#dont smoke kids >:( unless ...

[hinamie]

we may not get forever / but forever is far

[dadfolddilf]

tony collette has instantly become my favourite in the peachyville horror show he is just SO BASTARDLY (and gay)

I wish upon thee many shared cigarettes with hot doctors.

[alstroemerian-dragon]

nothing more platonic than smoking weed on a balcony at 9 pm and blowing the smoke into your homies mouth. trust me im an expert 🌺🔥🌫️

[wheresmyicarus]

cigarette pls

[shokocide]

STUCK WITH YOU - GOJO SATORU

summary. Gojo Satoru—strongest, cockiest, and, according to him, the hottest man alive—bows to no one. Until you came along and suddenly, he’s on his knees.

word count. 10.6k (i..dont know)

content. mdni fem! reader, zombie apocalypse au, violence, blood, pet names, satoru is a certified tease, cute banter because we love that here, they're so down bad for each other, smut, oral (fem rec.), p in v, loss of virginity (reader), praise, breeding, creampie, overstim, soft satoru <3

author's note. i miss my man

The sky had been burning when the world ended.

You were fifteen—just a kid with scraped knees and a heart too big for the horrors it was about to witness. 

Sirens wailed through the streets, helicopters thundered above, and the sharp stench of smoke and decay clung to the air like death itself. One moment, your parents were urging you to run, voices trembling with fear. The next, everything shattered. A scream. Blood. The gurgled breath of something that wasn’t quite human anymore.

You had survived. Somehow. Alone.

But the cost of survival was everything.

-

The woods are silent, save for the crunch of your boots over frostbitten leaves. The moon hangs high above, pale and cold, casting everything in an unforgiving glow. You keep your knife gripped tight in one hand, the other cradling your growling stomach. It’s been three days since you last found anything remotely edible.

Every snap of a branch, every whisper of wind feels like a threat. Years alone have trained you to expect the worst.

Then you pause.

Smoke. Just a wisp of it in the air. You sniff again, slower this time. It's faint, but definitely there.

You move like a shadow, quiet and cautious, weaving through trees toward the scent. And then you see it:

A flickering campfire nestled in a hollow clearing, throwing gold and orange light onto the figures beside it. Two men. Asleep—at least, you hope they are. One is lying flat on the ground, the other propped against a log, limbs long and sprawled, a blindfold covering his eyes.

There’s food by the fire. Real food. Bread. Cans. Water.

You inch closer, heart hammering. It’s been years since you’ve seen other people. You don’t know if that makes this moment safer… or far more dangerous.

You creep into the circle of warmth, fingers itching toward the supplies. Just one thing. That’s all you need.

You barely breathe as you crouch beside the campfire, the heat brushing against your frozen skin like a long-forgotten comfort. Your fingers tremble as you reach for a loaf of bread—real bread—but just as your hand closes around it, your boot nudges something metallic.

CLANG.

The tin can hits the ground, and for a moment, silence swallows everything.

Then—movement.

You whip your head toward the two figures by the fire. One shoots upright in an instant, long-limbed and alarmingly fast. The other groans awake, slower, disoriented. You don’t even have time to run.

"Don't move," the taller one says—voice low, commanding. You meet his gaze and—holy hell.

Snow-white hair, cerulean eyes. He stands like someone who’s fought the world and won. His blindfold hangs around his neck, exposing everything. It's him—the one with the voice that makes your skin prickle and a face that doesn’t belong in this nightmare world.

"Well, well," he drawls, taking a step forward. "And here I thought we were the only pretty faces left."

You swallow, frozen. His companion grabs a weapon, steps forward too, more cautious.

"Who are you?" the second man demands.

The white-haired man’s eyes never leave yours. He smirks.

"She’s hungry. Look at her. Poor thing."

You clench your fists. You’ve survived too long to be pitied.

"Touch me and I swear to god—"

The man raises his hands, mockingly innocent.

"Easy, sweetheart. No one’s touching you… unless you want us to."

You scrunch up your face, disgusted and his grin widens just a little.

You lift your knife. “I don’t want trouble. I just need food.”

“I’d say knocking over our supplies in the middle of the night is kinda trouble,” the dark-haired one says. His hair is tied back, strands falling loose around his face, his grip on his weapon steady. “Who are you?”

You swallow thickly. It’s been so long since anyone’s asked you that. Your voice is hoarse. “Just someone trying to survive.”

The white-haired one takes a lazy step forward, hands raised in mock surrender.

“Chill, Suguru. She’s not here to kill us,” he says, and then turns back to you. “You got a name, mystery girl?”

You eye him warily. “…Why do you care?”

He grins. “Because mine’s Gojo Satoru. And this grumpy one is Suguru.”

Suguru rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell her our names, dumbass.”

But Gojo—Satoru, apparently—just shrugs, looking far too amused for someone who just woke up to a stranger trying to rob him.

Your fingers tighten on your knife. But something about him… those eyes… that voice…

“You really gonna stab the guy who might be your best chance at staying alive?” he asks, cocking his head. “Come sit. Eat. Or run. Up to you.”

Your stomach growls loudly.

Satoru grins wider. “That’s what I thought.”

You slowly lower your knife, but don’t put it away—not yet. Your eyes stay locked on them as you inch closer to the fire. The warmth should be a comfort, but your muscles are still taut, ready to bolt at the first sign of danger.

Satoru sprawls back onto a log like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s still smiling—lazy, smug, like he’s enjoying this little show. Suguru doesn’t relax. He stays seated, but his eyes follow your every move, knife still held tight in his hand.

You kneel beside the fire, close enough to reach the food, far enough to lunge away if you need to. There’s a dented pot with some kind of stew, still warm, and a few pieces of bread wrapped in cloth.

“Help yourself,” Satoru says, waving a hand like he’s offering a royal feast. “We even warmed it up for you.”

You shoot him a glare but reach out cautiously, taking just a little. You sniff the stew first. Watch them.

“Don’t worry, it’s not poisoned,” Suguru says dryly.

“That’s what someone who poisoned it would say,” you mutter, tearing off a bite of bread.

Satoru snorts. “She’s got a mouth on her. I like her.”

You ignore that. Instead, you eat slowly, eyes flicking between them. They don’t move. Suguru keeps watch. Satoru lounges like this is the most interesting thing that’s happened all week.

“How long have you two been out here?” you ask finally.

“Long enough,” Suguru says, tone clipped.

"Too long," Satoru says, tossing a pebble into the fire like this is just another lazy night for him. "We move around, but we've got a base. Old prison, about twenty miles from here. You?"

You don’t answer right away.

“Alone,” you say after a beat. “I’ve been alone.”

The fire crackles between you.

Suguru’s gaze softens—just for a second. But Satoru’s smile stays.

“Well,” he says, stretching out his long legs, “you’re not alone anymore.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m not staying.”

“Didn’t say you had to.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But something tells me you might not leave either.”

He’s not threatening. He’s just… certain.

You’re crouched by the fire, still tense, still not entirely trusting, when Satoru leans back on his hands, head tilted.

“You should come with us,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You’ll be safer.”

Your eyes flick to Suguru—he doesn’t hide the way his jaw clenches.

“She could be a liability,” Suguru mutters. “You don’t know her.”

“No,” Satoru agrees, grinning at you. “But I like her.”

Suguru sighs, deep and disapproving, but you see it—that soft flicker in his eyes that means he’s already given in.

Satoru turns back to you. “We’re heading out at first light. If you’re in, pack whatever you’ve got.”

You nod, hesitant. But, maybe… maybe this is the start of something.

-

A gentle nudge to your shoulder. Then a voice, light and annoyingly cheerful.

