim his space. He just lets you sit there — in his house, beside him, with the baby safe in both your presence. And for the first time, it feels like the door to his heart is cracked open.

Not wide. But enough to peer inside.

—

It starts small but its steady.

A wave across the street turns into a knock at your door on Sunday mornings– Clint, holding out a paper bag with an extra muffin or a still-warm breakfast sandwich, one hand balancing Grace on his hip. You don’t always invite him in, and he doesn’t always linger. But he shows up and you start to expect it.

There are a few times that he stays. Especially when Grace is cranky and won’t nap unless someone’s holding her upright. You learn to eat one-handed while she dozes against your chest, and Clint washes your dishes without asking. He doesn’t talk much but you find ways to fill the space between.

You start walking together in the early evenings, down the block and back again, Grace strapped to his chest or tucked into her stroller or sometimes in your arms. You talk about inconsequential things like the weather, the neighbor’s porch raccoon, your favorite pizza place. Sometimes you walk in silence but it doesn’t feel empty. It feels… easy. Companionable.

One Tuesday, you spot a book on his front step, something he mentioned wanting to read, something you quietly left there. The next day, there’s a bag of lemon balm clippings from your garden hanging on your doorknob. He doesn’t say thank you. You don’t either. But the rhythm, its steadiness is there. A shared language you’ve built out of gestures instead of words.

Grace gets used to you, too. She reaches for you now when Clint’s arms are full, when she’s tired and needs someone. You catch her smile more than you used to.

And Clint watches that. Sometimes, when you hand her back or kiss the top of her head without thinking, you catch him looking at you, not with surprise or hesitation, not with anything that would give away what he’s thinking. Just…observing. Like he’s still learning what it means to have someone else in the room who stays.

One night, you’re leaving his house after dinner, you’d thrown together something simple because he didn’t have time to cook; you convinced yourself it made sense since you were already there watching Grace while he was away at work.

He stands in the doorway holding Grace, the porch light bathing him in gold, and calls after you with a simple.“Thanks.”

You almost brush it off. Almost say of course or anytime. But you stop. Let the quiet settle.

“I want to be here. With her…with you,” you add a little hesitantly.

Clint’s eyes flick to yours. “I know. I just— thanks.”

You nod, and for a second, neither of you moves. Grace yawns, her tiny hand curling into his hoodie. You reach out, brushing your fingers against her curls. He doesn’t reach for you, doesn’t pull away, either.

But in that space between distance and closeness, that inch of breathless, grounding silence, something between you swells and shifts.

—

Three days pass without a wave. No muffins. No walks. No sight of him on the porch at all. No light in the window across from yours, save for the faint flicker of the tv late at night.

You try to convince yourself he’s just tired. That Grace is teething. That maybe he’s busy, developing a life here and it’s nothing. But, the silence settles heavily in your chest and anxiety takes root.

So on the fourth day, you walk across the street.

His porch creaks under your steps. You knock gently and wait. There’s no sound. You’re about to turn around when the door cracks open. Clint stands there in a t-shirt and sweats, dark circles blooming under his eyes. His hair is a mess. He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Just… like he doesn’t know what to say.

“Hey,” you say softly.

“Hey.”

A beat of silence. You glance past him, just enough to see the edges of clutter�� dishes in the sink, a blanket half on the couch, toys scattered like the remnants of a long day. Grace isn’t crying, but you can hear her somewhere inside, babbling softly to herself.

“I… I wasn’t sure if something was wrong,” you offer. “You’ve been kind of—gone.”

Clint’s mouth twitches like he might give a reason, like he might tell you. But it doesn’t come. He just takes a silent breath, his fingers tighten around the edge of the door. “Yeah. I know.”

Another silence. This one feels heavier. Like he’s trying to hold it up with just his shoulders, keep it between you.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” he says finally. “Sometimes I just… pull in. Shut it all down when it gets too much.”

You hear what he’s not saying; when you get too much. Or too close.

You nod, heart thudding, palms growing slick. Your voice is a little shaky the next time you speak,“You don’t owe me anything. But if you’re worried about me sticking around, you don’t have to be. I’m not going anywhere, not unless you want me to.”

Something cracks in his expression–not broken, but unguarded and guilty. He hates that he’s made you like this, that his putting some distance between you has left you feeling unwanted and insecure. But he isn’t sure what to say, his eyes flickering back and forth as he tries to decide whether or not he’ll say something in response. He opens his mouth like he’s going to say something but is interrupted by a thump behind him. A little gasp of sound.

Grace.

She crawls into view in her footie pajamas, face flushed, hair in a wild little crown. Her eyes land on you and she lights up, arms stretching forward like you’re a lighthouse on a foggy shore.

“Hey, bug,” you whisper, wanting to reach for her but not until you know where you and Clint stand. You don’t want to overstep or cross any of his boundaries.

She makes a happy little grunt and wriggles in place until Clint finally bends down and scoops her up. She doesn’t reach for him though, she twists toward you again, insistent. And Clint sees that. He watches the way her tiny hand curls toward you, the way she leans across the gap between the two of you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“She missed you,” he murmurs.

You can't help but wonder if he had missed you too.

You meet his eyes, and you swear its there. And understanding that you’ve missed each other too. “I missed her, too.”

He swallows hard, jaw tight. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For pulling back. It’s not that I didn’t want to see you. I just— I’m not good at letting people stay.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to be good at it. I can be patient.”

Clint looks down at Grace, then back at you, something soft and aching behind his eyes. “Come in,” he says, voice rough. “Please, come in.”

You do, because he’s taking a step towards not keeping you at arm’s length.

—

It’s just after five in the morning when Clint crosses the street, coffee in one hand, Grace tucked against his shoulder in the other. She’s still asleep, warm and soft and breathing slow, her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

He hesitates at your front steps. Not because he doubts he wants to be here, or because he doesn’t think you’ll be awake but because he’s never been good at moments like this. Quiet ones. Ones that aren’t born from necessity but from choice. From need.

When you open the door, barefoot and wrapped in just a hoodie that brushes the tops of your thighs, you don’t ask questions. Just take him in, eyes soft and knowing.

His eyes are just as soft, almost pleading when he says, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” you say, an easy smile spreading across your face. “Come in.”

He doesn’t mean to stay long, he never does. But your house smells like lemon and something warm. Grace doesn’t stir when he transfers her into your arms, just sighs and tucks in closer to your chest like she belongs there.

Maybe she does.

He hands you the coffee and says, “Could you put on that silly baking show?”

You end up curled on the couch. The baking competition show plays, muted and forgettable. Grace is a little space heater between you. The minutes stretch. The storm Clint’s been carrying in his ribs starts to loosen, and before he knows it, his eyes drift shut.

Sleep comes easy for him, maybe for the first time in weeks.He’s not sure how long its been when he wakes to the soft sound of birds, one of his favorite hallmarks of early spring. The window’s cracked. The room is still dim, the light barely touching the edge of the curtains.

Grace is still asleep, somehow. So are you.

You’re tucked into his side, head on his shoulder, your breathing steady. He realizes, with a slow, aching awareness, that his head has come to rest atop yours, like it gravitated there in sleep, like his body trusted you long before his words did.

He stays like that for a moment. Listening to the quiet. Letting himself feel it, feel the sweetness of laying in a pile with you and Grace.

Then you stir. You blink up at him a little confused and still half-asleep. You smile, small, close-lipped, warm. Your hand lifts before he can brace for it, fingers brushing his cheek in a soft, steady stroke.

He exhales at your touch, a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. You’re touching him like he won’t flinch. Like he deserves it. Like it’s nothing new.

Your hand lingers, palm cupping the side of his face like he’s something fragile and worth keeping. And maybe he is. Maybe this is what it’s like to be wanted quietly. Without fireworks. Without war. Without difficulty or contention of any kind.

Just… wanted.

.It’s not rushed when you lean in. Just certain. Your lips meet his, warm, soft, and tentative. Clint doesn’t hesitate either.

He moves slowly, carefully, like a man relearning gentleness. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw, the pad of his thumb brushing the column of your neck. You melt into it, into him, and something in him settles like gravity finding its anchor.

The kiss deepens just slightly, still tender, still careful, and when you part, your forehead rests against his, your breaths mingling.

He stays like that, close, thumb still resting against your skin, and asks quietly, “Can I make us breakfast?”

“Yeah, I’d really like that.”

tagging some folks who expressed interest/were on my old pedro taglists: @campingwiththecharmings, @fakeplasticfeels, @lesbianhotch, @for-a-longlongtime, @ozarkthedog, @bubblybubbubs, @jxvipike

#clint #clint freaky tales #clint freaky tales x reader #clint freaky tales x fem!reader #clint freaky tales x you #freaky tales fanfiction #clint freaky tales fic #freaky tales #arson writes #x reader

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transthatmasc · 4 months ago

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Jayvik sleeping in the lab headcannons

Jayce and viktor put two couches in the lab as soon as they get their first sponsor. They are placed directly next to each other end to end with the arms touching.

Jayce’s couch is wide with deep cushions that squish under his weight and an obnoxious vintage pattern. It has a thick pillow on both ends, and the thinnest little throw blanket with a cheesy print on it that his mom gave him to put on a couch when he moved into his first dorm. It looks like he could sleep with his head on either end, but he always sleeps with his head next to Viktor and he uses the other pillow to prop his legs up cause his feet stick up over the arm cause he’s so tall.

Viktor’s couch is solid gray and very firm. It has no cushions on the back, just all four of his pillows to use as back support if you sit which no one ever does. The blanket is thick and fuzzy and a rich royal blue and looks like it could save you from a winter storm. The couch has a relatively low back so that viktor can leave his cane and his leg brace resting against the back within arms reach, and he hangs his back brace over the back as well.

Viktor keeps a sleep mask in the desk closest to their couch corner because it was always dark in zaun and he can’t sleep in the light still.

Viktor takes ten minutes to get in the “right spot” where he leg and back and all his other shitty joints are supported by a pillow or his blanket but as soon as he stays still for 30 seconds he’s immediately out. He always leaves his right toes out of the blanket.

Jayce sleeps on his face. Viktor is convinced that he will suffocate and has gone out of his way to find him a baby pillow that is breathable. Jayce thinks that viktor’s worry is cute. Jayce’s arm sticks off the side of the couch and rests on the floor.

Viktor sleeps like the dead, only shifting minutely, but with his mouth parted and the occasional snore. Jayce fucking spins in his sleep. He falls asleep on his face but where he wakes up is completely variable. Viktor once had to slap him awake because he spun around completely and had his stinky toes next to viktor’s face. Viktor was not amused but Jayce thought it was fucking hilarious.

When they finally start dating, Jayce moves his couch to be directly across from Viktor’s with just enough space for Viktor to get onto his couch. They fall asleep holding hands and Jayce gets lulled off by Viktor’s even breathing.

When a deadline is coming up, they shack up in the lab for weeks at a time, the takeout boxes piling up and fresh clothes only brought in by Ximena who insists on washing their clothes at least every three days.

Jayce keeps one of his retainers in the bathroom next to Viktor’s contact solution. His mom yelled at him about how expensive his braces were when he admitted that he was spending a lot of time sleeping at the lab without one.

Their toothbrushes sit in a cup together, Jayce’s is red and Viktor’s is blue. They share a tube of toothpaste.

Viktor’s deodorant stays next to the bathroom sink. Jayce’s stays at his desk so he can use it every few hours cause he produces too much heat.

The shower has a single XL sized bottle of old spice body wash that is labeled “Vanquish”, a bottle of 2 in 1 shampoo labeled “Giant Squid”, and a small bottle of conditioner scented like honey and coconuts. Jayce sometimes opens it just to stand under the water and smell, imagining that he can shove his nose into Viktor’s honey scented hair. Viktor notices that it has been moved every time Jayce takes a shower, but only says something the one time Jayce tries it in his hair— “Jayce, that conditioner is 10 gold. Please do not use it.” He secretly enjoys the fact that Jayce smells like him all day and tries not to pay attention to the fact that Jayce has a silly smile on his face all day and seems to have a hard time focusing on things.

Before they get their couches, there is simply a pile of blankets and pillows under one of the spare desks. They take turns napping there when the afternoons are too long and they didn’t sleep well the night before. Viktor always encourages Jayce to go first, some excuse about being in the middle of an equation or something. Secretly it’s because he adores the feeling of the pillows and blankets being warm and smelling like Jayce when he gets in. Little does Viktor know that Jayce also likes the idea of Viktor cocooned in his warmth and his scent and is perfectly happy to watch him cuddle up after him.

#jayvik headcanons #jayvik #jayce talis #viktor #viktor arcane #arcane viktor #arcane jayce #arcane headcanons #jayvik hc #jayce headcanons #viktor headcanons #arcane #Netflix arcane

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s4kura-tr3 · 4 months ago

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Snow day

Summary: the JJK men have a day off from work because of the snow

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Sukuna, Toji, Megumi, Yuji

Gojo satoru

The snow is falling thick and fast outside your window when you wake up, a rare silence blanketing the usual city chaos. You squint at your phone, scrolling past a string of notifications until one catches your eye—work is canceled. A snow day. You barely have time to process this before the bed dips beside you.

“Guess who doesn’t have to be an adult today?” Gojo’s voice is smug, even as his arms wrap lazily around you from behind. His hair’s a mess of white, almost blending into the snowstorm outside, and his grin is somehow brighter than the sunlight streaming through the curtains.

You mumble something about wanting to sleep in, but Gojo has other plans. “Oh no, no, no, no,” he says dramatically, tugging the blankets away. “We’ve been granted a day of pure, unadulterated freedom! This calls for celebration. Come on, lazybones, get up!”

Despite your groans, you’re soon bundled up in layers and dragged outside. The cold bites at your nose, but the sight of Gojo spinning in the falling snow—arms outstretched, head tilted back like a kid seeing snow for the first time—melts your initial reluctance.

The day unfolds with Gojo’s chaotic energy as the driving force. First, a snowball fight. It starts off tame until he begins bending the rules, using his Infinity to block your throws and conjuring impossibly large snowballs that he somehow claims are “fair game.” You manage to catch him off guard, pelting him square in the back, and he dramatically collapses into the snow like he’s been mortally wounded.

Then comes the snowman-building competition, which quickly devolves into Gojo attempting to sabotage your progress while insisting his lopsided creation has “character.” By the time you both admit defeat, your cheeks are flushed and your gloves are soaked through.

Back inside, the warmth is heavenly, and Gojo insists on making hot cocoa. It’s overly sweet—because, of course, he dumps half a bag of marshmallows into your cup—but it’s perfect. You curl up on the couch together under a blanket, your feet tangled as you watch the snow continue to fall outside.

“Days like this are rare,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. He presses a kiss to your temple, his hand finding yours beneath the blanket. “We should make it snow more often.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes at his absurdity, but you can’t deny it—you wouldn’t trade this day for anything.

Geto Suguru

The morning starts with an unusual stillness. You’re lying in bed, half-buried under the warmth of the blankets, when you notice the faint blue-gray light filtering through the curtains. Snow. Lots of it. You reach for your phone and find the notification waiting: work is canceled. You sigh in relief, sinking deeper into the mattress.

Beside you, Geto stirs, his long, dark hair spilling over the pillow. He opens his eyes just enough to look at you, a lazy smirk curling on his lips. “What’s got you smiling?” he murmurs, his voice husky with sleep.

“Snow day,” you reply, tilting your phone to show him the screen.

He hums, eyes closing again as he pulls you closer. “Then there’s no reason to get up, is there?”

For a while, neither of you moves. His steady breathing and the muffled quiet of the snow make it easy to stay curled up together, his arms wrapped loosely around you. Eventually, though, the outside world calls. “We should do something,” you say, breaking the comfortable silence.

“Something like breakfast?” he offers, his voice teasing.

The two of you make your way to the kitchen, where Geto puts together a simple but satisfying breakfast. He moves with an easy confidence, brushing his hair into a loose bun as he hands you a steaming mug of tea. The two of you eat by the window, watching the snow drift lazily to the ground.

Afterward, Geto pulls on a coat and convinces you to do the same. “Come on,” he says, lacing his fingers through yours. “Let’s go see what it’s like out there.”

The streets are quiet and blanketed in pristine white. The city feels transformed, the usual chaos muted by the snow. Geto leads you to a nearby park, where the two of you walk along the snow-covered paths, your boots crunching softly with each step.

At one point, he stops to brush the snow from a bench and gestures for you to sit. “Stay there,” he says with a small smile, before gathering an armful of snow and rolling it into a ball. You watch as he builds a snowman with meticulous care, crafting its features with the same precision he brings to everything.

When he steps back to admire his work, you can’t help but laugh. “It’s… interesting,” you say, noting the lopsided grin he’s given it.

“Artistic,” he corrects with mock seriousness, his dark eyes gleaming.

You join him in the snowman-making endeavor, and before long, you’re laughing and throwing snow at each other. Geto isn’t one to start a snowball fight, but he doesn’t hesitate to retaliate when you toss a handful of snow at his back. His throws are deliberate, always landing close enough to make you yelp but never enough to truly soak you.

Eventually, the cold drives you both back inside. Geto sets about making hot chocolate, insisting on doing it properly—none of that instant stuff. The scent of melting chocolate fills the apartment as you wrap yourself in a blanket, watching him work with quiet appreciation.

When he finally hands you a mug, he sits beside you on the couch, pulling the blanket around the both of you. The snow continues to fall outside, but the warmth of his presence makes everything else fade away.

“You know,” he says softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “we should have more days like this. Just us. No work, no distractions.”

You smile, leaning your head against his shoulder. “Agreed.”

The rest of the day passes in cozy contentment, the snowstorm outside making your shared warmth feel all the more precious.

Nanami Kento

You wake up to the soft patter of snow against the window and the unmistakable stillness that only comes with a snowstorm. For once, your alarm isn’t the thing pulling you from sleep. Instead, it’s Nanami gently nudging your shoulder.

“It’s snowing,” he says quietly, his voice low and even. “And work is canceled.”

Your eyes flutter open to see him sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed in his usual crisp manner, though his tie is noticeably absent. He’s holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, the other resting on your shoulder.

You groan, rolling onto your side. “So why are you up already?”

“Old habits,” he replies with a faint smile. “But since we have the day off, I thought I’d make us breakfast.”

The promise of food is enough to pull you out of bed. By the time you join him in the kitchen, the smell of fresh coffee and something sweet fills the air. Nanami is at the stove, flipping pancakes with the kind of precision he applies to everything. He hands you a plate as soon as you sit down, topped with golden pancakes and fresh fruit.

“Fancy,” you tease, drizzling syrup over the stack.

“I don’t believe in wasting time,” he replies simply, though there’s a softness to his tone.

After breakfast, the two of you linger at the table, sipping coffee and watching the snow pile up outside the window. It’s peaceful, and for once, there’s no rush to go anywhere or do anything.

When you suggest going outside, Nanami raises an eyebrow. “You know it’s freezing, right?”

“Exactly,” you say with a grin. “That’s what makes it fun.”

It takes some convincing, but eventually, he relents. Bundled up in scarves and gloves, the two of you step into the snow-covered streets. The neighborhood is quiet, and the fresh snowfall makes everything look almost magical.

Nanami is hesitant at first, but he humors you when you start gathering snow for a snowman. He helps you pack the snow into firm, perfect spheres, muttering something about “structural integrity” that makes you laugh. When it’s done, you declare it a masterpiece, though Nanami gives it a critical once-over.

“It’s lopsided,” he points out, but there’s a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.

You stick your tongue out at him, and just when you think he’s about to argue further, he surprises you by scooping up a handful of snow and lightly tossing it at your shoulder.

“Did you just—?”

Before you can finish, another snowball lands near your feet. Nanami is already walking away, but you catch the faintest smile tugging at his lips. “You started this,” you say, gathering your own ammunition.

The snowball fight that follows is short-lived but full of laughter, and by the time you both head back inside, your cheeks are flushed from the cold and exertion.

Nanami insists you warm up properly, so he brews a fresh pot of tea while you change into dry clothes. The two of you settle onto the couch, wrapped in a shared blanket, with steaming mugs in hand.

And for the rest of the day, you enjoy the quiet comfort of each other’s company, the world outside forgotten in favor of the warmth you share.

Toji fushiguro

The day starts with the sound of excited little footsteps racing down the hallway. You barely have time to register the noise before Megumi bursts into your room, his cheeks pink with excitement and his hair sticking up more than usual.

“It snowed!” he announces, pulling at the blankets. “A lot! Come look!”

You groan softly, still half-asleep, but the sound rouses Toji, who’s sprawled beside you, his arm draped lazily over your waist. He opens one eye, glancing at Megumi with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

“It’s too early for this, kid,” Toji grumbles, though there’s no real bite to his tone.

“It’s not!” Megumi insists, tugging harder at the covers. “You promised we could go outside if it snowed!”

Toji sighs dramatically but finally sits up, ruffling Megumi’s already-messy hair. “Alright, alright. Go get dressed. And wear that coat I got you, not the thin one.”

Megumi bolts from the room, and you chuckle as you sit up, stretching. “Looks like you’re on snow-duty today.”

“Not just me,” Toji says, smirking as he leans over to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re in this too.”

After breakfast—a quick affair of toast and hot chocolate, because Megumi can’t sit still long enough for anything else—you all bundle up and head outside. The snow is pristine and untouched, and Megumi’s eyes light up as he surveys the sparkling white blanket covering the yard.

Toji starts off by helping Megumi build a snowman, though his version involves packing the snow so tightly it could probably survive a hurricane. Megumi insists on adding little twigs for arms and a crooked smile, and when you laugh at the result, Toji smirks. “It’s got character,” he says, echoing Megumi’s words.

Once the snowman is done, Toji takes it upon himself to teach Megumi the “art” of snowball throwing. He crouches low, showing him how to pack the snow just right. Of course, the first snowball Megumi throws hits you square in the arm, earning a triumphant cheer from the little boy and a low chuckle from Toji.

“You’re supposed to aim for me, kid,” Toji says, scooping up a snowball of his own.

But instead of throwing it at Megumi, he tosses it gently at you, a teasing smirk on his face. “Gotta defend yourself, sweetheart.”

What follows is a chaotic snowball fight, with Megumi enthusiastically teaming up with Toji against you. You hold your own for a while, but eventually, Toji sneaks up behind you and lifts you off the ground, giving Megumi the perfect shot. Both of them laugh as you pretend to be defeated, and Toji sets you down with a satisfied grin.

Eventually, the cold starts to seep in, and you all head back inside. Toji insists on making something warm, so while he heats up soup in the kitchen, you help Megumi out of his snow-soaked layers and wrap him in a cozy blanket.

The rest of the day is spent in comfortable warmth. Megumi curls up on the couch between you and Toji, his head resting on your arm as the three of you watch a movie together. Toji’s hand rests lazily on your leg, his thumb rubbing small circles absentmindedly.

As the snow continues to fall outside, you glance over at the two of them—Megumi, fighting to keep his eyes open, and Toji, looking more at peace than you’ve seen in a while.

Sukuna Ryomen

The snow falls steadily outside the wooden shutters of your Heian-era home, blanketing the courtyard in pristine white. You watch from the veranda, wrapped in layers of silk, as the delicate flakes settle on the trees and roof tiles. The world feels quieter, slower—a rare reprieve from the usual hum of life.

Behind you, Sukuna lounges lazily against the wooden frame of the door, his dual eyes watching you with a mix of amusement and curiosity. He’s draped in his usual attire, though he’s added a thick haori over it, more for style than warmth. The cold never seems to bother him, but you’ve noticed he enjoys the aesthetic of snow days as much as you do.

“You’ve been staring out there for an eternity,” he drawls, his voice a low rumble. “What’s so fascinating about frozen water?”

“It’s peaceful,” you reply, glancing over your shoulder at him. “Don’t you think?”

He snorts, pushing himself to his feet with a grace that belies his size and presence. “Peaceful isn’t exactly my style.” But he steps onto the veranda anyway, his sharp gaze sweeping across the snowy courtyard.

You stand together for a moment, watching the snow fall in companionable silence. Then, without warning, Sukuna smirks. “Let’s see how long your ‘peaceful’ moment lasts.”

Before you can react, he’s scooped up a handful of snow and hurled it at you, the cold shock of it catching you entirely off guard. You gasp, stumbling back, and he laughs—a deep, rich sound that echoes through the still air.

“Did you just—?” you sputter, brushing snow from your sleeve.

“Of course I did,” he says, entirely unapologetic. “What will you do about it?”

Your reply is swift: you gather a handful of snow and toss it back, aiming for his shoulder. He doesn’t even dodge, letting it hit him as his grin widens. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

The courtyard quickly becomes your battlefield, snowballs flying back and forth as Sukuna alternates between playful teasing and outright mockery of your aim. When you manage to land one squarely on his chest, his expression flickers with surprise before morphing into approval. “Not bad,” he concedes, though his retaliation is immediate—a perfectly formed snowball that sends you running for cover.

Eventually, the game winds down, and Sukuna strides over to where you’ve taken refuge beneath a snow-covered tree. His hands are empty now, though his smirk remains firmly in place. “Had enough?”

You huff, brushing snow from your hair as you glare at him half-heartedly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” he says, leaning in closer, his breath warm against your chilled face, “you still choose to stay.”

He pulls you back inside, where the warmth of the brazier offers relief from the cold. Sukuna settles beside you, pouring tea with surprising care, his claws handling the delicate porcelain with ease. He hands you a cup, watching as you sip, your hands still trembling slightly from the cold.

You huff, brushing snow from your hair as you glare at him half-heartedly. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you say, echoing his earlier words, “you still choose to stay.”

For a moment, his expression softens, the corners of his mouth lifting in something almost resembling a smile. The snow continues to fall outside, but the warmth of his presence fills the room, chasing away the chill of winter.

Megumi Fushiguro

The soft glow of morning light filters through your window, accompanied by the faint sound of snow tapping against the glass. You stir, glancing outside to find the world covered in a thick, pristine blanket of snow. The usual chaos of the city seems muted, as if the snow itself has called for a pause.

Megumi is already awake, sitting cross-legged on the floor by the heater, a book balanced in his hands. He glances up when he notices you stirring.

“Snow day,” he says simply, his tone calm but his gaze lingering on the window.

You sit up, stretching with a small smile. “Guess we’re both stuck inside today.”

He hums, turning his attention back to his book, though you catch the faintest flicker of interest in his expression.

After a quick breakfast, you’re the first to suggest stepping outside. “We should enjoy it while it’s fresh,” you say, tugging on your coat.

Megumi raises an eyebrow. “You do realize it’s freezing, right?”

“All the more reason to appreciate it,” you counter, grabbing his scarf and tossing it to him. “Come on, I’ll even let you stay grumpy about it.”

With a resigned sigh, he pulls on his coat and follows you out. The cold air nips at your cheeks as you step into the snow-covered yard, your boots crunching softly with each step. Megumi’s hands are shoved into his pockets, and his dark hair is dusted with snowflakes almost instantly.

“You know,” you say, bending down to gather a handful of snow, “you could try to have a little fun.”

He glances at you, unimpressed, until you toss the snow at him, the powdery flurry landing harmlessly on his arm. He blinks at you, his expression unreadable.

“That’s how you want to do this?” he asks, his tone flat.

You grin. “Absolutely.”

What follows is a snowball fight you’ll remember for a long time. Megumi, true to form, doesn’t hold back once he decides to participate. His throws are calculated and precise, leaving you scrambling for cover more often than not. You manage to land a few hits of your own, but his sharp reflexes make him a formidable opponent.

At one point, you’re hiding behind a tree, trying to catch your breath, when you hear him approach. Before you can react, a snowball lands squarely on your back.

“You’re predictable,” he says, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“And you’re annoying,” you shoot back, though you’re smiling, too.

Eventually, the two of you call a truce, retreating to the house to warm up. Megumi sets a pot of tea on the stove while you drape a blanket over your shoulders, both of you still laughing softly from the morning’s antics.

The rest of the day passes in quiet comfort. You sit by the window, sipping tea and watching the snow continue to fall. Megumi joins you, his book in hand, though he seems more interested in the view than the pages.

“You’re not bad at snowball fights,” you remark after a while, breaking the silence.

He glances at you, his expression neutral but his tone light. “And you’re not bad at being a target.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth in his voice makes you smile.

Yuji Itadori

The morning starts with Yuji shaking you awake, his excitement barely contained. His grin is as bright as the sunlight reflecting off the snow outside.

“Wake up!” he says, his voice bubbling with energy. “It snowed overnight! Like, a lot!”

You groan, trying to pull the blanket over your head, but he’s persistent, tugging it away and practically bouncing on the bed. “Come on, you can’t waste a snow day! We have to go outside!”

His enthusiasm is contagious, and soon enough, you’re bundled up and stepping out into the winter wonderland. The world feels quieter, softer, as if the snow has wrapped everything in a cozy, white blanket.

Yuji immediately runs into the snow, stomping around like a little kid, his breath fogging up in the cold air. “This is awesome!” he exclaims, spinning in a circle and throwing his arms out wide.

You laugh, watching him with fond amusement. “You act like you’ve never seen snow before.”

“Not like this!” he says, already scooping up a handful to pack into a snowball. “Besides, it’s more fun when you have someone to share it with.”

Before you can respond, the snowball hits you gently on the arm. You gape at him, feigning shock. “Did you just throw snow at me?”

He grins, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “What? It was an accident!”

“Accident, huh?” You bend down to grab your own snowball, and his eyes widen.

“Wait—no, no, no!” he laughs, dodging as you throw it at him.

What starts as a simple snowball fight quickly turns into an all-out war. Yuji is surprisingly agile, darting behind trees and ducking under cover with ease, but you manage to land a few hits. His laughter echoes through the air, warm and infectious, as the two of you chase each other around the yard.

At one point, you trip and fall into a soft pile of snow, and before you can get up, Yuji flops down beside you, both of you breathless and grinning.

“You’re ruthless,” he says, brushing snow off his coat.

“And you’re too competitive,” you reply, nudging him playfully.

He sits up, gazing out at the snowy expanse with a soft smile. “This is nice,” he says after a moment. “Spending time like this, with you. Feels… peaceful.”

You smile, leaning into his shoulder. “It is. Even with you pelting me with snowballs.”