“Wake up, sleepyhead. Big day today.”

You blink awake to Satoru crouching beside you, white hair a wild halo against the rising sun. He grins.

“You snore, by the way.”

“I do not.”

“You do. It was cute.”

You groan, dragging a hand over your face. “Remind me why I agreed to come with you again?”

“Because I’m charming,” he beams. “Now come on. We've got a long way to go—and Suguru’s already in a mood.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Maybe he wouldn’t be if you stopped talking.”

“Ohhh, savage!” he clutches his chest, stumbling back like you just stabbed him. “You wound me, stranger.”

You roll your eyes and sling your bag over your shoulder. “Not a stranger anymore, remember? You practically adopted me last night.”

Satoru grins, falling into step beside you. “True. You’re my problem now.”

“Joy,” you mutter, but your lips twitch despite yourself.

Suguru’s already waiting up ahead, arms crossed, brow arched like he’s already tired of this nonsense. “You two done flirting or should I keep walking?”

You open your mouth to protest, but Satoru gets there first.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Suguru.”

“I will leave you in the woods,” Suguru replies flatly.

“You’d miss me in an hour.”

“You wish.”

You stifle a laugh and glance between the two. “Are you always like this?”

Satoru flashes you a grin. “Buckle up, sweetheart. You haven’t seen anything yet.”

-

The trek through the forest had been relatively quiet—birds rustled above, trees whispering overhead, and Satoru talking your ear off. But midway through the journey, something shifts.

Suguru’s head tilts first, eyes narrowing at the faint crunch in the distance. Not a squirrel. Not a rabbit.

You hear it next.

Low. Guttural.

A hiss.

Then another.

They come from the trees. Slow at first—one stumbles into view, then two, then more. Rotting limbs. Glazed-over eyes. That sickening gurgle of hunger.

“Aw, shit,” Satoru grins like it’s a party. “Looks like we’ve got company.”

Suguru already has his blade drawn, calm as ever. “Don’t play around, Satoru.”

“No promises.” He rolls his shoulders, cracking his neck with a sharp tilt. “Time to impress the new girl.”

The first zombie lunges—and Satoru moves. A blur of motion, too fast to follow. The undead’s head twists unnaturally before it even hits the ground.

Suguru moves more fluidly—clean, precise slashes. No theatrics. Just deadly efficiency. His blade slices through two more, not even a drop of blood on him.

But they just keep coming.

Your heart pounds in your ears. Adrenaline surges. You’d been careful to avoid confrontation all these years, but this is different. You're not alone anymore. And you won’t be dead weight.

You draw your blade—sharpened scrap metal turned makeshift machete—and steady your breath.

One charges. You duck, spin, and drive the blade clean through its skull. Another reaches for you. You kick it back hard, burying your weapon in its chest before pulling it free with a grunt.

Satoru whistles low. “Well damn.”

“Focus,” Suguru mutters, cutting another down.

You move together now, three separate forces of destruction.

Satoru’s grinning like a madman, whirling and laughing with every kill. “You seeing this? She’s got bite!”

Suguru flicks blood off his blade. “You could take a lesson from her.”

Zombies litter the ground within minutes. The forest falls silent again—except for your panting breaths.

Satoru walks over, brushing blood off his cheek. “Well, that was fun. You good?”

You nod, chest still heaving. “Peachy.”

“Okay, badass,” he says with a grin, then nudges your shoulder playfully. “I take it back. You’re not just some lost little stray. You’ve got some claws.”

Suguru simply gives you a once-over, silent approval in his gaze.

You sheath your blade. “Told you I could handle myself.”

Satoru grins wider. “Yeah, and it was hot.”

-

The journey's been long, your legs aching from the endless trek, your guard never once lowered—not even with Satoru’s ridiculous jokes or Suguru’s unnervingly sharp eyes on you.

But when the trees begin to thin and the rusted silhouette of a massive abandoned prison looms ahead—walls towering, fences lined with jagged barbed wire, and lookout towers standing tall like watchful sentinels—you feel something you haven't in years:

Hope.

Gojo stretches lazily, like the walk didn’t faze him at all. "Home sweet hellhole," he grins. "Bet you weren’t expecting this kind of palace."

Suguru doesn’t say much, just gestures for you to follow. The guards on the watchtower whistle low when they see the trio approaching, and the gates creak open. Inside, the prison yard is alive—people bustling, fires burning in steel barrels, children laughing (actual children), and survivors moving with purpose.

You're stunned. You didn’t think this kind of order still existed.

A kid runs up to Gojo. “Satoru! You’re back!”

“Obviously,” he winks, tossing his jacket at the kid. “Miss me?”

You stare, wide-eyed.

“You’re like… respected here?”

“Terrifying, isn’t it?” Gojo deadpans. “Stick with me, newbie. I’ll show you the ropes. Maybe even let you survive.”

Suguru glances back, quiet for a moment. “Don’t get too comfortable. It’s safe, but it’s not paradise.”

Gojo leans closer to you as you're led through the gates.

“Don’t worry. If anything tries to eat you—aside from me—I’ll kill it.”

Your face burns and he just smirks like he’s got you all figured out.

“Aww, don’t get all shy, now. Where’d all that bite from earlier go?” he teases, voice low and entirely too smug.

You shove him with a scowl, cheeks still flaming. “Shut up, lecher.”

He stumbles back with a dramatic gasp, hand clutching his chest. “Lecher? Ouch. You wound me, sweetheart.”

Suguru sighs ahead of you. “Ignore him. He gets like this when he’s not punched often enough.”

Gojo just throws an arm around your shoulders, unbothered and still grinning. “Admit it, you missed human interaction.”

You glare up at him. “I missed silence.”

“Too bad,” he chirps, “you’re stuck with me now.”

You follow Gojo through the looming gates of the old prison turned fortress, the creak of rusted metal echoing off cold concrete walls. The place is… intimidating, but secure. High fences, makeshift watchtowers, guards with weapons patrolling like hawks. Survivors glance your way—curious, cautious—but no one approaches just yet.

“Well,” Gojo grins, throwing his arms out dramatically, “welcome to paradise, sweetheart.”

You shoot him a glare, but before you can answer, a voice calls out.

“Don’t call new recruits that, Gojo.”

A tall woman leans against the infirmary doorway, cigarette dangling between her fingers, lab coat stained with faded blood. She looks you up and down, then flicks ash to the ground with a sigh.

“Ieiri Shoko. I’m the doctor over here,” she says. “You look like hell.”

“…Thanks?”

“She means ‘you’ll fit right in,’” Gojo says brightly, nudging your shoulder. “She’s got a warm heart under all that… nicotine.”

Before you can respond, another figure approaches—sharp, calculating, blond hair swept neatly back and a stern face that reads no nonsense allowed.

“Nanami Kento,” he introduces himself. “I hope you know how to follow rules.”

You stiffen slightly. “Depends on the rules.”

Gojo chuckles. “Play nice, Nanamin. She’s new.”

“And she’ll stay alive longer if she learns structure.”

You barely have time to absorb that before someone barrels into the conversation like a human golden retriever.

“Gojo-sensei! You’re back!”

A pink-haired young man skids to a stop beside you, eyes wide with excitement. “Whoa—new person?! Hi! I’m Itadori Yuji!”

You blink, overwhelmed by the sudden burst of energy.

“Yuji,” Gojo sighs fondly. “Tone it down a little, yeah? She’s been through it.”

Yuji’s smile softens. “Right, sorry. Still—welcome. You hungry? We’ve got canned peaches! They’re not that bad if you hold your breath.”

A scoff cuts through the chaos.

“That’s how you welcome someone? ‘Peaches if you hold your breath’?”