He laughs, wrapping an arm around you to pull you closer. “Hey, you started it.”

The rest of the day is spent in a mix of playful chaos and quiet moments. Yuji insists on building the “ultimate snowman,” which ends up being a slightly lopsided creation with a goofy face that makes both of you laugh. You take breaks to warm up inside with hot chocolate, sitting by the window and watching the snow fall in comfortable silence.

By the time evening comes, you’re curled up on the couch together, a shared blanket draped over both of you. Yuji’s head rests against yours, his usual boundless energy replaced by a quiet contentment.

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mamaagirlbehindyouu · 5 months ago

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Fake Dating, Real Feelings Pt.1

Pairing: Tara Carpenter x Fem! Reader

Word Count: 925

Summary: Your friend Tara invites you to a party, but she has an ulterior motive. (This chapter is mainly build-up to what I’ll be writing in later parts, so if you don’t like slow burns then you may want to wait for later chapters to be released to begin reading <3.)

Warning: A little bit toxic (but will get better in later chapters!!)

A/N: This chapter is kinda ass ngl but more parts will come out later w/ more fluff-heavy chapters (and potentially smut)

You sat in bed, propped up on two pillows, scrolling on your laptop. It was finals season- meaning you were now starting the 9 page term paper that was due tomorrow at 12pm. It wasn’t ideal, but you had enough time to where you were still putting off writing your paper. You weren’t writing your essay on your laptop, you were scrolling through Pinterest.

That was, of course, until you got a text from someone. Picking up your phone to see who the message was from, you instinctively kicked your feet when you saw the name of who it was from. Tara. Your friend tara. The friend you just so happened to have a massive thing for.

Shutting your laptop and properly sitting up, you unlocked your phone to read the message from her.

Tara: Hey, you up?

You stared at the message for a moment, contemplating whether or not to reply. It was already 9:30, you could just leave Tara on delivered and lie tomorrow that you had had an “early night”. After all, your paper needed to get done and you could tell from the nature of Tara’s text that she either wanted to go somewhere or do something.

Yeah right, that would take more self control than you had.

Y/n: Ofc, what’s up?

Immediately after sending the text, you were met with a “Read 9:36 PM”. You watched the gray bubbles dance on your phone screen, before they disappeared and re-appeared.

Tara: Last time I’ll ask this, I swear

Tara: Will you come to a party with me tn? I want to show up like 10:30 😊

You groaned, staring at your phone again before replying. This wasn’t an infrequent request from Tara by any means- she always needs a DD considering the fact that she seems to love getting wasted. With time, the request had become more and more of a chore as she seemed to get drunker and drunker at each party you took her to. Going to parties with Tara wasn’t fun anymore, but you knew she would just find someone else to go with her if you said no and you didn’t want that.

Y/n: I’ll be there in 30.

Throwing your blankets off and setting your laptop on the nightstand, you got up, walking over to the closet. Why did you always go along with whatever Tara wanted? Well, the answer to that was obvious, but you would rather die than admit your feelings for Tara were getting serious.

After throwing on a black miniskirt and tank with a jacket on top and some boots you got into your car and began the drive to Tara’s house. This was a drive you knew all too well, and not for good reason.

When you got to Tara’s house the front door was already open, with just the screen door shut and Tara visible and sitting on the stairs. She was wearing flare jeans and a ribbed blue henley with some white Converse. You couldn’t explain how, but Tara always seemed to make the most basic of outfits come off as breathtaking. Maybe her face card was enough of an accessory.

Spotting you from where she sat on the stairs, Tara leapt up and smiled, waving her hands at you. She opened the screen door, squealing.

“Y/n! You came! Thank you so much!”

Tara’s joy was always infectious, making you forget your original reservations about that night. A smile spread across your own face as you waved back awkwardly, unsure of what to do whenever Tara’s attention was fully on you.

“Of course I did,”

You said, unaware of how un-enthusiastic you came across. You were always excited to see Tara, but being around her often made you feel awkward, frequently making it seem like you have a lackluster temperament.

“Could you act any less excited to see me?”

Tara teased as she held open the screen door for you, allowing you to enter her home.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to-“ you began to speak, but Tara cut you off, noticing how you seemed genuinely apologetic.

“No, I was joking. It’s okay, y/n/n,” she reassured you, offering another smile.

You smiled back and nodded in agreement, not wanting to say anything else about the matter, still embarrassed about the interaction. Tara led you up to her bedroom (not that you were unfamiliar with it).

“I just need to do my makeup real quick and then we can leave,” Tara assured you, aware that it was getting closer and closer to 10:30.

“‘real quick?’” you laughed. “Since when do you do your makeup ‘real quick’?”

“Hey, last time you came over I did my makeup in ten minutes, max- That’s, like, record time for me,” Tara defended herself, raising her hands in the air, primer in hand.

“It was more like half an hour, not ten minutes,” you corrected her as she rolled her eyes. “And why’d you invite me this time? Or was it just to be your designated driver again?” you half-called Tara out, passing it off as a joke, as you took in her features, taking advantage of the fact that she was preoccupied. You loved all of Tara’s features, but her eyes were definitely at the top of the list. How could anyone not love them?

“About that..” Tara said, stopping her makeup application, making an uncomfortable face. “I kind of need you to pretend like you’re dating me.” Suddenly, you were snapped out of your thoughts.

Pt. 2??

Photo Creds: miaolliez and geminiprinc3ss on Pinterest

#tara carpenter x reader #tara carpenter x you #tara carpenter #scream vi #scream #x reader #tara carpenter x y/n #slow burn #sapphic #jenna ortega x reader #fem!reader #reader insert #fake dating

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darknight3904 · 1 year ago

Text

See You in the Morning, Coryo

𝕊𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪:ʏᴏᴜ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜꜱ' ᴀʀɢᴜᴍᴇɴᴛ ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴄʟɪᴍᴀx ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴀ ᴍᴏᴠᴇ.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ / ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ / ᴍʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

𝕎𝕒𝕣𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘𝕤: ᴅᴀʀᴋᴇʀ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ꜰᴇᴡ ᴘᴀʀᴛꜱ. ᴄᴏʀʏᴏ ᴄʜᴀɪɴꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴜᴘ. ɴᴏᴛ ɪɴ ᴀ ꜱᴇxʏ ᴡᴀʏ, ꜱᴀᴅʟʏ.

The first time you met him you were 12. It was only your fourth day at the Capitol's Academy and you wished you could go home and bury yourself in your bed and never return. You had yet to meet anyone interested in being friends with you, the homeschooled freak who started oh so late compared to her peers. Sure, you had met Arachne and Festus at big lavish parties your parents threw but that didn't mean they liked you.

And then, on your fourth day of school, everything changes. Big blue eyes are fixated on the overly large sandwich and fruit bowl that had been in your lunch bag. A soft gurgle of a hungry stomach fills your ears and you turn to see a boy with the prettiest blonde curls atop his head staring at you.

"Do you want a piece? Our maid always packs too much and I can never finish it. You can have some if you want." You ask, picking up a strawberry and holding it out to him.

He hesitates for a moment but eventually reaches out and takes a small bite.

"Don't you have a lunch today?" You ask

"I already ate it." He said

Something inside you said he was lying and so you offered the rest of the fruit to him. Your sandwich would be enough for today, after all, no one should go hungry if another had something else to give.

You chat with the boy with blue eyes and pretty blonde curls. His name is Coriolanus Snow and he lives with his Grandma'am and his cousin. You smile at him as he eats the fruit, savoring the taste of the grapes that were mixed in. As you sit beside your new friend, you smile to yourself and hope he'll be your friend tomorrow too.

"You're not leaving. I won't let you."

Coriolanus knows how bad it sounds. He knows you're angry when you go to step around him and he blocks your path. Your engagement ring feels like a brick as it sits in his shirt pocket.

"Coryo. Move. I'm going home." You say, determined to get away from him.

Where do you think you're running off to? You have no place in society besides your spot next to him.

"You can't. You have to stay here. With me." He insists, hoping his softer tone will change your silly little mind.

"Please, Coriolanus. Just let me go home for tonight. I'll come back tomorrow. I promise." You whisper.

He hates that. Coriolanus. Why are you calling him that? He's always been Coryo to you why are you changing it now? The way his full name lingers in the air makes his blood boil.

Rage is something that's hard to control. Coriolanus has seen it first hand when the Districts rebelled against the Capitol all those years ago. He saw it Dr. Gaul when Lucy Gray survived her snakes thanks to him. He sees it now, in you as you give him a hard shove to his shoulders and begin moving toward the door.

Rage. That's why he does it. It's something he and so many others can't control. Rage. What a funny concept it is, how it causes someone to think so irrationally.

Truly though, you are to blame for it all. If only you had just talked to him rationally. taking off your ring and throwing a fit, demanding to go home like you're some petulant child who needs a nap.

Perhaps this will change your attitude, after all, you couldn't just run off, he needed you.

There's an ache in the back of your skull when you finally open your eyes. A soft blanket is covering you and the soft scent of apples and cinnamon is wafting through the air.

"This is your favorite, right?"

A voice that used to bring a smile to your face now sends a jolt of fear down your spine as you quickly sit up.

Coriolanus is sitting in a plush-looking chair, with your favorite candle burning on a little side table next to him.

What the hell had he done to you?

"You sat up too quickly. There's some painkillers on the nightstand if you want them." He says

His voice is so calm as you gradually take in your new surroundings.

"Where am I?" You croak, your voice sounds terrible.

"You're still in our mansion. This is the basement. Part of it anyway. Over the past two weeks, I got them to transform a section of it into a room perfect for you." He says, closing the book in his lap.

Weeks? How long had it been since that dinner when you tried to leave? What the hell had even happened? The last thing you clearly remember was shoving Coriolanus and beginning to walk away. Had he hit you with something? But then how did he keep you down for two weeks so he could bring you here?

"You're wondering what happened. I'm not proud of it but I hit you with a serving tray before you could leave."

Your mind briefly conjures up the silver trays that the food you often enjoyed was served on.

"I had a doctor give you injections to keep you asleep until this room was ready. The headache you feel is the hangover from the drugs, not a concussion. I made sure he gave you an exam and he's cleared you from any injuries."

Corionus' explanation is making your brain ache. What the fuck was happening? Why are you in a basement bedroom instead of your normal one? When was he going to let you out? Would he ever let you out?

Your stomach gurgles and you just barely make it to the small garbage can that's sitting on the ground next to the bed.

"Ah, the doctor said vomiting was another side effect. I'm sure it will pass soon." Coriolanus says, unbothered as you heave up whatever gunk he had gotten the doctor to pump into your stomach.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand, wishing for something to take away the burning at the back of your throat.

"Alright. Since you're awake now, I'll be leaving. Lots of meetings today and the arena is nearly ready I just have to approve a few more things." Coriolanus says, standing up and fixing his tie as he begins to walk away.

"Wait." You groan, trying to reach out to him

"I'll be back for dinner. I know how much you love to listen to me talk about my day."

Two months later

There's been a certain warmness about you recently. Perhaps it's the flowers he brought you your maybe the fact that he takes the heavy chain off your ankle when he visits you. He decides it's the latter as he watches thumb through the new books he handed you.

"Do you like them?" He asks

"Yes." You smile as you gently place them on your shelf.

You're so effortlessly pretty, even here, locked away from the sunlight and every inch of society. Here, you're all his, every bit of you hinges on him opening the heavy metal door that keeps you here. It's been so long since you had even tried to argue or fight back against him. Sure, the beginning had been rough, you had thrown things at him and had at one point threatened him with a butter knife but now you we so docile. Almost like he had domesticated a wild animal and now it was trained perfectly.

"Could you bring the little cakes tonight?" You ask

"The ones with the powdered sugar on top?"

You nod as you sit on your bed, stretching out your right ankle which is marked with a heavy bruise from the chain he had to put on you. It wasn't what he wanted but after you tried attacking him when he entered the room on the second day of your enclosure, he knew it was a necessity.

"I'll have the chef make extra. We can eat as many as you like and get fat." He teases

You smile at him but he can see something else behind your eyes.

Sadness.

You remind him of a bird with clipped wings. Freedom so effortlessly in reach but unable to fly to reach it.

If only he could trust you enough to let you back into the main floors of the mansion.

Time passes slowly whenever Coriolanus is gone and it gives you time to think. You were going mad, chained up all day, waiting for him to bring you your meals and sit with you at night. So in an effort to chase your impending insanity away, you thought. You thought about your childhood and if things would be different had you never given Coriolanus that stupid bowl of fruit. Perhaps you'd be head of your father's company now, or maybe you'd be married to some elite capitol man.

Your mind was always racing, overanalyzing every little thing and every little mistake you had ever made.

Perhaps you should've never confronted him about those pictures. If you had just slipped out of the mansion one day what would had happened? Maybe he would've caught you or perhaps you would've made it back to your parents, back to your old life and self.

How naive you had been at that gala years ago, thinking that you didn't need anything but Coriolanus. What a stupid girl you had grown up to be.

The past few weeks had been rough. You had been sucking up to Coriolanus to be let back into the main part of the mansion. You claimed to just want to feel sunlight again. Of course, you also planned on running the moment you had an opening but he didn't need to know that half.

Coriolanus was simply insane, it was a conclusion you had come to after all these long days. Maybe he had always been like this but you were just too blind to see it. Maybe his nice gestures and honey-coated words had disguised the monster that lurked behind those eyes. All you knew was that he was the worst man in all of Panem and here you sat, suffering all because you were his favorite.

"My heart burns for you."

What a load of bullshit.

He stays true to his word and arrives that night for dinner, cakes in hand. Silenced Avoxes serve you your food and Coriolanus sits across from you at the table that had mysteriously appeared one night when you were asleep. The chain on your ankle made an unpleasant sound as you shifted in your seat.

"The salmon is nice, isn't it?" Coriolanus asks as he eats

"Yes, it's wonderful. Very buttery." You say, struggling to find exactly what was good about it.

You didn't want salmon, you didn't really want anything anymore, perhaps you were finally giving into whatever game he was playing by keeping you here.

"I've decided to replace the curtains throughout the mansion. I've found the blue to be a bit ugly. Tomorrow there will be beautiful maroon ones hung." He informs you

You had hand-picked the blue ones, years ago.

"I'm sure they will be beautiful." You say looking down at your lap.

Coriolanus stops chewing and sets his silverware down.

"If you're going to mock me, you shouldn't even open your mouth. You know I hate it when you're full of attitude so why do you still try?" He says

It's a warning. You know it, he knows it.

"I know. I was being serious." You say, "I hope I get to see the maroon curtains soon, Coriolanus."

"Coryo." He corrects, placing a bite of food in his mouth

"Coryo." You parrot.

He smiles, pleased with you.

"You will, soon."

Dinner passes slowly as you finish your salmon to the tune of Coriolanus' talking. Something about the latest games being a wonderful success and that the big finale would be either tomorrow or the next. He suggests you watch on the little TV that sits in the corner, untouched, it was something that was added a week ago, specifically so you could watch the games. You promise to watch and he smiles at you again.

Coriolanus bids you goodnight after dessert. He double-checks your chain before straightening up and gently kissing your forehead.

"Goodnight, darling. I'll see you in the morning."

"See you in the morning, Coryo."

The past week had been going nearly perfectly for Coriolanus. Not only had the games been perfect, but you had been impressing him. Sure, a few days ago at dinner you had called him Coriolanus and he nearly lost his cool after he thought you insulted the curtains but that was behind him now.

He had finally concluded that he'd release you from the basement. He missed your presence in the mansion and at the normal dinner table. He wasn't quite sure about letting you have full roam yet, perhaps he'd sedate you during the days and let you walk around at night, when he could personally keep an eye on you before bedtime. The idea of one of the Axoxes watching you didn't sit right, after all, if you ran what would they do? They couldn't even shout for help to bring you back inside.

He was positively giddy as he walked down the many flights of steps that led to where you were. He wanted to show you the greenhouse first. Sure, you had seen it before but the way the roses were blooming recently was simply too good to pass up. He had planted new ones recently too, blushing pink ones that reminded him of you and your warmness to him.

The metal door was cool against his palm as he opened it to reveal your darkened room. The door let out a heavy groan as it shut behind him.

It wasn't uncommon for you to be sleeping when he entered, he often visited during the night and would watch you, as if you were going to disappear. However, this time the darkness confused him. It was the middle of the day, surely you weren't still asleep?

The soft clink of that ridiculous chain filled his ears as he stepped towards the lamp that sat on your shelf.

"Are you hiding from me, darling?" He asked into the darkness, ready to scoop you up and hold you close.

Silence answered his question as his eyes tried to focus on anything.

The softest rustle of fabric fills his ears as he quickly turns to his right. The slightest shimmer of color reaches his eyes, illuminated by what little light wormed its way under the door. It's you, in that sweater you often wore.

"I see you." He says reaching out to what he thinks might be your arm. "What a pretty shade of blue that is. I'll have a designer make a dress in that color for you."

He swears he hears you whisper his name but perhaps it was just in his head as he steps forward.

Coriolanus feels the smile that was on his face drop into his stomach when he hears it again, the rustle of fabric. You were behind him now.

His hands twitch one, then twice, and before he can react, you're there, in front of him again, anger polluting your pretty face.

His lips form your name but it never leaves his mouth. Instead, the cool metal of that chain he had intended on removing was cutting his vocal cords off.

The chain he hated putting on you, the chain you had desperately tried to claw off many times as he watched through a grainy video feed was rapidly wrapping its way around his neck, ready to destroy him.

Next Part

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daryltwdixon · 1 month ago

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"Ever After" is a continuation of our story exploring moments beyond the ending of All That Remains. These chapters are non-chronological, but each will include a clear timeline (e.g. 4 years, 2 years, etc.) after the events of Part 1.

Summary: Four years after everything, you and Joel find a fleeting moment of peace on the dance floor—until cruel words shatter it. The next night, as forgiveness begins to take shape, Joel finally breaks, and you hold him through it. warnings: (canon) slur word. This does contain spoilers for part 2 so if you don’t want those don’t read! notes: I just love them so god damn much

The warmth of the Tipsy Bison is infectious that night, lightness and laughter seeping into your bones, wrapping around you like a well-worn blanket. Music and chatter echoes off wooden beams, glasses clink in toasts, the excitable clamber of a three-piece band filling the air with something rare—something that feels a little like peace. Even Joel, ever guarded, carries a flicker of something lighter in his expression. Not quite joy, but something close. A twinkle in his eye that softens the lines of his face, makes him look a little less haunted.

When he pulls you onto the dance floor, his touch is warm, steady. One hand resting on your waist, the other clasping yours, his grip is sweet and tender as he guides you easily, his steps sure even if yours falter. It brings you back—these kinds of nights, this kind of music. The echo of a life you knew a long, long time ago.

Frank had tried to teach you to dance once, back when your dad would play piano after dinner. You stepped on his toes so many times he finally threw his hands up with a dramatic groan before scooping you up and spinning you through the living room instead, laughter bouncing off the walls until you were breathless. Those were safe, golden moments. Ones you don’t let yourself think about too often.

Joel twirls you, pulling you in close again as the song winds down. He doesn’t say anything, but there’s something in his expression, something hesitant, like he’s allowing himself this just for tonight. You let yourself lean into it.

“Did you see who’s here?” you ask, a little breathless as you drift toward the wooden bar when the song ends. You both reach for your drinks, the sweat from the glasses cooling your fingers.

Joel follows your gaze across the room. She stands a little apart from the others, tall and lanky in a dark blue plaid over a gray tee, hair tied back messily, a few strands slipping free. Ellie. Her gaze is distant, locked on a pair of dancers throwing themselves into the next song with wild, careless abandon. Then, as if sensing it, she glances up. Her green eyes meet yours, unreadable.

You smile.

She doesn’t return it. Instead, she shifts, turning her attention to Jesse as he steps beside her.

Joel’s expression changes. The twinkle is gone. The warmth that thawed him, even just for a moment, snuffed out. He stands still, his beer glass lingering at his lips, forgotten. His gaze drops, something heavy settling in its place.

Your chest aches at the sight of it. You reach out, brushing your fingers against the back of his hand. A quiet tether.

“Sorry,” you murmur. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s alright,” he says, his voice soft. He sets his beer down with a dull thud, turning his back to Ellie and Jesse as if he can’t bear to look anymore.

A ripple of movement catches your eye. Across the dance floor, a girl approaches them. Dark hair pulled up in a loose bun, her confidence easy and natural. She tugs Ellie’s hand, pulling her into the center of the floor.

The next song is a slow one, the kind that sways in your bones. You reach for Joel, offering a small, hopeful smile. “I like this one. C’mon.”

He lets you pull him back in, his hands settling on your lower back. Your arms loop around his neck, fingers playing absently at the nape where his hair has grown longer, streaked through with more gray than before.

You lift onto your toes and press a small kiss to his chin. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, baby,” he murmurs, his eyes only on you. “S’alright.”

But you know how much he’s been hurting. Since the day Ellie left him that note, telling him to find her in Salt Lake, things have shifted. She learned the truth—years of her quiet suspicion festering as your lives went on. She found out that the truth about the Fireflies, that Joel had taken her away, stealing that supposed chance of saving the world. That you had lied to her too, standing by Joel through and through.

He came back with her that day, safe but somber, something hollowed out in his chest. He tried to hide it, but you saw it in the quiet moments. In the way he carried himself. He told you right away what happened, and all you could do was go forward now knowing she might never forgive you.

Ellie and the girl are closer now, smiling at once another and then suddenly, the girl is kissing her.

You gasp, eyes widening as Joel’s head lifts, following your gaze.

“Stop starin’,” he mutters into your ear, though you can hear the small smile on his lips.

“They’re so cute,” you whisper back, grinning up at him.

For a moment, Joel just watches. And then, something in his face shifts. That twinkle, that happiness sparks in his big brown eyes again. Eventually he looks at you again, leaning down to brush his lips against yours, warm and easy. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, letting yourself sink into the feeling of him—

A voice cuts through the warmth, sharp and sour.

“Hey!”

You break apart, glancing toward the sound. Seth, the bartender, stands in front of the girls, his expression twisted in disgust.

“This is a family event,” he snaps.

Ellie and the girl pull apart, both looking a little sheepish, maybe caught off guard. You see the girl say something, an apology maybe, but Seth doesn’t move. He lingers, waiting. Pushing.

The girl’s expression hardens. She takes Ellie’s hand and turns away.

“Remember next time there’s kids around,” Seth sneers after them. You hear the girl apologize again, though this time it’s got more grit to it as they walk away.

And then, loud enough for the entire room to hear, Seth scoffs, “Just what this town needs—a couple loud-mouth d*kes.”

You barely have time to react before Ellie spins back around, fury burning in her expression as she pushes forward, pointing an angry finger. “The fuck did you just say?”

You’re already moving through the crowd, but Joel is faster. He shoves Seth, hard, sending him stumbling back.

“Get the hell outta here,” Joel growls.

Seth’s face twists. “Get your hands off me.”

You push into Joel’s chest, palm flat, grounding. “Hey,” you say, voice softer, urgent. “That’s enough.”

Maria and Tommy are already storming over, grabbing Seth before the situation can get worse. The room is still buzzing with tension as they haul him outside.

Behind you, Joel turns to Ellie. His voice is gentle. “You alright, kiddo?”

Ellie’s eyes are sharp. Her chest rises and falls with short, angry breaths. She looks between the two of you, and the defiance hardens into something colder.

“What is wrong with you?” she snaps at Joel.

Joel flinches, just barely.

“He had no right—” he begins.

“And you do?” she cuts him off. “I don’t need your fucking help, Joel.”

Silence falls like a blade. Joel looks around as people stare, and then his eyes fall to the ground, his fingers twitching uncomfortably at his sides.

“Ellie, that’s not—” you begin, putting up a hand to try to soothe.

“Don’t you start with me,” she snaps, turning to you. “You’re no better.”

Joel tenses beside you, his fingers curling at his sides. “Ellie,” he says, softer but still with that paternal firmness, “don't talk to her like--"

"It's okay," you exhale softly and touch his arm. “let's just go home.”

He hesitates. Then, sighing, lets you guide him toward the door, stepping out into the frigid night air. The cold hits instantly, sharp against your skin, your breath misting in the dim glow of the streetlights. You cling a little tighter to his arm, grounding yourself in the solid warmth of him, the quiet weight of his presence. Joel exhales, watching the vapor curl and disappear, his jaw tight, shoulders squared like he’s bracing against something much colder than the wind.

The warmth of the dance hall is gone entirely.

The following night settles over Jackson, the air warmer but still biting as you keep your coat hanging over your shoulders, the kind of evening that makes it a little easier to linger outside. The town has quieted, save for the occasional murmur of voices drifting from neighboring houses, the low hum of cicadas threading through it all. The porch light casts a soft glow, flickering slightly, catching on the edges of Joel’s face as he sit on the end of the porch swing, guitar in his lap.

His fingers pluck absently at the strings, slow and thoughtful, a melody without words. Your feet rest in his lap, and his hand comes down once in a while, absently tracing small circles against your ankle in the quiet, warm and grounding. The touch is natural, unconscious. He isn’t one for casual affection, not really, but these quiet moments have chipped away at that over time.

You hold a book open in your lap, but you haven’t turned the page in a while. Not when Joel keeps glancing at you between chords, eyes flicking from his fingers to your face like he’s committing something to memory. Not when he hums low under his breath, so quiet it barely reaches you. It’s easy to sink into the feeling of it—of him, here, with you, like this.

Then, his fingers stop. The abrupt stillness pulls your attention up just in time to follow his gaze to the steps.

“Ellie,” you say, surprised but offering a small smile. She stands at the bottom of the porch steps, her green eyes wide as they look between the two of you with hesitation. Quietly, she steps onto the porch, boots scuffing against the wood. Joel’s hand slips from your ankle as he leans forward, his whole body stiffening.

You can feel the conversation coming before it even begins.

“I’ll… I’ll just be inside,” you say gently, easing your legs from his lap. “Gotta clean up dinner.”

Joel looks at you then, something brief but grateful in his expression, something heavy and sad. He stands, coffee mug in hand, guitar by the door. He gives you a small nod, and you return it before slipping through the door, leaving them to whatever needs to be said.

The house is quiet as you pad into the kitchen, the wooden floor cool beneath your feet. You set your book aside on the table, rolling up your sleeves as you move toward the sink.

Both of their voices carry through the open window, their words slipping as much as you try not to listen in. You can still see them, though their backs are turned to you, just a sliver of Joel’s face is visible and you cast your eyes down to not pry.

“Whatcha drinkin’?” Ellie’s voice, careful, almost hesitant.

“Coffee,” Joel answers. His voice is low, even.

“Where’d you get that?” she asks, surprised.

“Uh, those people that came through last week. A little embarrassed as to what I had to trade to get it but… not bad.”

You smile to yourself, recalling the way Joel’s eyes had lit up at the mention of coffee beans. He’s smelled like it every morning since, cradling his mug like it’s something sacred.

There’s a long pause before Ellie speaks again.

“I had Seth under control.”

You still, hands gripping the plate in hand a little tigher. Joel’s response is too quiet to catch, but Ellie presses on anyway.

“And you need to stop harassing Jesse about my patrols.”

Joel says something too quietly for you to hear, and you look up to see him nod before he asks, a little louder, “Dina… is she your girlfriend?”

The question hangs in the air, weighty. That was the girl’s name. You can only imagine the look on Ellie’s face—a teenager being asked about her love life.

“No.” She exhales sharply. “That was just one kiss, it doesn’t mean anything—”

“But you do like her?”

Silence. And then, something too soft to make out. You force yourself to move, to grab the rest of the plates from dinner and focus on something, anything else.

Joel’s voice is steady when he finally speaks again. “Look, I have no idea what that girl’s intentions are but… I do know that she would be lucky to have you.”

There’s a beat of silence before Ellie scoffs. “You’re such an asshole.”

You bristle slightly at the sharpness in her voice, glancing toward the window. Joel must have said something in response, but his voice is too low to catch. Ellie, however, isn’t finished.

“I was supposed to die in that hospital.” Her voice wavers, filled with something raw and painful. “My life would’ve fucking mattered. But you took that from me.”

A lump forms in your throat. You need to move. You aren’t meant to hear this.

You turn on the faucet to full strength, the rush of water drowning out the words that follow. You scrub at the dishes harder than necessary, trying not to watch them through the window. But out of the corner of your eye, you can see them—Joel standing rigid, staring out into the road, something carved deep into his face. Ellie, staring away, a storm in her rigid shoulders.

You drop your gaze back to the sink, focusing on the task at hand, pretending you haven’t heard a thing.

Eventually, you watch as Ellie eventually walks off into the night, her silhouette shrinking against the dim glow of the street lamps, her hands shoved deep into her pockets. Your gaze moves to Joel as he stands frozen on the porch, watching her go, his jaw tight and eyes full of something distant. He doesn’t call after her. Doesn’t move until she disappears from view entirely.

Then, slowly, like the weight of it is just catching up to him, he steps inside.

The front door clicks shut behind him, quiet but final. He sets his guitar down by the wall, his movements stiff, deliberate, like he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will. His shoulders are drawn up tight, his breath measured and slow, but his chin tremble slightly as he exhales, fingers twitching like they don’t know what to do with themselves.

“Joel?” you say softly as he closes the door behind him. Your hands wipe the sudsy water against a spare kitchen rag, your eyes never leaving him, watching every small shift, every tight line of his face. His brows are pinched, his mouth set in a deep frown, eyes downcast like the weight of the world is dragging them toward the floor.

“How did it go?” Your voice is gentle, cautious. “Hey—” you whisper as you step closer. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even glance up.

So you reach for him.

Your fingers skim his jaw, tentative but firm, tilting his face toward yours. You dip your head, searching, desperate to find his eyes. “Hey,” you repeat, softer now, aching.

He just shakes his head, refusing to meet you there.

Instead, his hands find your sides, gripping the fabric of your shirt so tightly his knuckles go white. It’s like he’s holding himself together through you, like if he lets go, he might fall apart completely. You can still hear the muffled echoes of their conversation in your mind, fragments of words lost beneath the rushing of the sink, drowned out by your attempts to give them space. Now, you wish you hadn’t. Now, you wish you’d listened.