You turn to see a girl with sharp eyes, short auburn hair, and a confident stance stroll up like she owns the place.

“Kugisaki Nobara,” she says, hand on her hip. “Don’t let the dumb smiles fool you—Yuji’s annoying, but he’s not dangerous. Usually.”

Yuji pouts. “Rude.”

And last, from the shadows near the barracks, a low voice.

“Don’t overwhelm her.”

A tall boy steps forward, dark hair, brooding expression. Cold eyes meet yours briefly before shifting away like he’s already bored of this interaction.

“Fushiguro Megumi.”

You blink. “Nice to meet you… all.”

“You’ll get used to the chaos,” Nobara says. “Eventually.”

Gojo’s grin widens, like a proud dad watching his weird little family.

“See? Told you you’d like it here.”

You’re not sure yet. But for the first time in years, you’re not alone.

-

The base is a repurposed prison, all concrete walls and rusted bars, but the way Gojo walks its halls, it might as well be a palace.

“Welcome to paradise,” he grins, pushing open a barred door that creaks like it’s complaining. “Don’t let the charming décor fool you. The rats love it here.”

You roll your eyes but follow him in. He gestures with a dramatic sweep of his arm. “Your very own cell—er, suite.”

The room is small, but clean. A bed shoved into one corner, a patched-up mattress, and even a chipped mirror on the wall. You nod, impressed despite yourself.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I gave you the one with a window. You can thank me later.”

You smirk and step back out into the hallway. “Trying to impress me, Gojo?”

“Oh, absolutely. I’m a peacock in the apocalypse, baby.”

You laugh under your breath and follow him down a narrow hall. There’s a dip in the concrete, a crack in the floor you don’t notice until your boot catches—your heart jumps as you pitch forward, but Gojo’s arms are immediately around you.

Strong. Steady. Warm.

“Careful now,” he murmurs, voice all silk and smugness. “You fell for me already?”

You’re pressed against his chest, your breath caught in your throat, face heating up. He doesn’t move right away—his hands settle on your waist, casual and intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip.

You shove him off with a flustered glare. “Shut up, lecher.”

He grins, wide and infuriating. “That’s more like it.”

The rest of the tour is quieter. You pass rooms where others sleep, the mess hall, the infirmary where Shoko’s set up shop. You even glimpse Yuji hauling supplies with Nobara snapping at him in the distance.

But then Gojo stops in front of a heavy iron door—no windows, no markings. His face changes. The joking fades.

“Whatever you do,” he says, voice low, “don’t go into the commissary. Not alone. Not ever.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden seriousness.

“Why?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. His blue eyes sharpen beneath his snowy lashes.

“Because even monsters like us keep our secrets somewhere,” he says softly. “And some doors are locked for a reason.”

You stare at him, heart knocking against your ribs.

Gojo Satoru, unshakable, untouchable… looking haunted?

Your skin prickles.

But he flashes you that lazy grin again, like nothing happened. “Now come on. You haven’t seen the courtyard. Yuji likes to wrestle people out there—it’s horrible. You’ll love it.”

And just like that, the moment passes… but the warning stays.

-

The rooftop’s quiet late at night.

The chaos of the base fades into a hush, just the distant hum of wind brushing over cracked cement and rusted fences. You lie back against the cool surface, arms behind your head, eyes fixed on the sky above. For once, it’s clear. A spatter of stars gleam like glass shards across a velvet sky.

You let yourself breathe.

No infected. No screaming. No fear.

Just the stars.

Footsteps approach—light, familiar, cocky.

“I knew you were a stargazer,” Gojo says, easing himself down beside you with a dramatic sigh. “You’ve got that dreamy, melancholic look. So poetic.”

You don’t look at him. “You’ve got that annoying, uninvited energy. So parasitic.”

He barks out a laugh. “Ow. You wound me, sweetheart.”

A beat passes. Then another.

You can feel him watching you, but for once, he doesn’t speak.

And somehow, that’s more unsettling.

“…You alright?” you ask, finally glancing his way.

He’s leaning back on his elbows, white hair messy from the wind, blue eyes locked on the stars—but they’re distant. Quiet. A far cry from their usual teasing glint.

“I’m heading out tomorrow,” he says casually. “Scouting mission. Few days tops.”

You blink. “Oh.”

Something flickers in your chest. It shouldn’t. Not like this.

“Oh,” you repeat, softer. “Right.”

A part of you wants to ask why he’s going. Another part wants to pretend it doesn’t matter. You settle for neither, chewing your lip, trying to ignore the weight settling in your gut.

Satoru glances at you then, his smirk lazy but his voice just a touch softer.

“Try not to miss me, yeah?”

You scoff. “I’ll throw a party the second you leave.”

“That’s what they all say,” he murmurs, leaning just a little closer. “Then they realize how boring life is without me.”

His smile is all mischief—but behind it, there’s something warmer. Something real.

And for once… you don’t fire back. You just look at him.

Maybe you’ll miss him a little. Just a little.

-

You don’t expect his absence to linger. But it does.

You feel it in the small silences—the way the mess hall feels quieter without his dumb jokes echoing through it, how sparring sessions feel colder without him barging in with some smug, offhanded comment about your form.

At night, you find yourself back on the rooftop. The stars are still there, but they don’t sparkle like they used to. It’s stupid, you tell yourself, because what kind of person starts depending on a man like that?

He’s loud. He’s infuriating. He teases you relentlessly.

But… he saw you. When you thought no one ever would again.

Shoko notices the way you’ve been spacing out more. She doesn’t say anything until the third night.

“You okay?”

You nod. Too quickly. “Fine.”

She squints at you. “You’re not fine. You’re moping.”

“I’m not moping.”

She clicks her tongue. “Acting like someone’s girlfriend.”

You nearly knock your cup over. “I’m not—!”

But you don’t finish that sentence. Because the words feel too close to something you’ve been avoiding.

You try to bury it—tell yourself it’s just concern. You’re just… grateful. It’s not like that. You don’t miss his stupid smirk or the way he always stands too close just to fluster you. You don’t care about how his hair always looks so damn soft, or how his voice drops a little when he’s serious with you.

You don’t.

You don’t.

Then the whispers start.

“No signal from the scouting team.”

“They were supposed to be back by now.”

A cold chill snakes down your spine.

You start going to the gate more. Just to check. You pretend it’s coincidence.

It’s not.

You catch yourself gripping the straps of your bag harder than usual. You’ve never hated waiting so much in your life.

Until one evening—

The gates finally creak open.

Your breath catches in your throat as the guards call out a name. Several figures walk through the archway, dust and blood clinging to their clothes.

And there he is.

White hair, blue eyes. One sleeve ripped off, a gash on his collarbone, dried blood staining his neck—but he’s alive.

“Satoru,” you whisper, already walking forward.

His eyes find yours instantly. That grin pulls at his lips like it never left.

“Aww, did you miss me?”

You don’t answer. You just hit his shoulder. “Idiot.”

But then your hands linger, and before you can stop yourself, you’re pulling him into a tight hug.

He stiffens, just for a second. Then his arms slide around you, strong and warm.

“Try not to cry too hard,” he mutters, voice light—but there’s something tight beneath it.

“I hate you,” you mumble into his shirt.

“Sure you do,” he chuckles, and when you pull back, his smile softens.

You don’t know what this feeling is. Or maybe you do. You just don’t want to name it yet.

But you know this: You’re glad he came back.

And for now, that’s enough.

-

You wander the halls of the prison alone, the hum of fluorescent lights above your head flickering inconsistently. Satoru had taken the kids out back for training, and with nothing to do and no one to bother you, you figured you’d finally explore the rest of the base.