Then, his head drops to your shoulder, and his entire body folds in.

It happens so quickly you almost don’t believe it. The Joel you know—steady, unshakable—coming undone in your arms. The grip he has on you tightens, pulling you against him like he needs to feel something solid, something real. And then you feel his shoulders trembling, his breaths shuddering against your neck, sharp and uneven.

Your chest tightens, a sharp, aching squeeze that makes your throat burn.

Your hand moves instinctively to his hair, fingers slipping into the graying strands, petting gently at the long locks. Your other arm wraps around him, anchoring him as best you can. He’s always been the one catching you, the one holding you together when you’d break—when you’d throw yourself into him after a long day, after another nightmare. But this? This is different.

This is him letting go.

And you realize, with a sudden and heartbreaking clarity, that he’s probably never let another person see him like this. Not in all the years he’s been alive, not in all the pain he’s carried.

The thought shatters something inside you.

“It’s okay,” you whisper into his shoulder, voice barely above a breath. “It’s okay.”

You don’t know if it is. You don’t know if it ever will be.

But you hold him anyway.

For a long time, neither of you speak. The only sounds are his unsteady breaths, the deep heaving, steadying sighs he takes. He adjusts, his forehead resting on your shoulder before he pulls himself back. His eyes still won’t meet yours, but you see the shiny glistening of tears wetting his brown eyes as he says, “She…she said…” he wipes his nose on his shoulder as he takes a deep breath, “She��s tryna forgive me. Forgive us.”

Something in your throat tightens. You nod, bringing your hand up to brush your thumb over the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “That’s good, that’s a good thing.”

His eyes flick away for a moment, like he’s searching for something, like he’s trying to make sense of what it means. His grip pulls you in closer, just slightly, hands still gripping your waist like he’s afraid if he lets go completely, he’ll come apart again.

He exhales, slow and uneven, rubbing a hand down his face before resting his forehead against yours. His breath is warm, still a little shaky. "I don’t know. I don’t know if she ever will." The words are barely above a whisper, like saying them out loud makes them more real.

You pull him into another hug, pressing your lips against his temple, against the deep crease of his brow. “She’s trying,” you murmur. “That’s something. Just needs time is all.”

He closes his eyes, his fingers twitching where they rest against you, like he’s holding on to that thought, letting it settle.

For tonight, you just hold him.

#all that remains #all that remains: after #the last of us #joel miller #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller tlou #tlou #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #tlou joel #ellie williams

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caramara3 · 6 months ago

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How Could You | Damian Priest

Warnings: it's just sad.

A/N: Sooo... this is actually a rework of an old Seth Rollins one-shot I had made years back, but I decided to revamp it into a Damian Priest one-shot. This has absolutely no tie-in to Just Friends whatsoever.

Word Count: 2.9k

Enjoy!

DING!

The elevator comes to a halt upon the arrival of yet another floor. A robotic, yet feminine voice comes over the loudspeaker:

“EIGHTH FLOOR.”

The metal doors slowly open to reveal a black and gray hallway with artwork of abstract watercolor paintings hanging on the walls. Standing towards the back of the car, leaning against the safety bar, you watch your best friend and maid of honor Sydney step off the elevator. Placing one hand in front of the elevator door so it wouldn’t close she scans the hallway, looking left and then to the right, all to make sure that there was no one around.

After a few minutes, she finally turned her gaze back into the elevator. A small, loving smile softly forms and she extends a hand.

“Coast is clear,” she whispers.

You nod and push off the safety bar, throwing the thick strap of your purse over your shoulder. You grab hold of your carry-on and step off the elevator.

Sydney places a hand on the swell of your back while the other pulls her suitcase. Your gaze falls to the floor as the two of you walk down the hall, focusing on the hotel’s unusual carpet pattern as she scans the placards on the wall looking for the right room. Every so often you could feel her eyes practically burning a hole through before quickly turning away to look back up at the placards.

She was worried. She had every right to be. Since leaving the arena over an hour ago you'd barely spoken a single word. Not to her, not to Rhea, no one. You were catatonic.

But who could blame you? After what you had just seen, anyone would react the exact same way if they were in your shoes.

As you continued down the hall, you could feel the consistent buzzing of your phone through the thin fabric of the hoodie. Slow at first, but quickly becoming more often with every unanswered second passing by.

It almost felt like with every step you took, the phone would go off.

Step.

Buzz.

Step.

Buzz.

Step, step.

Buzz, buzz.

Normally you would have answered by now. But instead, you chose to ignore whoever it was and kept going.

You finally reached the end of the hall and stopped in front of a door marked 827. Sydney pulls out a key card from the pocket of her jeans and slides it into the automated lock. A few buzzing sounds later, a green light flashes and a loud *click* signals the door had unlocked. She turns the handle, pushes the door open, and then moves to the side to usher you into the room, following close behind.

Placing your purse on the dresser, you look around at what would be your new home for the night. For the most part, the room looked like every other hotel room you’ve stayed in while on the road. Granted, this was probably the most luxurious of most of them, but still pretty standard.

There were two Queen beds each donning a fancy purple duvet with no less than eight of the fluffiest pillows you’d have ever seen in your life, a giant flat screen TV mounted above a black dresser, cashmere floor rugs draped across cherry hardwood floors, a cozy little reading area near the windows with a small leather loveseat, and a wet bar fully stocked with overpriced snacks and tiny bottles of alcohol.

The one thing that did make the room stand out was the incredible view. Floor-to-ceiling window panels centered on the main wall of the room leveled with the New York skyline, showcasing a near perfect image of the city. There was even a clear view of the Empire State Building in the background, lit up in red and blue lights as night blanketed the city.

You sit on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. Looking out at the city you couldn’t help to think about how different life was a few hours ago. You were engaged to the love of your life. You were in the final countdown before the big day, less than a week. You were at your rehearsal dinner downtown surrounded by your closest friends and family, all gathered to celebrate your upcoming nuptials.

But all of that seemed so long ago now.

How could this have happened? How could he do that to me?

But before you could think of an answer to your question, the sound of boots clacking across the hardwood floor brought you back to reality.

“Well,” Sydney says with a satisfied sigh, “this is nice. Really nice as a matter of fact, especially with it being super last minute.”

You brought your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms tightly around them, never once looking away from the window. “It’s fine, I guess.”

“Fine?” she snorts, “Y/N, come on! Look at what we got. Gorgeous view, fancy sheets, free Wi-Fi, a fully stocked bar...”

You hear movement from behind and see a light flicker on through the window’s reflection. “Oh my-, Y/N you’ve gotta see this bathroom! It’s got a huge shower and…” she pauses, “Oh. My. God. The floors are heated. Y/N the floors are heated!!”

But you don’t move. You don’t spring up from the bed to revel in her excitement over heated floors or whatever other fancy details the room had to offer. Instead, you stay seated in silence, holding yourself as you gaze out into the city and its nightlife.

You observe the streetlights perched on the sidewalk creating an ominous glow on the pavement. The mixture of city cars and yellow taxis, halted by ongoing traffic as they struggle to reach their destination on time. The small groups of tourists stopping every few minutes for selfies with various buildings in the background, including this very hotel.

All the while your mind replays the events from earlier. A single tear manages to escape as your mind begins to torture you with a play-by-play of what happened. It all still felt like a dream to me, a sick twisted nightmare that no matter how hard I tried I just couldn’t wake up from. Your brain searched and scanned through every single memory collected from the last three years.

You were desperate to find any little detail you missed, something that could explain just where everything went wrong. Something that could’ve prepared you for what would eventually happen.

But you found nothing.

No hints, no little clues.

No hidden messages or blaring warning signs.

Nothing that screamed out: “Y/N don’t be alarmed, but the night before you’re supposed to get married… you’re gonna find your fiancé with some random woman bent over a table.”

Boy that would’ve been a great fucking warning now, wouldn’t it?

You were so lost in thought that you hadn’t felt the bed dip, nor did you flinch when you felt a set of arms pull you into an embrace, resting your head under Sydney’s chin. One hand settled at the swell of your back, tracing small circles with her finger, the other gently stroked your hair. Sydney had been your best friend ever since you were both in diapers, you knew just how much it pained her to see you like this; this deflated catatonic alien that had replaced her bubbly best friend. You knew she probably had a million questions for you, but rather than bombard you, she said nothing and just held you.

Throughout your nearly three decades of friendship, there was never a time in your life where you couldn’t rely on her to be there for you wherever you needed the most. And tonight was definitely one of those moments when you needed her.

The two of you stayed in this comfortable silence for seemed like forever, just staring out into the night as she held you.

“You feel like talking about it?” you hear her ask, her voice just above a whisper.

You say nothing.

“Ok, that’s fine, we don’t have to talk about it yet. We’ve got tomorrow to figure everything out, but tonight,” she pauses, leaping from the bed, “tonight we are getting shit faced.”

Once again you say nothing but watch as she makes her way over to the wet bar. You knew what Sydney was trying to do. First she would pump you with some top shelf liquor, order a bunch of room service, and then put on your favorite horror movies to get you in a relaxed and neutral state while she did damage control.

Unfortunately, Freddy Krueger and tequila weren't going to fix this problem. Not this time.

“Tell you what. Why don’t I call Rhea and see where she and Bianca are with the rest of your things, and then I’ll see if I can wrangle us up some food. How does that sound?”

You think it over for a moment before nodding in agreement.

A smile forms on Sydney’s face. “Awesome. What do you feel like? We could do chinese, pizza, maybe some Thai food? I could see if room service is still available…?”

You look over at her, her hazel eyes meeting yours. “Could we do a little bit of everything?”

A small laugh escapes Sydney’s mouth. “Hell yea we can! I’ll even get some ice cream from that bodega we passed down the street. Why don’t you change out of that dress, take a nice hot shower, and I’ll start getting everything ready.”

You give her a small smile and with one final hug from her she grabs her purse and heads out, leaving you alone. You slide off the bed and walk around the large room. You stop in front of one of the many conveniently placed touch screen panels on the wall. Scanning over it, you find an app called Night and tap it. Instantly, large panels begin descending over the large window panel, slightly darkening the room and hiding the skyline away for the night.

You move about the room making your way inside the en-suite bathroom. Once inside, you shut the door and lock it. Sydney was right, this was an incredible bathroom, like something straight out of Architectural Digest. Apart from the aforementioned heated floors, there were heated marble countertops, eucalyptus scented plush Egyptian cotton towels, two complimentary plush bathrobes with matching slippers, full-sized bottles of luxury brand skincare and body products, & a huge glass walk-in steam shower with two large overhead rainfall showerheads and shower wall panels on the front and side walls.

On the outside of the shower was another touch screen panel to control the shower. You look it over for a few moments, looking over your choices before choosing the one labeled “rainfall.” The overhead showerheads come alive and water begins to rain down, quickly filling the bathroom with steam.

Moving back to the sink you look at the wide selection of skincare products laid out when you felt your phone begin its incessant vibrating once again. But rather than ignore it like before, you pull your phone from your hoodie pocket and stare at the screen.

The first thing you see is your background. It was one of your favorite pictures of the two of you together, Halloween 2022. The two of you had dressed up as Frankenstein and The Bride of Frankenstien. You were looking at the camera but his eyes were focused solely on you, a smile stretched across his face as he did.

You unlock your screen and view the notifications: over a dozen missed calls. Dozens of voicemails. Way too many damn unread text messages.

With a sigh, you begin scrolling through the list of missed calls, seeing one name appear more often than others.

Damian.

Rhea.

Bianca.

Damian.

Kayden.

Finn.

Dominik.

Damian.

Bianca.

Finn.

Damian.

Rhea.

Damian.

The nerve he had to call you, the absolute nerve. What in the hell would make him think you wanted to hear anything that he had to say? Did he think that simple sorry was going to change everything? Or was he calling to explain that what you had seen wasn’t what you thought it was.

You toss your phone onto the counter in annoyance before walking back into the main room, not caring much where it landed. You free yourself of your hoodie, your dress, and the rest of your clothes. You grab two of the plush bath towels underneath the sink, placing one on the back of the toilet and place the other on a hook outside of the shower. You grab one of the bottles of complimentary body wash and open the shower door, the rush of steam engulfing you as you step inside.

You move to stand directly underneath the showerhead, letting the warm cascade over your body. The sound of water splashing against the tiles echoed off the walls but it wasn’t enough to drown out your own thoughts as your mind displayed every kiss, every touch, every ‘I love you’ ever said playing on an endless loop in your mind, attempting to pinpoint the moment where everything changed.

Meeting for the time wrestling on the indies. Meeting again after signing your WWE contract. The night he first asked you out, the night he first said I love you, the night you first made love. Meeting each other’s families.

You try to shake these thoughts from your mind, but it won’t work. No matter what else you attempt to think about, no matter what other happy memories you attempt to form in your head, nothing can keep them at bay. A few stray tears push their way out but you’re quick to wipe them away.

No, you thought. You are not going to do this Y/N. This isn’t happening right now. Stop it!

You reach to grab the bottle of body wash from the shelf inside the shower...

And that’s when you noticed it. The tan line on your finger, now completely visible on your left hand that only a few hours ago bore the beautiful oval cut diamond engagement ring.

The ring that he claimed to have been carrying around for months, hoping to find that right moment that never seemed to come.

Until the night of WrestleMania 37, just hours after you retained your title against Asuka and watched him compete in his first Mania alongside Bad Bunny. The two of you found yourselves back in your shared hotel room, bodies entangled with one another, holding you close against his chest when he would whisper in your ear the two words that would freeze time around you both:

Marry me.

He would reach over to the bedside table next to the bed and pull out a small black box. He would tell you just how much he loved you, how he has always loved you from the moment he met you, how he doesn't wish to spend another day on this earth without you. Then he would slip the dainty ring on your finger and ask you to spend the rest of your life with him.

Now that finger is bare. The ring was gone, given or rather thrown back at him after what had happened.

And just like that, it all came crumbling down. That false sense of reality you created since leaving the arena had finally collided with actual reality and had smacked you dead in the face.

Damian Priest, the love of your life, the man you were set to marry tomorrow, had been cheating on you.

And you had caught him tonight.

Your legs carried you backward until your back hit the wall of the shower. A wave of nausea swirls all around your empty stomach and your chest tightens like someone was stomping on it repeatedly. The first sob was quiet, nothing short of a small childlike whimper as the tears fell. But more and more as reality continued to sink in, they grew louder. The tears flowed more, so much so that I couldn’t tell what were tears and what was from the shower.

Three years of your life, all gone in a flash. Plans for the future, for children, traveling the world… all just illusions and fantasies that would never come true now.

Your body sank to the ground and before you knew it you were curled up into a ball, sobbing into your knees as the water turned from warm to cold.

But you didn’t care. Your head swam with half-formed regrets. Your heart felt as if your blood had turned into tar as it struggled to keep a steady beat.

There was nothing left to feel, nothing left to say, nothing left but the void that now engulfed you in the swirling blackness.

And it was all because of him.

TagList:

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#wwe #wwe fanfiction #wwe imagine #wwe x reader #damian priest x reader #angst #damian priest #damian priest angst #damian priest imagine #damian priest fanfic #damian priest fanfiction #wwe fic #wwe fandom #damian priest x y/n #damian priest oneshot #black writers

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shojizbae · 1 year ago

Text

Wellness Checks

Spencer Reid x Reader

It was 11:37 when you checked your wristwatch. A knock sounded at your door, and you reached for your glasses on your nightstand blindly. Both your dogs sprang up and barked at the sound of the knocks.

"Nike, Artemis, Heel!" you shush them and rub your eyes to get them to focus. The two fluffy German shepherds follow your calves as you get to the front door, clicking the two deadbolts open. They sit as you open the door and reveal Dr. Reid. Only having been on the team for five months, you view Spencer as not just your senior but your superior. And not just the lanky piece of ass that he is.

"Uh, Spencer!" You attempted to smile, and he greeted you back. "Err, come on in." You stepped out of the way and widened the door. "Is there anything I can do for you?" You led him to the couch, where both your dogs sat and stared at him.

"Can I help you with something? Tea, maybe?" you start to walk away

"You were supposed to be at work almost two hours ago (Y/n)."

"I must have overslept, I'm gonna get some coffee would you like a cup."

"As long as it gets you to stop dodging my questions."

"Yes, Sir. How do two cups of sugar sound?" He's trying to be stern and show how cross he is with you, but it's hard to make a serious face when you're not wearing pants. You strut off the kitchen, and he can hear your faucet as you fill the coffee pot. He takes a moment to take you into your apartment. The walls were an olive shade, and there were giant purple curtains. It looked lived-in.

Organized chaos, as people liked to call this.

Your bag and shoes were tossed into oblivion. Your couch had just about a million throw pillows and a basket of blankets. It was cozy. You returned with two large mismatched mugs, handed one to him, and knelt on the couch. At the touch of your bare legs against each other, you realized that you had forgone pajama bottoms the night before. Instead, you had on an old gray UCLA raglan and some red underwear. Thank God you didn't wear a thong yesterday.

"Uh, I'm so sorry I didn't realize." You begin to stand, but a tentative grip on your wrist pulls you down.

"It's fine. You weren't expecting guests." you laugh but pull a nearby knit blanket over your lap

"Why were you sleeping so late? Normally, you are fifteen minutes early. What happened?" You take a sip from a mug that says '30 and flirty.' "(Y/n)." His voice is back to demanding.

"I'm sorry," you rub your eyes. I stayed in the office late to finish up my reports and help JJ with the debriefing.

"Bullshit, JJ was the second out; she had to get back to her son." He takes a long swig of his coffee and sits it on the table. "I've been profiling for over seven years. You're not going to get past me. Was it something on the trip?"

At the mention, you hang your head and whimper.

Tears pour uncontrollably from your eyes, and you hear them tap against your lenses. His mug clicks against your vinyl coffee table, and he pulls you into his chest by your shoulder.

"Shh sh, it's okay." His other hand rubs at your hair. "I know this job takes it out of you. It's important to focus on the fact that you're inciting real change."

"how could someone do that to a child? To ten children and keep going!" You pull up from your hands and look him deep in his eyes.

"I know it's not right." he holds the back of your neck as your forehead presses into his breast.

"How could- how could you do that to a poor sweet child." you begin to let out a mirage of sobs. Incoherent pleas. He pets your hair as you dampen his nice gray sweater. When you've finally calmed down you sniffle and wipe your eyes.

"You should get some water. Gets up and rummages through your cupboard and fills it with tap water. You throw back the last coffee and pull your knees up to your chest. You look up as he hands you a clear blue plastic cup.

"Thank you." you push your glasses up your nose. "You're free to grab anything in the kitchen. Although my groceries are quite lackluster."

"That's alright. I ate before I got here. I never knew you needed glasses."

"Oh, well, I try not to be public without my contacts. I was called four eyes more than I could count."

"Yeah, middle school is the worst."

"This was actually grad school." Your laugh is finally genuine, but you punctuate it with another sniffle.

"Well, I'm just going to text Hotch that you're going to stay home today." He reaches into his pocket

"No, no, I'll come in today. I just needed to rest a little." You push his phone to his chest and stand up. "I'll be right back."

You are ushered to your bedroom, which is basically a big closet separated from the rest of the space by three wide steps and two industrial barn doors. The two dogs follow you to your room and stand at the doors, scrutinizing Reid. You're halfway through buttoning your pants when you realize you're missing your good bra.

"fuck," you whisper to yourself "Reid!" You yell into your apartment

"Yeah!" As he responds, his voice gets louder

"Uh," you turn around quickly and cross your arms over your bare chest

"Oh, sorry,"

"I'm sorry, but could you get my bra from my purse?"

"Sure thing."

"Sorry, it's probably somewhere near the door." your forehead connects with your dresser briefly until you hear him knock on your door jam.

"Here." He taps your shoulder, and you turn slowly, but he squeezes his eyes shut like a 12-year-old boy.

"Oh, come on, Reid, it's not like you've never seen a topless girl before," You tease and spin around to put on your bra. "I'm decent now." You tap on his shoulder. A new method of communication for the two of you. He opens his eyes but looks away when he sees you're only halfway through buttoning your light blue blouse.

"Seriously? I know you didn't have a chance to have fun in high school, but this is ridiculous."

"Well, this is also unprofessional. You're my colleague." He put his hands in his pockets.

"I'm also ready to go. My shoes are by the door." You point to the exit, gather your belongings, put out food for the dogs, and make sure the dog door is unlocked. Reid insists that you take his car and that he'll drive you home at the end of the day.

His car is nice and clean, with only one of those clip-in air fresheners. He takes some sort of secret route to evade the Virginia traffic. You arrive at Quantico and log in to the relief of your coworkers.

"What took you so long?"

"Reid couldn't find my bra." You snort as you fill up another mug with coffee

"Heyo!" Morgan cheers

"That's not completely true." He interjects

"No, it's not. I was having a rough time processing our Alabama case. I guess I slept through some of the trauma."

"You should have stayed home (L/n)," Hotchner says

"No, I need to do at least three hours of work to feel like I've been productive. I'll be fine if I can stay behind my computer and file reports."

"Ok, but you'll be going home at five at the latest." He orders

"Yes, sir." You type in the government password and tie up some loose ends. Many of your reports were halted, and new cases sprung up. Your computer read 4:57 when your to-do list was empty.

"Hotch?" you knock on his door frame and poke your head around the corner. He politely hangs up the phone and rubs his temples. "I'm gonna head out now?"

"Good. And fantastic job finishing your reports. Go get some rest."

"You too," you meander to Spencer's desk and pat his shoulder. "Can you drive me home now?"

"Of course,"

"Hey, don't get too rowdy lovebirds. We need y'all tomorrow!" Morgn calls from his desk, but you're already speeding for the door when he finishes his sentence. Reid makes a sojourn at a nearby Chinese food place and returns with a doggy bag. He takes you and the food up to your apartment and watches you deadbolt him in with you.

"You understand, right?"

"Of course, I also noticed you don't have a ground or top-floor apartment."

"Yeah," Today, you drop your purse on the bench by your door and line your black heels up nicely on a rack. "Well, ground-floor apartments are easier to break into. And if I'm thrown off my balcony, it's low enough that I probably won't die—unless I land on my neck."

"Lovely."

"Feel free to make yourself at home. I'm going to put on some pj's." you start taking off your blouse as you walk to your bedroom. His worm-like reaction only entices you to embolden yourself. You shed your business attire, toss it in the hamper, and put on the same shirt from earlier and an oversized zip-up sweatshirt.

You grab a pair of grey sweats from your drawer and bring them to Reid. He's pulling small white boxes out of the brown bag. You tap his shoulder to avoid startle. He jumps slightly, though.

"Here, those slacks don't look couch-worthy." You hold them out, and he looks hesitant to. "Please, you're a guest who bought me dinner." He pressed his lips in a thin line. He got up with a sigh and put the pants on in your bedroom.

You flip through the channels until you get to BBC and play Dr Who. Reid joins you, wearing an undershirt and your sweats, and is shocked to see his favorite show on the TV.

"Those fit you better than me. You should keep them."

"You watch Dr. Who?"

"Of course," you open a box of Peking ravioli, "Come, take a seat." you open the blanket on your lap for him. "Oh, actually, I have to feed the dogs." You spring upright when he sits down, so he gets a view of your perky butt as he tries to take in the fictional storyline. You scuttle off while he struggles with chopsticks with some lo mein.

You rejoin him, pull the blanket over your lap, overlapping your legs on his. You laugh along with the absurdity of the episode, and as breakfast at Tiffany's comes on, you tell Reid that you're getting drowsy. It's not much later that your glasses are pinching on his arm, and he can feel your lips distorted against him. He pulls you into his chest.

As your snores overlap the sounds of the movie he slides his arm under your knees and by your neck to carry you off to bed. The dogs immediately start barking and leap toward him.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, Artemis Nike Down! Safe." You assure the dogs. Immediately, they lay down and whimper at you. Reid opens your blankets and tucks you in. Before he leaves he places a succulent kiss on your forehead.

"Spence, stay."

"Ok,"

#I'm rewatching criminal minds and awoooga does mathew gray gubler #he feels safe #spencer reid #Spencer Reid x reader #Criminal Minds

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veilstqr · 17 days ago

Text

l'appel du vide ☆⋅⋆ ─ p.sh

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ sunghoon x reader ♡ angst and romance & w.c 2.9k; amidst the harrowing depths of her mind, sunghoon materialises into y/n's life. but will it be enough to save her from the depths of despair?

warnings: mentions of self-destructive thoughts/habits. nothing intense.

─── ɴᴀᴠɪɢᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

The neon pink bled through the paper, a wound against the yellowing pages. A single sentence pulsed beneath her gaze, set apart, demanding to be known.

Je sens peser sur moi la fatigue d'un Ange.

I feel the weight of an Angel’s weariness.

How many days had it been now? Time had softened at the edges, colors dissolving into a smudged grayscale. She traced the fluorescent ink with a fingertip, as if the pressure might press meaning into her bones. As if the weight of the words might settle differently if she could just hold them.

But the weight remained.

And so did the void.

If only she could exhaust herself further. If only she could press her palm against the burning pan just a moment longer—would the feeling return? Would the numbness crack, even just a little, and let something, anything, slip through?

The walk to campus was a haze. Conversations hummed, vehicles groaned past, horns blared—but it all dissolved into the periphery, a static buzz at the edge of her mind. The sky threatened to break, heavy gray clouds rolling in, swallowing what was once blue in a dense, suffocating gloom.

A droplet landed on her nose. Then another. Tilting her head back, she let the rain kiss her skin, cool and indifferent.

Well, shit. No umbrella.

Throwing her bag over her head, she broke into a jog toward the main library, hoping to outrun the downpour.

She didn’t make it far.

Her breath hitched, lungs tightening like a vice. The stitch in her side flared, sharp and unforgiving, and she stumbled to a stop, clutching her knees. The world spun—too fast, too slow, her body caught in some limbo between collapse and motion.

God, when had she gotten this weak?

She squeezed her eyes shut, jaw clenching. Pathetic. The word lodged itself in her skull, repeating, growing louder.

What was the point of it all?

It was always like this. A body too fragile, a mind too tired. She could just stop—right now, right here. Let the rain swallow her whole. Let herself disappear into the cracks of the pavement, washed away like she had never existed at all.

The thoughts slithered in, wrapping around her like a vice. Just end it. Just—

The rain stopped.

She hadn’t noticed at first, too lost in the noise of her own head. But the cold bite of water had vanished, leaving only the damp chill clinging to her skin.

Slowly, she lifted her head.

A stranger stood before her. Young. Unreadable. His dark eyes locked onto hers, steady, indifferent—not with cruelty, but with a gentle quiet.

Before she could process it, he moved. Taking her hand, he wrapped her fingers around the smooth curve of an umbrella handle, pressing it firmly into her grasp. Then, without a word, he turned and jogged toward the nearest building, disappearing into the dry sanctuary beyond.

She just stood there. Hand curled around the borrowed umbrella. Rainwater pooling at her feet.

And for the first time in a long while—she didn’t know what to think.

She saw him again at the university fair.

Y/N hadn’t meant to go, much rather preferring to be wrapped up in the warmth of her blanket, hibernating in her little cave of a home until classes resumed. But a meak voice called out to her, pushing her to slip on a decent outfit and tame the matted mess of her hair. A little socialising would do her good.

The campus was alive in a way that felt foreign to her. Laughter spilled into the crisp afternoon air, voices overlapping, the hum of conversation thick and buzzing. Booths stretched across the courtyard, students weaving through the crowd, their faces alight with excitement.

Y/N kept to the edges.

She wasn’t sure why she had bothered coming. Maybe it was the guilt of wasting away in bed, or the brief delusion that convinced hers he could at least try. But even now, with people all around her, she felt detached—like a spectator, watching a life that wasn’t quite her own.

Then she saw him.

The boy from the rain.

He stood near one of the booths, eyes fixed on another boy who spoke animatedly, words spilling out in excited waves. Hands buried in his jacket pockets, his posture was loose, effortless—composed in a way that made it clear he wasn’t fully present. He wasn’t really engaged, just listening, expression unreadable, gaze sharp yet distant, like nothing here truly held his interest.

Her breath stilled.

For a moment, she considered walking away. Pretending she hadn’t noticed him, slipping back into the crowd before—

Too late.

His head turned slightly, gaze locking onto hers like he had known she was there all along.

A jolt ran through her spine.

She should look away. She should. But she didn’t.

His stare didn’t waver. There was no surprise in his face, no curiosity—just quiet recognition. A flicker of something she couldn’t quite place. Then, before she could process it, the corner of his mouth twitched. Not a full smile, not even close. But there was something there. Acknowledgment. Amusement, maybe.

Her fingers curled into her sleeves.

And then—he moved.

Not away. Not toward the booth.

Toward her.

"Umbrella girl. I was wondering when I’d see you again."

Y/N said nothing. Her mind went blank, blinking up at him, words slipping through the shallow confines of her mind before she could catch them.

He was striking. Raven-black hair swept back, though a few stray strands had fallen onto his forehead. Black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, where small moles dotted his skin like ink on paper. His eyes held that same cold amusement, unreadable, like he was in on some joke she wasn’t privy to. She didn’t know what to make of him.

He tilted his head slightly, waiting, and the motion jolted her back to reality.

"O-oh. Your umbrella..." The words tumbled out awkwardly, as if she had only just remembered. "I have to return it to you. I’m sorry—I didn’t think I’d run into you here, or I would’ve brought it with me."

His lips twitched, as if holding back a laugh, before he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.

"Hm." He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking upward like he was deep in thought. "Well, that won't do..."

A pause. Then, with the slightest smirk, he met her eyes again.

"Guess I'll have to take your number so you can return it to me."

Y/N blinked.

Did she hear him right?

Her brain stalled, trying to process his words, but Sunghoon only looked at her, waiting—expectant, like he knew exactly the effect he had.

"I—uh." She cleared her throat, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "You don’t have to do that. I can just find you on campus and—"

"Mm," he hummed, unconvinced. "And what if you forget?"

"I won’t."

"But you did forget my umbrella." His lips quirked, barely there, but enough to send heat creeping up her neck.

She exhaled sharply, narrowing her eyes. "That’s not the same thing."

Sunghoon only shrugged, unbothered. Then, effortlessly, he pulled out his phone and held it out to her, screen lit, waiting.