The place was massive—too massive. Each cell block looked like the next, corridors looping endlessly into each other until your curiosity outweighs your sense of direction. One door, rusted and slightly ajar, catches your eye.

You should’ve turned around.

You push it open.

Inside is dark, dusty. Shelves line the walls, broken crates and old rations tossed everywhere. You wander deeper, hesitant but unaware. That is…until it hits.

The smell.

Rotting flesh, stagnant air, the thick, unmistakable stench of death.

And then—movement.

Shuffling. A low groan. Shadows twitch. A hand smacks against a shelf and knocks it over with a crash.

They're here.

Your eyes snap wide and panic sets in instantly. There are so many.

You run.

You shove a metal shelf in their path, throw an old stool, anything you can get your hands on to slow them down. Your breaths are shallow, desperate. But just as you near the exit—

Your ankle gives out.

A sick snap, searing pain, and you crash to the floor with a cry. You scramble backward, pressing yourself against the wall, using your good leg to kick anything that comes close.

This is it. This is it.

You squeeze your eyes shut, heart pounding.

Gunshots.

The sound like thunder crashing right next to your ear.

You blink up, barely processing the white blur tearing through the undead like paper.

“I told you not to go in here!” he shouts, voice slicing through the chaos.

“Satoru—!”

The zombies turn just in time for Satoru to drive his fist into the nearest one’s chest, cracking bone and sending it flying back into the others like bowling pins.

“Seriously?” he growls, stepping in front of you, his broad back shielding your crumpled form. “I leave you alone for five minutes.”

One lunges from the side. Gojo ducks effortlessly, grabs it by the throat, and slams it into the ground so hard its skull splits open on impact. Another claws at his shoulder, but he just grabs its wrist, twists, and kicks out its knee in one brutal motion. It collapses, and he doesn’t even look as he drives a sharp piece of wood through its head.

And then—you're in his arms. Just like that.

Lifted effortlessly, pressed against his chest as he strides out of the hellhole.

You cling to him, trembling.

“I didn’t know it was the commissary,” you whisper between sobs. “I didn’t mean to—I didn’t know—I just—God, I’m so sorry, Gojo, I—”

His voice is low, firm, but gentle. “Hey. Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You look up at him, lip quivering. “I—I made you worry…”

“Yeah, you did,” he says with a wry little smirk, but his eyes are too soft, too relieved to match it. “Don’t ever do that again, got it?”

You nod.

“Good,” he murmurs, brushing a sweaty strand of hair from your face. “Because if I lost you... I’d have to kill the rest of the world just for pissing me off.”

Your breath hitches.

You stare up at him, heart pounding, face flushed from more than just the sprint for your life.

“W-What kind of psycho logic is that?” you mutter, trying to deflect, your voice barely steady.

Satoru smirks down at you, still holding you effortlessly in his arms like you weigh nothing. “C’mon, don’t act so surprised. I’m dramatic, haven’t you noticed?”

“You’re insane,” you whisper, trying not to combust under his gaze.

“And you’re blushing,” he points out smugly, nose nearly brushing yours. “Kinda cute, actually.”

You twist in his hold, hiding your face against his shoulder. “Shut up,” you mumble, voice muffled.

He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through your chest. “Can’t. Teasing you is the only thing keeping me sane these days.”

You can feel the tension slipping away, replaced by something heavier, warmer. He lowers you gently onto a nearby bench just outside the danger zone, kneeling before you like it’s second nature, hands skimming your calves as he examines your ankle again.

When he looks up this time, his expression is different. Less playful. More raw.

“I meant it, you know,” he says quietly. “You scared the hell out of me in there.”

You blink, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” he cuts in, hand brushing yours. “But next time, brat, wait for me. No solo adventures.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re calling me a brat now?”

“Borrowing the title. Think I earned it after saving your ass.”

You huff a laugh, cheeks still warm. “…Thanks.”

His grin softens. “Anytime.”

And just like that, you both sit there—his fingers still wrapped gently around your hand, his thumb rubbing absent circles over your knuckles—as the adrenaline fades and something else takes its place. Something quieter. Heavier. Charged.

-

Satoru insists on carrying you the whole way to the infirmary, ignoring your every protest.

“This is unnecessary,” you mutter, burying your face in his shoulder to avoid every curious glance.

“You twisted your ankle and almost got mauled. Humor me,” he says, smug but gentle, like the two can coexist in him with ease.

He kicks open the infirmary door with his foot.

“Delivery for one idiot who wandered into a no-go zone,” he calls out casually.

Shoko looks up from her desk, raising a brow at the sight of you both. “Well, well. If it isn’t the base’s golden boy and his damsel in distress.”

“I wasn’t distressed,” you blurt out instantly, wiggling in Gojo’s hold.

“Oh?” she hums, amused. “You sure? Because I could’ve sworn I heard ‘Gojo! Help!’ from all the way down the hall.”

You splutter. “That’s not— I mean—”

“Loudly,” she adds with a pointed smirk.

Satoru just laughs and sets you down on one of the cots, his hand lingering a little longer than necessary on your back before stepping aside.

“She’s fine. Just the ankle,” he says. “But maybe check if she sprained anything else. She fell pretty hard.”

Shoko moves closer, completely ignoring the medical part for now, because she’s too focused on watching the both of you squirm.

“Ohhh,” she teases, eyes sparkling. “Look at the two of you. Cute. Almost like a couple.”

You and Satoru freeze at the exact same time.

“Nope!”

“Not a couple!”

“Definitely not!”

You shoot each other a panicked glance and then immediately look away, flustered messes in stereo.

Shoko snorts. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You glare. “Can we just focus on my ankle now?”

“Fine, fine,” she drawls, clearly enjoying herself. “Just sayin’. Wouldn’t be the worst match. You get saved, he gets to play hero. Very fairytale.”

“I hate all of this,” you mutter under your breath, while Satoru just smiles to himself, unbothered but definitely pleased.

When Shoko starts wrapping your ankle, he leans against the wall with his arms crossed, watching.

And you swear you see it—that tiny, knowing glint in his eyes.

Like he wants her to say it again.

Because maybe, just maybe… he doesn’t mind the idea.

-

It’s later that night when there’s a knock at your door. You’ve barely had time to settle in, still awkwardly hobbling around on one foot with your bandaged ankle.

“Who is it?” you call.

“It’s your favorite,” comes the unmistakable voice from the other side.

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the tiny smile tugging at your lips. “Didn’t know Nanami suddenly got chatty.”

A muffled chuckle. “Ha. Hilarious. Open up.”

You limp to the door and unlock it. Satoru is standing there, a little disheveled, hands full.

“Brought you dinner,” he says casually, holding out a tray with two mismatched bowls, steam still curling from the soup. “Figured you might be tired of Shoko’s painkillers and snark.”

You blink, caught off guard. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says dramatically, stepping in without being invited. “That’s what makes me so noble.”

You laugh despite yourself, and he grins like that was the goal all along. He sets the tray down on your little desk, then gestures toward your bed.

“Come on, sit. Can’t have you falling over again. One near-death experience per day is my limit.”

You sit, trying not to look too charmed when he settles next to you—close, but not too close—just enough for your knees to brush.

“I still feel terrible about earlier,” you say after a moment, poking at the edge of your bowl. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You didn’t worry me,” he says too quickly, too nonchalantly.

You glance up. “Liar.”

He sighs and leans back on his hands, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“Fine. Maybe I panicked a little. Sue me.”

A silence lingers, not uncomfortable. Just… warm.

Then, softer: “Don’t do that again, okay?”

You look at him, really look at him—the shadows under his eyes, the slight dip in his brow, the way his voice softens when it’s just you and him.

And something in your chest stirs. Something that’s been creeping in, slow and steady, ever since he offered you food by a fire that first night.

You nod. “I won’t.”

He glances over, catches your gaze—and doesn’t look away this time.

There’s something unspoken passing between you. Familiar. Intense. Safe.

“You’re really something, y’know that?” he murmurs.

You raise a brow. “That supposed to be a compliment?”

He smirks. “Depends. You gonna fall harder for me if it is?”

You flush instantly. “Satoru—”

He laughs and nudges your bowl toward you. “Eat before it gets cold, princess.”

You grumble under your breath but dig in.

And Satoru?

He watches you with that same lopsided grin, heart doing something stupid in his chest.

Because yeah—maybe you fell.

But maybe he’s been falling, too.

-

It’s past midnight when you stir.

The pain in your ankle has dulled to a throb, but it isn’t what wakes you. It’s… something else. A presence. Warm. Close.

You blink against the low glow of the hallway light seeping under your door, and when your eyes adjust—

You see him.

Satoru.

Slouched in the chair by your bed, long legs awkwardly folded, head tipped to the side, snowy hair falling across his face in soft, messy tufts. His mouth is slightly parted, breathing slow and even. His arms are crossed, like he hadn’t meant to fall asleep there.

Like he was just keeping watch.

Just in case.

Your heart does a little flip.

You shift quietly, trying not to make a sound. But even with all your care, the mattress creaks—barely. His eyes snap open immediately, hand twitching toward a weapon that isn’t there. Pure instinct.

Then he sees you. And relaxes.

“Oh,” he breathes, voice gravelly with sleep. “You’re awake.”

You sit up slowly. “Were you… here all night?”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not all night. Just since… y’know. Evening.”

You squint at him. “Satoru.”

He sighs. “Fine. Yeah. All night.”

You stare at him. “Why?”

He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Wanted to make sure you didn’t wander off again and get yourself eaten.”

You frown. “You should’ve slept in your room.”

He smirks. “What, and miss out on babysitting you?”

You chuck a pillow at him.

He catches it easily and grins. But when he sees you holding his gaze, that grin softens.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he admits, quieter now.

Something gentle settles in your chest. You pull your blanket up and scoot slightly to the side.

“…There’s space. If you’re tired.”

He blinks at you. “Are you asking me to cuddle, orrrr…”

You glare. “I’m offering you a more comfortable sleeping arrangement.”

He doesn’t hesitate.

He slides in beside you carefully, so carefully, like you’ll break if he jostles you too much. And then you feel the warmth of him next to you, his presence steady and solid and safe.

“…This okay?” he murmurs, his voice a whisper in the dark.

You nod.

And slowly, slowly, you feel his fingers brush yours under the blanket. He doesn't hold your hand—not yet. Just touches.

Testing the waters.

You don’t pull away.

And in the silence that follows, you hear his breathing even out again.

But yours?

Yours is all over the place.

-

Morning sunlight filters through the barred window, casting soft stripes across your face.

You're warm. So warm.

Your cheek is pressed against something solid. Something that rises and falls gently beneath you. And there’s a hand resting at the small of your back, pulling you closer, keeping you there.

Your heart skips.

Your eyes blink open—and there he is.

Gojo Satoru. Asleep. Face relaxed and serene, messy white hair haloed in gold light. His other arm is curled under your pillow, supporting your head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And you're lying on top of him.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You should move. You need to move.

But just as you're about to untangle yourself—

Click.

The door creaks open.

You freeze.

“Oh my god,” comes Shoko’s voice, casual, amused, and way too smug. “Well, well—what do we have here?”

You nearly leap out of bed, scrambling to sit up—only for your body to protest painfully, and you wince with a hiss.

Satoru wakes with a start, blinking up at Shoko in confusion before slowly realizing the position you're in.

“Oh,” he says blankly. “Morning, doc.”

You swat his shoulder. “Say something useful?!”

Shoko just leans against the doorway, arms crossed, grinning like she’s discovered the world’s juiciest secret. “No no, don’t let me interrupt. I was just checking on the patient, but clearly, she’s in very good hands.”

You’re burning. “It’s not what it looks like!”

Shoko raises a brow. “Oh, so you weren’t cuddled up like two lovebirds all night? Should I tell Nanami you’ve finally found someone willing to put up with your nonsense, Satoru?”

He stretches lazily and pulls the blanket back over himself with a smirk. “Actually, yeah. Tell him. Maybe then he’ll finally stop lecturing me about responsibility.”

You groan and bury your face in your hands. “I’m never going to live this down.”

Shoko chuckles, walking away. “Nope. I’m telling everyone.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

Silence.

You glare at Satoru through your fingers. “This is your fault.”

He grins. “You offered me a spot on the bed, your majesty.”

You shove a pillow at him. He catches it—again.

And then he smiles, soft and teasing, voice still a little raspy from sleep.

“...So. Want me to sleep over again tonight?”

“Get out.”

-

The first few days are rough.

You try to walk without limping. Try to reach for things on your own. Try not to feel like a burden.

But then there’s him.

You wake up to warm food at your bedside, Satoru leaning against the doorframe with a smug grin. “Brought you breakfast in bed, sweetheart. Don’t get used to it—I’m not always this nice.”

He very much is.

He offers his arm without asking when you need support. Doesn’t mention it when you wince or grit your teeth. Just lets you lean on him, like you’ve always belonged there.

You try to carry something heavy across the hall—he appears out of nowhere, snatching it from your hands. “Tsk. You trying to die or what?”

You try to help in the kitchen. He catches you wobbling and swoops in with a hand around your waist. “Whoa there, Bambi. What happened to ‘taking it easy’?”

You try to sneak off to explore the base again. He corners you in the hallway with a look that says absolutely not. “You’re still healing, brat. Unless you want me to carry you everywhere again?”

Cue your entire face combusting.

He’s annoying. Cocky. Ridiculously persistent.

But…

He adjusts your blanket when you’re asleep on the couch. Tucks a water bottle by your side without saying anything. Teaches you how to balance properly on one foot so your ankle can recover without straining the other.

And at night, when you think everyone’s asleep, you catch him checking on you—quietly, carefully. Making sure you’re okay.

You pretend not to notice.

But your heart notices. It notices everything.

-

You stand in the middle of your room, shifting your weight onto your healed ankle, then back again. No pain. No tightness. Just a deep breath and the quiet realization:

You’re better. Finally.

The door creaks open without warning—because Satoru never knocks—and in he strolls with his usual swagger and two mugs in hand. “Morning, sweetheart. Brought you—"

He stops in his tracks.

You’re standing. Not limping. Not clutching the edge of the bed for balance.

Just… standing.

He squints, slowly lowering one mug. “...Why aren’t you in bed?”

You raise a brow. “Because I’m not dying?”

“Oh no. Absolutely not.” He sets the mugs down and points a very offended finger at you. “You don’t just get to get better without warning me. I was emotionally invested in this arc.”

You laugh. “Sorry to ruin your Florence Nightingale fantasy.”

“Ruin? Excuse you, I was thriving. Who’s gonna let me spoon-feed you now?”

You roll your eyes, limping toward him just to mess with him. “I could pretend, if it makes you feel better.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

He walks over before you can say anything else—his hands hover, cautious at first, then one slides to your waist. “You really okay?”

You nod. “I’m good. Really.”

Satoru lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. Then he grins. “Alright. Guess that means I can stop being your personal nurse and go back to being your favorite nuisance.”

You’re smiling. He’s back to teasing. But there’s a softness in his eyes that lingers a little too long, a thumb that brushes your hip before falling away.

He missed taking care of you.