Y/N stared at it. Then at him.

There was no way out of this, was there?

With a reluctant sigh, she took the device, fingers hesitating for a second before typing in her number. When she handed it back, he glanced at the screen, then pocketed the phone without another word.

"Good," he said simply. Then, with that same unreadable half-smile, he stepped past her, disappearing into the crowd as effortlessly as he had appeared.

Y/N stood there, heart rattling against her ribs.

What the hell just happened?

The man who had never once crossed paths with her in the last three years of university was now suddenly everywhere she looked.

It started off subtle. She’d catch glimpses of him across the quad, his figure blending in with the crowd, yet standing out all the same. A flash of dark hair, a pair of black-rimmed glasses, a calm, detached air that made him seem like he belonged in a different world altogether.

At first, she chalked it up to coincidence. He was probably just as much a part of the campus as she was, after all. But then, the encounters grew harder to ignore.

In the library, just as she reached for a book, his hand brushed against hers. A moment of shared space, unspoken, before he turned and walked away without so much as a glance.

In the coffee shop, their eyes met across the counter when she went to grab her drink. She hadn’t ordered it; someone else had. He didn’t say a word, just gave her a brief nod before leaving.

And then—he was in her class.

Not sitting beside her, no. But he was there, in the front row, like a fixture she couldn’t avoid, a constant reminder of something she didn’t fully understand.

Each time, her pulse would quicken, her breath just a bit too sharp, too quick.

Why was he always around?

And why did it feel like he was looking for her?

“You’re staring at her again,” Jake noted with a sip of his drink. They were at the garden, where several students had spread out sheets on the grass, enjoying the rare moment of sun the sky seemed to bless them with after weeks of rain and dull clouds

And she was there

Sunghoon didn’t realise when she became the center of gravity he seemed to revolve around. He couldn’t understand it either. This girl that was different but the same. With her unkempt hair and clothes that seemed as if she picked whatever was at the top of the laundry pile. With bags of sleep weighing under her eyes and the loss of emotion within her irises. She intrigued him. The quiet suffering wasn’t lost on him either. He didn’t know why or when he wanted to be her solace.

“She looks tired,” he said quietly, brows furrowing slightly. Jake scoffed from beside him. “Seems like she always tired, Sunghoon. It’s midterms soon, pretty sure we’re all going through it.” Sunghoon simply rolled his eyes at his best friend and focused back on the girl that was tucked against a tree, focused on the textbook splayed before her.

After a blink of hesitation, he moved towards her.

Sunghoon never chased. He never allowed himself within the proximity of anyone other than a selected few—especially not when it came to girls.

Love was lost on him for the most part. He had learned to live life as if he were a robot, moving through the motions with calculated precision. Detached. Untouched. It was easier that way. Emotions were fickle, fleeting things, and he had never seen the point in entertaining something so unreliable.

But then there was her.

Something about the way she existed—adrift yet weighed down, as if she were always teetering on the edge of disappearing—unnerved him. The raw, unwavering desire to be wanted by her, to relieve the ache inside his bones that screamed for her love no matter what it feels like.

It was almost maniacal how the essence of a girl he has only exchanged a few sentences with could have the death grip on the damned organ in his chest. It was beating furiously now as he approached her – almost stopping when she looks up confused, eyes widening in recognition at the sight of his face.

“Sungh–”

“Be mine.”

The words came out breathless, unlocking a level of desperation Sunghoon had never experience before. The word itself felt foreign to him. To want so obsessively after being the wanted for so long. But right now, with the black of her eyes sucking him in like the void, he wished to live in desperation forever if it meant being close to her.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Her lips parted, but no words came out. He could see the way her breath hitched, the way her fingers twitched at her sides like she didn’t know whether to reach for him or run.

“Don’t,” she finally said, voice barely above a whisper.

Don’t what? Don’t say things like that? Don’t stand so close? Don’t want her?

Sunghoon didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“I don’t—” Her voice wavered, and she swallowed thickly, her eyes darting away. “You don’t even know me.”

But that wasn’t true.

He knew the way she always cracked her knuckles when she thought no one was looking, pressing her thumb against each joint like she was trying to remind herself she was still here. The way she rubbed at the dark circles under her eyes, as if sleep was something she could will back into her skin.

He knew she walked like she was never in a rush, yet always seemed one step behind—like time was something she struggled to keep up with. How she flinched ever so slightly at sudden loud noises, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag before forcing herself to relax.

He noticed how she never quite finished her coffee, letting it go cold before pushing it aside, forgotten. How she picked at the fraying threads of her sleeves absentmindedly, unraveling them bit by bit.

And then there was the way she smiled—small, barely there, as if she wasn’t sure she was supposed to. And when she laughed, on the rare occasion that she did, it was short, cut off like she regretted letting it slip.

And maybe he didn’t know her favorite color or what thoughts resonated within her mind, or what kind of music she listened to when no one was around. But he knew this.

“I don’t care,” he said.

She let out a sharp breath, shaking her head. “You should.”

Maybe. But as he stood there, staring at her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, he knew he wouldn’t.

Wouldn't, couldn’t.

Because for the first time in his life, he was the one chasing.

And he didn’t want to stop.

She exhaled sharply, fingers curling into fists at her sides. He could see the conflict flicker across her face—hesitation, fear, longing. Like she wanted to believe him but couldn’t afford to. Like she had spent too long building walls that weren’t meant to be broken.

“Sunghoon,” she started, voice tight, as if forcing the words out hurt. “I don’t think you understand.”

Maybe he didn’t.

Maybe he never would.

But what he did understand was the hollow look in her eyes, the kind that mirrored something deep within him. The kind that spoke of exhaustion not just of the body, but of being.

He had spent years avoiding attachment, keeping people at arm’s length because it was easier that way. Cleaner. Safer.

But with her? He wasn’t sure if it was safety he wanted.

“I don’t need to understand,” he said, softer this time. “Just let me stay.”

She swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. The air between them felt unbearably fragile, stretched so thin he thought it might snap at the slightest touch.

And then—she broke it.

With a sigh, she looked away, arms wrapping around herself like she was bracing for impact. “I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”

A beat of silence.

He should walk away. He should tell her it was fine, that he didn’t need anything from her. That this pull between them—this quiet, aching thing—wasn’t worth it.

“I don’t need anything,” he murmured. “Just you.”

The words hung in the space between them, unanswered.

But she didn’t move away.

And for now, that was enough.

"And if I push you away? If I become a burden—something you have to carry when I can barely hold myself together? What then, Sunghoon?" Her voice wavered, raw and exposed. "If I become a hassle, something you put up with, will you leave me? After granting me false hope? After making me believe, even for a moment, in the elusion of being wanted?"

Sunghoon’s breath hitched. For a moment, he said nothing, only staring at her—at the way her shoulders curled inward, at the way her hands clenched at her sides like she was bracing for the inevitable.

She expected him to walk away.

Expected this to be the part where he realized she was too much and left her standing alone in the wreckage of her own words.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he inched closer until their noses nearly touched and she could feel the gentle fanning of his breath on hers.

“If you push me away, I’ll stay where you left me,” he murmured. “And if you need space, I’ll give it to you. But I won’t disappear, and I won’t leave just because it gets hard.”

She let out a sharp, disbelieving breath, shaking her head. “That’s easy to say now.”

“Maybe.” His gaze softened, but there was something unyielding in it, something firm. “But I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

Silence.

She searched his face like she was waiting for him to falter, waiting for the cracks to show. But he only stood there, steady, unwavering, real.

And it terrified her.

Because if he was real—if this was real—then so was the risk of losing it.

Her throat bobbed. She wanted to say something, to argue, to tell him he was making a mistake. But she was tired. Tired of running, tired of second-guessing, tired of denying the quiet pull that had tethered her to him from the moment he first placed that umbrella in her hand.

So instead, she exhaled. Slow. Shaky.

“…I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted.

Sunghoon’s lips quirked, just barely. “Then we’ll figure it out.”

“You and I, together.”

020425

tag list: @s1rawb3rry @hollyoongs @w2hoonki @httpenhoon comment or dm me if you want to be tagged in every update <3

#﹫fate oneshot #sunghoon #sunghoon x reader #enhypen sad hours #enhypen soft hours #sunghoon angst #sunghoon fluff

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lilahlovesjjk · 11 days ago

Text

🇼🇭🇪🇳 🇮 🇬🇷🇴🇼 🇺🇵

Chapter 2

synopsis: You and Satoru Gojo used to be inseparable—the kind of childhood best friends that promised to get married, rule the world, and never leave each other’s side.

Then life happened.

Now, years later, you’re both enrolled in the same elite psychology graduate program—only this time, you’re rivals. Gojo’s loud, flirty, obnoxiously charming, and infuriatingly good at everything. You're focused, sharp, constantly proving yourself—and desperate not to let the past (or him) throw you off course.

warnings: angst, slowburn (kinda), swearing, eventual nsfw, (i'll add to the list if I think of any more as the story progresses)

The classroom smells faintly of floor polish and anxiety.

It’s too early for the heating system to have kicked in properly, so a draft snakes in from under the windows, biting at your ankles and raising goosebumps along your arms. The room itself is clean but impersonal, with rows of sterile gray tables and plastic-backed chairs bolted to the floor in that “we value discomfort” kind of way. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, flickering just enough to be noticeable, and the projector screen at the front flashes through the rotating screensaver of a university-issued desktop—blue, black, blue, black.

You’re early today.

You claim your spot in the second row, middle seat, as you did yesterday. Close enough to see the board, far enough not to be a target for Dr. Yuki’s laser-focused questions. It's a sweet spot—the psychological equivalent of a security blanket.

There are maybe twenty-five students enrolled in this seminar. Psychology of Development and Attachment—a first-year graduate course notorious for being both rigorous and emotionally taxing. Most of your classmates drift in slowly, coffee cups clutched like lifelines, still shaking off the remnants of sleep or the residue of all-night reading marathons. You clock a few familiar faces: the girl with bubblegum-pink headphones and a massive laptop, the guy with the vintage band tees who never takes notes, and the duo in the back row who already whisper like they’re conspiring against the entire department.

You crack open your laptop, its screen casting a soft glow over your lined notebook and highlighter collection—color-coded, of course. The soft click of keys fills the space as you pull up your readings, double-check your notes, and reread your outline from the night before. You like being prepared. It’s your thing.

Still, your fingers twitch at the edges of the desk.

Your mind hums with leftover thoughts from yesterday’s lecture—your debate with Gojo still playing in a loop you didn’t ask for. You shake it off. Focus.

The second day of class is the real first day, anyway. Yesterday was syllabus skimming and awkward icebreakers. Today is where the work starts. You're ready for that.

At least, you thought you were.

The door swings open at exactly 10:04 a.m., and the temperature in the room seems to shift.

“Morning, my adoring fans,” comes the sing-song voice, smooth and self-assured.

You don’t even have to look. You already know.

Gojo Satoru strolls in like he owns the building, not just the classroom. Aviator sunglasses. Hair that looks styled by divine intervention—or a leaf blower. A single dangling earring glints against his pale neck. He’s holding two coffees from the café downstairs, one of them obnoxiously labeled with a heart drawn in marker.

You look down at your notes and pretend to read.

“Wow,” he says, sliding into the empty seat beside you—the only one left open, of course. “You really do keep choosing the same seat. Is it like a nesting thing? You imprint on desks?”

You don’t respond. Maybe if you pretend he doesn’t exist, he’ll disappear.

“Good morning to you too,” he adds, placing one of the coffee cups in front of you with a little flourish. “Black, two sugars. Still your thing?”

Your eyes flick up despite yourself.

“…How do you even know that?”

Gojo shrugs, pleased with himself. “Some things never change.”

You arch a brow. “And some things really should.”

He laughs, the sound bright and infuriating. “You wound me, really.”

The room fills a little more with students arriving late, chairs scraping against the floor and bags thudding against desk legs. Dr. Yuki still hasn’t arrived yet, which only gives Gojo more time to lean into your space, legs stretching out too far and arms braced too casually behind his head.

“You're early,” you mutter, lifting the coffee despite your instincts.

“I had to come early,” he says dramatically, “to emotionally prepare myself for being in your presence.”

You sip. It’s perfect. Of course it is.

You scowl into the cup. “Stop trying to bribe me.”

“Too late. I’m winning you over. You just don’t know it yet.”

He turns fully toward you, propping his chin in one hand as he studies you. “So, how was the rest of your day after our little intellectual showdown yesterday? Get mobbed by classmates asking for your autograph? Fan letters? Marriage proposals?”

“I don’t have to answer you.”

“Oh, but you want to.”

You roll your eyes, already regretting acknowledging his existence. “Why are you even here this early? You hate mornings.”

“I don’t hate mornings. I hate mornings without you.”

You nearly choke on your coffee.

“Jesus—stop saying things like that.”

He grins. “What? I’m being sweet.”

“You’re being annoying.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Before you can threaten to throw the coffee in his face, Dr. Yuki walks in, her stack of neatly organized papers in one hand and her tablet in the other. Conversation dips instantly into a hush as she sets everything down at the front.

Gojo leans in once more, just as she opens her laptop.

“You know,” he whispers, voice low enough that only you hear, “I missed this. You. Getting all worked up. It’s almost nostalgic.”

You glance at him.

But his gaze is on the front of the classroom, expression unreadable now—calm, casual, but distant in a way you recognize too well.

Your heart stutters, then steadies.

You turn back to your notes.

Let him play his little games. You’re here to work.

Dr. Yuki begins class the way she always does—by opening the floor to discussion.

“I want to start today by revisiting one of the core principles we touched on yesterday,” she says, walking to the whiteboard and uncapping a black marker. “Developmental psychology isn’t just about childhood—it’s about the impact of those early stages on the lifespan. So, let’s focus today on attachment theory.”

You straighten a little in your seat.

This was your jam.

“Can anyone tell me the main types of attachment outlined by Ainsworth?”

A few hands go up. Gojo, of course, is not one of them. He’s reclined like this is a brunch reservation and not a graduate seminar.

Dr. Yuki points to a girl near the windows, who lists off: “Secure, avoidant, ambivalent… and disorganized.”

“Correct,” Dr. Yuki nods, writing them out on the board. “And what kind of caregiving styles are associated with each?”

This time, your hand goes up.

“Secure attachment tends to come from consistent and responsive caregiving,” you say. “Avoidant is usually associated with emotionally distant caregivers. Ambivalent attachment is from inconsistent caregiving—like, when the child doesn’t know what to expect. And disorganized attachment often correlates with trauma, abuse, or extreme neglect.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Yuki says. “Now, let’s connect this to adult behavior. What kinds of patterns might we see in securely versus insecurely attached adults?”

Gojo raises his hand—slowly, dramatically—like it physically pains him to contribute.

“Securely attached adults usually have fewer trust issues, communicate well, don’t implode if their partner takes twenty minutes to reply to a text,” he says. “Whereas the rest of us,” he waves vaguely around the room, “are either emotionally avoidant, painfully anxious, or both.”

A few people chuckle. Dr. Yuki doesn’t.

“And do we think these patterns are fixed?” she asks, eyes scanning the room.

You shake your head. “No. They can change—therapy, healthy relationships, self-awareness… people can unlearn old patterns.”