And maybe, just maybe, you kind of miss being taken care of.

-

You’re jogging laps around the edge of the prison yard, the early morning chill nipping at your cheeks. It’s peaceful—quiet enough that your footsteps and the rhythmic beat of your breath are the only sounds you hear.

Until a familiar voice breaks through the silence.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite brat, back in action.”

You slow down, a smirk tugging at your lips as you turn toward the voice—and promptly choke on air.

Satoru.

Stretching.

Shirtless.

His snowy hair tousled from whatever ungodly workout he’s been doing, sweat gleaming on the hard lines of his chest and abs like the universe conspired to craft a Renaissance painting just to spite you. His sweats hang low on his hips, revealing that infuriating V-line that should not be legal in a post-apocalyptic society.

You blink. Once. Twice.

He grins, catching the way your eyes are very not subtly stuck on him.

“Like what you see?”

You scowl, instantly turning your gaze to a very fascinating patch of dirt on the ground. “Please. I’ve seen better.”

“Mmhm.” He takes a deliberate step forward, arms crossing over his annoyingly perfect chest. “Name one.”

“...”

“That’s what I thought.”

You huff and start jogging again, forcing your eyes to stay forward. But then he jogs up beside you—shirtless and smug, of course—and easily matches your pace.

“You sure you’re fully healed? What if you, I dunno… trip and fall again?” he says, tone mockingly sweet. “Need me to catch you, princess?”

“I’d rather faceplant into a zombie.”

He laughs, low and lazy. “I dunno, that sounds painful. Better to land on something soft. Like me.”

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he nudges you playfully with his elbow, “you’re still jogging next to me. Who’s really winning here?”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the warmth crawling up your neck. But deep down, you know.

He’s definitely winning.

-

After the jog, Satoru insists you “cool down” with some light sparring. You roll your eyes, but follow him to the training mats anyway. He’s already bouncing on his heels when you step in front of him, still shirtless, still smug.

“You sure you’re up for this?” he teases. “Wouldn’t want to break you again.”

“I’m more worried about bruising your ego,” you shoot back, taking your stance.

He whistles low. “Feisty. I like it.”

The sparring begins—light jabs, easy dodges. You’re nimble, focused, but he is... effortless. Every time you swipe at him, he ducks with a grin. When you go in for a kick, he sidesteps and lets out an exaggerated yawn.

“You done yet, sweetheart?” he asks, still dancing around you. “At this rate, I could do this blindfolded.”

“Shut up and hold still!” you lunge at him again—this time faster, bolder—but he grabs your wrist mid-swing and spins you around so fast the world tilts. Before you know it—

You’re pinned.

Back hits the wall. His hand holds your wrists above your head, other arm braced beside you. His body is dangerously close, breath fanning your cheek. His tone shifts, deeper. Rougher.

“You keep mouthing off like that,” he murmurs, eyes gleaming, “I might start thinking you want me to put you in your place.”

Your breath catches. “I—”

“Hmm?” he leans in, lips ghosting your jaw. “No witty comeback now?”

You try to move, but his grip tightens just slightly. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to remind you that this isn’t a game anymore.

“I could kiss you right now,” he whispers, “and there’s nothing you could do about it.”

Your heart hammers in your chest. “You wouldn’t.”

He smiles. Slow. Dangerous.

“Wanna bet?”

Your breathing is shallow, heat rising to your cheeks. You’re acutely aware of how close he is, the way his chest brushes against yours with every breath, the sharp glint in his eye, the smirk that’s far too smug for your sanity.

And then—

His lips graze your neck. Barely there. A soft brush of heat against your skin. You flinch—not out of fear, but from the jolt that shoots down your spine. Goosebumps bloom instantly. His breath tickles your skin.

“Sensitive,” he hums, lips ghosting up toward your jaw, “...cute.”

“Satoru—” you whisper, voice barely audible.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His gaze drops to your lips, heavy and unblinking. And he leans in, slower this time, like he wants you to feel the anticipation. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat—

And then—

“AM I INTERRUPTING SOMETHING?”

You both jolt like you’ve been electrocuted.

Satoru spins around with a groan, still caging you against the wall. “Shoko. Seriously?”

She stands a few feet away, arms crossed, one brow cocked and a wicked smirk playing at her lips. “Wow. Could cut the tension with a scalpel. Should I come back later or just pass you a condom now?”

“Shoko,” you squeak, face on fire, squirming to escape Gojo’s hold.

He lets you go reluctantly, chuckling under his breath. “You wish you caught the good part.”

“I did catch the part where your face was buried in her neck like a starving vampire,” Shoko deadpans.

You bury your face in your hands.

Satoru just laughs. “You jealous?”

“Please. I'd rather not watch my coworkers dry hump in public,” she says, already turning on her heel. “Anyway. You two lovebirds done? I need one of you to help with supplies.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Gojo waves her off. Then he glances back at you, still all flushed and flustered, and leans down one last time to whisper in your ear:

“To be continued, princess.”

And just like that, he strolls off like nothing happened.

You're left against the wall, heart pounding, neck tingling, completely and utterly undone.

-

It’s quiet for once.

Most of the clan is out on a supply run or patrolling the perimeter. You’d offered to stay behind, helping Shoko reorganize her medical supplies before wandering off with a basket of laundry—warm clothes folded under your arm as you pace the empty corridors of the prison, barefoot, relaxed.

You finally set the basket down in the communal quarters, humming under your breath while sorting through what belongs to who. It’s… peaceful. The late afternoon sun slants in through the high windows, bathing everything in warm light.

Until—

“Picking up where we left off?”

You jolt, nearly dropping the shirt in your hands.

Gojo.

Leaning against the doorframe, casual as ever, sleeves pushed up, hair a bit messy like he just woke from a nap. His eyes are glinting beneath the lazy droop of his lashes, and that smirk—that godforsaken smirk—is unmistakable.

He saunters in before you can get a word in.

“Geez, you sneak up on people like a damn ghost,” you mumble, cheeks already burning as you turn back to the laundry.

“Aw, don’t be shy now,” he teases, coming closer. “You weren’t so shy when I had you pinned against the wall.”

You stiffen. “You got interrupted. Big difference.”

“Oh? So you wanted me to kiss you?”

You glare at him over your shoulder, but he’s already behind you, arms slipping around your waist—loosely at first, giving you a chance to push him away.

You don’t.

“I was thinking about you,” he murmurs against your ear. “All damn day. Thought I’d come see how you were holding up without me.”

“I was fine,” you huff, but it’s so breathless it betrays you instantly.

He chuckles. “That right?”

His hands glide up your sides, slow and sure, fingertips teasing the hem of your shirt. “C’mon, sweetheart. Just admit it—you missed me.”

You turn in his arms, glaring—but it’s weak at best. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” he leans in, forehead brushing yours, voice dropping, “but I still remember how fast your heart was beating last time.”

You swallow.

And this time? There’s no Shoko to walk in. No patrols due back. No reason to stop.

You hesitate for a beat.

And then you pull him in by the collar.

The kiss is feral. All teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. Weeks—months—of tension snapping all at once. His hands find your waist, gripping tight as he hoists you up like you weigh nothing.

“Fuck—” he groans against your lips. “You’ve been killing me, y’know that?”

You wrap your legs around his waist and tug him closer. “Good.”

He pulls back, grinning. “Oh, you wanna play it like that?”

You don’t get a chance to answer before he’s kissing down your jaw, your neck, dragging that maddening tongue of his down your collarbone. His hands are everywhere—palming your hips, your thighs, sliding under your shirt like he owns you.

Which, at this point, maybe he does.

“Tell me to stop,” he pants, hovering over your lips again. “Tell me now, and I will.”

You look him dead in the eyes, tug his shirt over his head, and whisper:

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Your back hits the nearest wall with a muffled gasp, Satoru’s mouth already on yours, hungry and hot. His hands roam your body like he’s memorizing it with touch alone, fingers tugging at fabric with a frustrated groan.

“Off,” he growls into the kiss, already pulling your shirt over your head like it's offended him. He sets you down to pull your pants down along with your panties. And the moment you’re bare before him, he stands back, breath catching in his throat. His eyes—icy blue and blown wide with lust—roam your figure, landing on your chest like he’s just been given the meaning of life.

“…Can I motorboat your tits?”

You blink.

You laugh, startled and breathless. “Are you—are you serious right now?”

His lips curve into a wolfish grin, and he’s already surging forward to kiss you again. “Maybe next time,” he mumbles between kisses. “I don’t think I can wait to taste you now.”

You arch a brow, teasing, breath catching when he trails his mouth down your jaw. “Next time?”

He chuckles, low and dark. “You think I’m letting you off the hook after this?” His hands slide down your waist, thumbs stroking your hips. “Nah, sweetheart. I’m gonna ruin you.”

Then he sinks to his knees.

The grin fades into something hungrier, more reverent as he kisses the inside of your thigh, dragging his teeth gently across soft skin. “Spread ‘em for me,” he says, voice a whisper but firm. And when you do, he groans like he’s just tasted something forbidden.

You cry out the second his tongue touches you, hands flying to grip his hair. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t want to. It’s slow, torturous—his pace deliberate as he works you open, devouring like a man starved. His moans vibrate against your skin, and when your legs tremble, he just pins them open wider, groaning, “That’s it… let me hear you, baby.”

Your back arches as Satoru licks another slow, devastating stripe up your core, tongue curling at your entrance before he moves to suck gently on your clit. Your fingers tighten in his hair, thighs instinctively trying to close around his head—but his arms loop under your knees, spreading you wider, holding you open like he owns you.

“You're not going anywhere,” he mutters, eyes flicking up, glazed over with lust and something dangerous. “Told you. I’m gonna ruin you.”

Then he’s back at it—slower this time, tongue flattening against you, then circling, dragging soft groans out of you as the tension coils tight in your belly. He eats you out like he’s trying to memorize the taste of you, savoring every movement, every moan he draws. He alternates between deep, dragging strokes and sharp, teasing flicks, lips closing around your clit to suck just hard enough to make your breath hitch.

You cry out, hips bucking up into his mouth, and he growls—low and throaty—as if turned on by how wrecked you already are.

"Fuck—so sweet," he groans, voice muffled against you. “Could stay down here all night.”

And he means it. He shifts slightly, tongue plunging into you now, slow and shallow, nose nudging your clit as he drinks in every sound you make like it fuels him. Every little tremble, every whimper—he devours it.

He doesn’t stop. Not when you start trembling, not when you whine his name in warning. He keeps going, lips slick and relentless, until—

Your vision whites out. Your body tightens, back bowing, mouth falling open on a silent scream as you fall over the edge, pleasure shattering through you like a storm.

Only then does he pull back, lips and chin glistening. He breathes hard, eyes dark and blown, grinning like he just won a war.

“That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”

He stands up again to pick you up, carrying you to the nearby table, settling you on it, completely bare under the low light, legs parted slightly, chest heaving. You’re flushed, trembling—not from fear, but anticipation. Nerves. Heat. It’s all crashing together in your head, and he sees it.

His hands move to his waistband, fingers curling beneath the fabric of his pants. He tugs them down with practiced ease, freeing himself—and your breath catches.

Your eyes drift down instinctively, and your stomach tightens at the sight of him. He’s big. Thick, flushed, already hard and aching.

Your pulse stutters, nerves flickering to the surface. “Oh…”

“Hey,” he says gently, fingers brushing your cheek. “You okay?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. “It’s just… I’ve never done this before.”

Satoru freezes for a moment. His expression doesn’t shift much—but his eyes, bright and blue, soften in an instant.

“…You haven’t?” he asks quietly, tone a stark contrast to the sinful smirk he wore earlier. You shake your head.

He exhales slowly, like he’s grounding himself. Then he leans in and kisses you—slow, patient, loving.

“Well, fuck,” he murmurs against your lips. “Now I really have to behave.”

You blink up at him. “You? Behave?”

He chuckles, brushing his thumb over your lower lip. “Okay, maybe not completely. But I’ll go slow. Make it good for you. You trust me, right?”

You nod.

“Good.” His voice drops a little. “Then let me take care of you, yeah?”

He’s gentle—so gentle it almost breaks you. His lips move from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, to your chest. He pauses there, kissing over your breasts, fingers caressing your sides as though you might disappear if he’s not careful.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes. “Gonna remember this forever.”

When he finally lines himself up, he doesn’t rush. He keeps kissing you, whispering into your skin.

“Breathe with me,” he says. “Nice and easy, baby. Just relax.”

The stretch burns, but his voice never leaves you. His hands never stop moving—stroking your sides, brushing your hair from your face, thumbing away the tears that prick at the corners of your eyes.

“You’re doing so good,” he murmurs. “So tight, fuck—squeezing me like you were made for me.”

Your breath catches, eyes fluttering shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly, “I wanna see your face.”

You meet his eyes—blown wide with emotion, affection, reverence. And that’s when he starts to move. Slowly, so slowly you can feel everything. Every drag, every pull.

“Feels good?” he asks, and when you nod, he smiles like you’ve just handed him the universe.

“You’re perfect,” he groans, picking up pace just a little. “Takin’ me so well, sweetheart. My pretty girl, lettin’ me be her first.”

You moan—part embarrassment, part bliss—and he kisses the sound from your mouth.

“Can’t believe no one’s touched you like this before,” he mutters against your skin. “But I’m glad. Glad it’s me. Glad I get to show you.”

He starts rolling his hips deeper, each thrust slow and purposeful, coaxing pleasure out of you bit by bit.

“Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”

You’re already gasping—your body burning, overstimulated from the build-up and the way he moves inside you. Every drag of him is a stretch, a delicious ache, and you’re trying so hard to keep up, to breathe, to hold yourself together—but it’s too much.

And then it hits.

Your climax crashes over you like a tidal wave—louder, sharper, more intense than the last—and your body tightens instinctively, your walls fluttering around him like they don’t want to let him go.

“Fuck—” Satoru’s voice breaks, a guttural groan tumbling from his throat as he stills, trembling above you. “You’re gonna ruin me, baby…”

His grip tightens on your waist, jaw clenched as he tries to hold back—but you’re squeezing him so tight, so perfect, and his restraint shatters.

“You’re killin’ me,” he grits out, starting to move again—deeper, slower, more intentional—but there’s an edge of desperation now. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged. “Feels so good—fuck, I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You shake your head, nails digging into his shoulders. “Don’t stop,” you whimper, barely able to form the words. “Please…”

He kisses you hard—like he can’t help himself, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. “You’re doin’ so good for me, sweetheart. So, so good…”

“‘Toru-” you whimper.

That breaks him.

He groans, slamming into you harder, mouth finding your neck as he nips and kisses down to your collarbone. “Fuck. Say it again.”

You whimper again, brain hazy. “‘Toru…”

He kisses you slow then, deeper. Rough pace never faltering, but his hands gentler now—one wrapping around your waist, the other brushing the hair from your face.

“Mine,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re mine now, yeah?”

You nod desperately, legs locking around his hips. “Yours.”

“Damn right,” he grits, driving into you harder, chasing both your highs with everything he has.