“Right,” she says. “Attachment styles aren’t destinies. They’re roadmaps. And if we understand where someone started, we can better understand how they navigate relationships and life choices.”

She pauses, then gestures toward the projector.

“And that brings us to your semester project.”

You feel a low hum of tension run through the room.

“You’ll each be paired with a classmate to develop a case study that analyzes the developmental arc of a fictional subject—from early childhood experiences to adult psychological patterns. I’ll be looking for theoretical integration, relevant research, and creative application.”

Groans echo softly around the room.

“You’ll be assigned your partners. Randomly,” Dr. Yuki adds, like she knows everyone’s about to start bartering.

Gojo leans over. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If you’re thinking you’re getting anyone but that guy in the back who keeps humming to himself, then no.”

Gojo grins. “Aren’t you fun before noon.”

You hush him as Dr. Yuki pulls up the list.

“...Gojo Satoru and,” she pauses just a second too long, “You.”

Your stomach drops.

You actually gasp—like a cartoon princess betrayed by her woodland creatures. Around you, the room buzzes with suppressed laughter and whispered commiseration.

You slowly turn your head toward him.

Gojo looks delighted.

“This,” he says, tapping your desk with mock gravity, “is fate.”

“This,” you hiss, “is my villain origin story.”

Dr. Yuki continues reading off names while you debate whether it’s legally permissible to launch a mechanical pencil into Gojo’s stupidly symmetrical face.

When the list ends, she claps her hands together.

“You’ll have the semester to build your case study, incorporating class material as it’s introduced. Use your time wisely. First drafts are due by midterms, presentations in November.”

The minute she shifts into lecture mode, Gojo turns to you fully, practically vibrating with smugness.

“So, partner,” he says, and oh god, he draws out the word like it means something filthy, “ground rules?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fine. Rule one: you show up. On time.”

“I always show up. Eventually.”

“On time, Gojo.”

“Fine, but then I get a rule. Rule two: all meetings must be caffeinated. Preferably with scones.”

You type it into a shared doc, already plotting your revenge. “Rule three: no flirting during brainstorming.”

His brows shoot up. “You flatter me. You think I flirt?”

“You flirt like it’s a personality trait.”

He grins. “It is a personality trait. And it works on you.”

You type Rule Four: Delusional behavior will not be tolerated.

Gojo reads it over your shoulder and makes an offended noise. “You’re so mean to me.”

You look at him flatly. “You're not the victim here.”

“Yet.”

He taps the table once, then leans back. “So how are we splitting the workload? Because I’m very good at coming up with names, titles, and being handsome while you do the actual research.”

“Rule Five,” you mutter. “Equal contribution or I smother you in your sleep.”

“Sexy.”

You slam your laptop shut.

Dr. Yuki finishes her lecture around ten minutes later and assigns some optional reading before dismissing the class. Students start filtering out. You stand and gather your things, acutely aware of Gojo still hovering nearby like a very smug cloud.

He’s unusually quiet, though.

You glance over. His eyes are on you—not teasing, not mocking. Just watching.

“What?”

He blinks, then offers a crooked smile. “Nothing. Just… you’ve changed.”

You pause.

You’re not sure what to do with that. The weight of it. The flicker of something old behind his eyes.

“I grew up,” you say, not quite meeting his gaze.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Guess we both did.”

The moment stretches awkward and thin.

And then, because he’s incapable of not being him, Gojo ruins it.

“But you still get that same wrinkle between your eyebrows when you’re concentrating. Very cute.”

You push past him. “I’m going to my next class. Don’t follow me.”

He salutes. “No promises, partner.”

You slide into your seat in criminology with seconds to spare, breath still catching from the uphill trek across campus. The classroom is smaller than your psych lecture—maybe twenty students total, arranged in a semi-circle with wide, cushioned chairs that squeak every time someone shifts. You love it here already. It feels like the kind of room where real conversations happen.

Shoko’s already lounging beside you, wearing a faded hoodie that reads “Trust Me, I’m Almost a Doctor” and sipping from an aggressively large thermos of tea. She raises a brow as you drop into the chair beside her with a dramatic sigh.

“You okay?” she asks, blinking at you over the rim of her drink.

“Fine,” you say quickly, digging out your notebook. “Just… psych was a lot this morning.”

“You’re always saying that. Was it more Freud or more breakdown?”

You pause. “Gojo.”

“Who?”

You glance at her, surprised. “Tall. White hair. Looks like he was genetically engineered to model sunglasses. The guy I was trauma dumping about last night”

Shoko frowns, thoughtful. “Oh, right. You know I think he sits near Geto in seminar sometimes?”

“Yeah, they’re roommates,” you say, a little sour. “Gojo’s basically made it his life mission to turn every conversation into a sparring match.”

Shoko snorts. “Sounds exhausting.”

“Infuriating, actually.”

Before she can ask more, Suguru Geto strolls in like he’s not even two minutes late. Calm, composed, mildly amused as always. He drops into the seat on Shoko’s other side and gives you both a polite nod.

“Morning.”

“Hey,” Shoko replies easily.

“Hi,” you say, a little stiffer.

Geto gives you a small look—reading you, as always. “Rough start?”

“Just sparring with your roommate.”

“Ah,” he says, smiling faintly. “He does have a talent for bringing chaos into a room.”

“Does he come with an off-switch or…?”

Geto chuckles softly. “Not that I’ve discovered.”

Before any of you can continue, Professor Ibaragi strides into the room, her usual commanding presence immediately quieting the class. She’s tall, in her late forties maybe, with sleek silver hair pinned back and sharp eyes that miss nothing.

“Let’s begin,” she says, setting a thick folder on the front desk. “Today we’re looking at the contrasts between retributive and restorative justice. Page 104 in your readers.”

The rustle of pages follows.

You flip yours open, your pen already poised.

Professor Ibaragi continues, her tone firm and even. “Retributive justice is what most of the western world operates on. Punishment for a crime—often prison. But what if we shifted the focus from punishment to healing? Restorative justice aims to mend the harm caused by crime, rather than simply punish the offender.”

A few hands go up. The class starts to come alive—soft murmurs turning into more confident voices.

One student mentions a case study from New Zealand.

Another references the Rwandan Gacaca courts.

Geto chimes in with a thoughtful observation: “It’s hard to implement restorative practices in a society still emotionally invested in the idea of punishment equaling justice. There’s a psychological satisfaction in seeing someone 'pay' for wrongdoing.”

You nod in agreement, then raise your hand. “But studies have shown that restorative approaches can reduce recidivism more effectively than prison in some populations. Especially for juvenile offenders or non-violent crimes. The emotional impact of accountability is different when you have to face the person you hurt.”

Professor Ibaragi gives a small nod. “Excellent point. It forces reflection, which isn’t always a priority in traditional systems.”

Shoko, to your surprise, pipes up with a casual, “Plus, it doesn’t hurt to spend less on overcrowded prisons and more on mental health programs. Just saying.”

That earns a few approving hums around the room.

After about thirty more minutes of discussion, Professor Ibaragi closes the book with a decisive snap. “You’ll be working on a presentation later this term, applying one of these theories to a real-world case. We’ll talk about partner assignments next class.”

Your stomach sinks. Partners. Again.

As students begin to gather their things, Shoko leans in. “So, I was thinking we do something after classes tonight. Hot pot night or something?”

“I’m in,” you say instantly. “I need something to cancel out Gojo’s existence.”

“You really don’t like this guy, huh?” she asks, amused.

“He wasn’t always like this,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Shoko tilts her head, waiting.

You shake it off. “Never mind.”

Geto stands, slinging his bag over one shoulder. “He’s not that bad, you know.”

You give him a look. “You would say that. You live with him.”

“I also know he talks about you more than he talks about his skincare routine. And that’s saying something.”

Your jaw drops slightly. “Excuse me?”

Geto just smiles. “See you both tonight.”

And with that, he’s gone—leaving you to process whatever the hell that meant while Shoko whistles low under her breath.

“Alright,” she says, amused. “I’m officially intrigued.”

You’re halfway through applying lip gloss when Shoko pops into your doorway wearing a full-on Pikachu onesie, a green tea face mask smeared across her cheeks.

“Should I wear this tonight?” she asks, holding up a red crop top and leather mini skirt with the deadpan seriousness of a war general.

You glance at her outfit-in-hand, then back at the yellow fuzz monstrosity she’s currently in. “That’s… better than what you’re wearing now.”

She grins, pleased, and flops backward onto your bed like she owns it. “I’m not even gonna lie—tonight better be fun. I’ve had ‘student loans and caffeine addiction’ energy all week.”

“You are a med student,” you say as you turn back to your mirror. “That kind of comes with the territory.”

Shoko groans dramatically. “I didn’t come here to be roasted while my pores are open.”

You snort, making a final swipe of your gloss and giving yourself a critical once-over in the mirror. Okay. Not bad.

Not bad at all.

Black heeled boots, jeans that fit just right, and a strappy little top that shows just enough skin to look effortless without trying too hard. Hair curled, makeup sharp. You look like someone who has her life together—even if internally, you’re bracing for the potential chaos that always seems to follow you around lately.

“Damn,” Shoko whistles from your bed. “You’re giving main character energy tonight.”

You turn, striking a mock pose. “As I should.”

She finally peels off the onesie and grabs her real outfit, hopping into her room to change while you touch up your highlighter. Your phone buzzes on the nightstand.

Geto: on our way. ETA 10 🖤

You smile slightly. Of course Geto texts like that.

There’s something soothing about Geto. He’s calm, thoughtful, never oversteps. He’s the type of guy who listens when you talk—and not the performative kind of listening, either. He’s actually… normal. Which, in your world lately, is the highest compliment a man can get.

You move into the living room just as Shoko reappears, now dressed and glowing—smoky eye, winged liner, black boots to match yours, and a wicked little smile.

“Ready to break hearts and maybe get free appetizers?”

You grin. “Born ready.”

You both are still doing last-minute primping when there’s a knock at the door. Three short taps.

“That’s probably Geto,” Shoko says, already moving toward the entrance. “I’ll get it.”

“Wait—” you start, but she’s already flinging the door open.

There’s a pause. An eerie silence.

Then Shoko’s voice, dry as sandpaper: “Oh. Hi. You’re not Geto.”

That voice—his voice—floats in next. “Technically, I’m with Geto. I just drove.”

You freeze in place.

No. No way.

You step forward just enough to peek past Shoko’s shoulder—and sure enough, there he is.

Gojo Satoru, in all his smug glory.

Wearing a fitted black long-sleeve shirt that clings to his frame a little too perfectly, sleeves pushed up just enough to show off his forearms, and those damn sunglasses propped lazily on top of his head. His snowy white hair is slightly tousled from the wind, like he just stepped out of a cologne ad. And he's holding car keys, spinning them on his finger like a menace.

Behind him, Geto stands calmly with his hands in his pockets, giving you a soft smile and an apologetic shrug. “He offered to drive.”

You blink at him. “He?”

Gojo winks. “Miss me?”

Shoko looks between the two of you like she’s slowly realizing she’s walked into a romantic subplot she didn’t sign up for.

You inhale deeply. “This was supposed to be a chill night.”

Gojo beams. “It still can be. I only bite if asked nicely.”

Shoko makes a face. “Okay. Ew.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and step back. “Let’s just… go before I change my mind.”

You grab your jacket and clutch, pulling the door closed behind you as the four of you head out into the cool evening air. The street is quiet, the kind of stillness that only comes before something definitely chaotic.

Sitting at the curb is a sleek black car that you now realize is Gojo’s. Of course it is. It’s obnoxiously expensive-looking, just like him.

He clicks the fob and the lights flash.

“Shotgun,” you say quickly, if only to avoid being crammed between the two of them in the backseat.

“Damn,” Shoko mutters. “I wanted front seat DJ privileges.”

“Next time,” you promise, stepping up to the passenger side.

Gojo opens your door for you with a dramatic bow, like he’s your chauffeur. “Milady.”

You glare. “If I trip in these heels, I’m taking you down with me.”

“Noted,” he says, but his grin only widens.

As you slide into the seat, you’re painfully aware of how close you’ll be for the next however-many minutes. His cologne is warm and spicy, something expensive you can’t place but absolutely hate that you like. He rounds the front and hops into the driver’s seat like he owns the road.

Geto and Shoko pile into the backseat, immediately starting a quiet conversation about some upcoming criminology project you vaguely remember from class.

Meanwhile, you buckle in, arms folded, refusing to acknowledge the man beside you.

Gojo glances over. “So…”

You don’t look at him. “Don’t.”

“You look very… coordinated tonight,” he says, trying not to smirk. “Let me guess. Took you three hours to put that outfit together?”

You turn slowly. “Five minutes.”

“Liar.”

You narrow your eyes. “I could say the same about your hair. What happened, did a tornado style it?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” he purrs, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. “You wish you looked this good after a tornado.”

You scoff, staring out the window. “Unbelievable.”

“Also,” he says, flicking on the headlights, “you’re wearing my favorite color tonight.”

You blink. Slowly.

“It’s literally black,” you deadpan.

He grins. “Exactly.”

You clench your jaw, pretending your face isn’t heating up.

The car eases onto the road, the low hum of the engine a welcome distraction. You steal a glance at Gojo from the corner of your eye—he’s focused on driving, one hand casually gripping the wheel, the streetlights casting sharp shadows across his sharp jawline.

You hate how good he looks like this. Relaxed. Confident. Just enough of a mess to look effortless.

“Hey,” Shoko says from the backseat, leaning forward between the seats. “Can we get dumplings on the way? I’m starving.”

“Ugh, yes,” Geto agrees. “There’s a spot on 5th. Open late.”

Gojo nods. “You got it.”

Shoko settles back. “Okay. Gojo, you’re tolerable only if you drive well.”

“I’m an amazing driver,” he says confidently.

Geto scoffs. “You ran a red light last time we went anywhere.”

“Okay, but did we die?”

“You almost hit a trash truck.”

“But did we die?”

Geto coughs. “Barely.”

Gojo hums. “Tough crowd.”

As the car speeds down the street, your hand accidentally brushes against the console near Gojo’s. You pull it away like it burned, which—honestly—might be the most accurate metaphor for him in general.

He notices, of course. “Aw. I don’t bite, you know.”

You shoot him a side-eye. “You do. Constantly. Verbally.”

“Only because you’re cute when you’re mad.”

You pause. The air seems to thicken.

From the backseat, Geto quietly chuckles. Shoko mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, oh my god just kiss already, and you immediately whip around.

“I heard that.”

She shrugs, all innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Anyway,” you say quickly, shifting in your seat and focusing very intently out the windshield, “let’s just get food.”

“Music to my ears,” Gojo says, reaching for the stereo. “What’s the vibe tonight? Flirty sad girl? Raging confidence? Chaotic neutral?”

Shoko answers before you can. “Anything but loverboy nonsense.”

He grins. “Too late.”

The opening notes of some slow, sultry R&B song filter through the speakers.

You bury your face in your hands. This is going to be a long night.

But maybe… not entirely in a bad way.

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@eolivy

#jjk #jjk x reader #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #jjk angst #jjk fluff #jjk gojo #jujutsu kaisen shoko #geto #gojo #jjk shoko #jjk geto

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