The overstimulation has tears stinging your eyes, your legs trembling, voice catching on every moan. And when that next orgasm builds too fast, too hard—it snaps through you like a live wire. Your body arches off the table, clamping down around him again—

—and Satoru snaps.

“Shit—take it, baby. Let me fill you up, yeah? Gonna make you mine, fuck, you already are—look at you...” he chokes out, thrusting deep one last time before he comes, spilling into you with a long, breathless groan. His arms wrap around you as if to anchor himself, holding you so close, like he needs to feel every inch of you, inside and out.

“Look at you,” he murmurs between pants, pressing kisses across your face. “Takin’ me so well… You’re mine now, yeah? All mine.”

You nod, dazed and boneless, wrapped in his warmth.

And he stays like that, inside you, forehead resting against yours as he murmurs soft, reverent praises—like this wasn’t just your first time.

Like it was everything.

Your body’s still trembling—nerves fried, skin flushed, heart thudding against your chest as if it’s trying to burst free. You’re barely aware of anything except the warm, strong arms pulling you into a careful embrace, the kiss he presses to your temple like it’s the most sacred thing he could ever do.

“Hey…” Satoru murmurs, voice all honey and rasp, rough around the edges but impossibly gentle. “You okay?”

You nod, chest rising and falling against his, cheeks still hot, but there’s a smile on your lips.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Just… wow.”

He laughs softly, the sound low and breathy as his fingers brush along your spine in lazy, soothing strokes. “You were incredible,” he says, and he means it. Every word. “So good for me. So perfect.”

Your face scrunches with a flustered noise, burying it into his shoulder. “Stop…”

“Never,” he grins, nosing into your hair. “You don’t get to be all pretty and sweet and make those sounds and expect me to stay quiet about it.”

You groan. “Satoru—”

“Shhh.” 

His palm rests on your back as he holds you close, thumb drawing lazy circles. You can still feel the dull, pleasant ache of him inside you, the heat he left behind. His breath is warm against your cheek. Safe. Comforting.

“You did so good, baby,” he murmurs again, pressing a kiss just beneath your jaw. “First time and you still managed to rock my fucking world.”

Your heart stutters. “Wasn’t just the sex,” you say quietly.

He stills for half a second—and then he smiles, soft and genuine.

“I know,” he whispers.

You’re still breathless, body flushed and boneless in his arms when Satoru gathers you close, lips pressed gently to your temple. The air between you is warm, quiet save for the distant hum of life around the base. He shifts a little, glancing down at the table beneath you both, and you catch that flicker in his eyes—guilt, soft and creeping.

“I should’ve…” he starts, voice low, almost sheepish. “Shit, I should’ve taken you somewhere better. A bed, a blanket, something that wasn’t a hardass table. It was your first time and I just—” He pauses, brows pinching like the regret’s eating at him now. “I got selfish.”

You lift your hand to his cheek, thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth. “Hey,” you whisper, leaning in until your lips ghost over his, shutting him up with a kiss so soft, so full of emotion it makes his heart stutter.

When you pull back, your smile is small but sure. “It was more than okay. Because it was with you.”

Satoru blinks, breath caught in his throat. And for once, the man with a mouth like a wildfire doesn’t have anything to say.

Until he pulls you tighter into his chest and mutters, “You’re gonna be the death of me, you know that?”

You just grin into his skin. “Guess we’ll go down together then.”

Then silence. Not awkward, not tense—just full of warmth. Full of everything. His arms around you. Your fingers laced with his.

You don’t say it. Not yet. But maybe one day soon.

For now, the way he holds you like you’re something to be cherished?

It’s more than enough.

author's note. finally have time to post consistently! last month or two were BUSY so couldn't do much </3 i'm proud of how this one turned out ^^ also, shoko is such a baddie i love her

please do not steal, modify, or translate my work.

[gossameres]

what comes after, p. parker

chapter one, off record

— peter parker x f. reader

a/n: back in my mcu phase and was just thinking about how sad nwh's ending was... so spoilers for that i suppose. i dont have much planned so it might just be a short lil mini series unless ppl send some ideas!

word count: 3.5k

warnings: angst, insinuation of mental illness

series masterlist! next.

Peter Parker never truly knew silence—not the kind that fills your lungs like smoke, or brushes over your skin like snowfall. Not the kind that soothes, or settles, or forgives. No, the only silence Peter knew was the kind that echoes. That haunts.

Maybe no one ever does—not really.

But for Peter, that quiet kind of stillness became more of a memory than a feeling, a concept he kept chasing but could never hold. There had always been noise derived from grief, from responsibility, from the weight of a world he didn’t ask to carry. Always static, always the hum of loss disguised as living. The ache of everything he'd carried for too long. He hadn’t known peace since his parents died. Since Uncle Ben. Since the spider bite. Since the Avengers, the aliens, the multiverse, Aunt May, the fallout of too many battles with too little sleep in between. And then that final undoing—when the world forgot who Peter Parker was, and he let it.

It wasn’t peace. It was absence dressed in silence.

The closest thing he could recall to peace came before all of that—maybe when he was a baby, untouched by memory, too new to the world to register the ache it would one day press into him. Or maybe, later, in the warmth of shared laughter with Ned and MJ.

Michelle Jones-Watson. A name that used to mean everything.

And now? Now it was just a name.

She was the last place he ever felt at home. But that home was gone. She didn’t know him anymore and the moment he realized that, truly and fully, was the first time he saw her again. The door to Peter Pan Donut & Pastry chimed, the world stilled, and there she was—behind the counter like some kind of cruel mirage. Same dry humor curling at the corners of her mouth. Same careful, unreadable eyes.

Peter had rehearsed something to say. A script, full of delicate truths and quiet hope. But the second she looked at him like he was nobody—a stranger—every word stuck to the back of his throat.

He said his name. Like it meant anything. Like it would light something in her.

It didn’t.

That moment gutted him. He smiled too hard, talked too fast. Fidgeted like a schoolboy. Watched her too long, like some ghost begging to be remembered. She hadn’t known him, but he had remembered everything.

That was the cruelest part.

He remembered MJ. And Ned. And Aunt May. And everyone he’d ever lost. The people who made him feel like he was still just a kid from Queens, like life wasn’t always going to be this hard. But now they were gone, or they didn’t remember, or they were six feet under. What a weight for a teenager to carry.

He could’ve told them—MJ and Ned, right then and there. The truth. Everything. Hope they believe him. Try to convince them. But he didn’t because Peter had learned what happened when he put his wants above the world. He’d learned what selfishness cost.

And Spider-Man didn’t get to be selfish.

He left with a coffee he didn’t like, and a hole where her recognition should’ve been. And still, he came back. Again and again, he came back. Like the routine could stitch something back together, pike if he stayed close enough, maybe something in her would stir. Maybe some part of her would look at him and feel it—that pull, that gravity, that familiarity.

It never came.

Even then, he sat in that café with a coffee too bitter, listening to the barista call his name—“Peter Parker, black coffee, no room”—like it wasn’t a tragedy in a sentence and pretend it didn’t splinter him a little more every time.

And God, wasn’t that the definition of pathetic? Coming back. Hoping. Wanting. But he couldn’t help it because there was a semblance of comfort, even in the ache. A familiarity in the pain.

He told himself it wasn’t weird, showing up so often. He could always claim coincidence if she asked, but he knew the truth. The coffee cost more than he could afford, especially with a paycheck from a video game store and rent he barely scraped together. But it was a cost he was willing to bear and was a routine he needed to survive.

And in that routine, loneliness settled in.

Sometimes he spoke out loud, just to hear his own voice. Not to anyone—just the air. Just the walls. Just to remind himself he still existed.

Anything. “You’re okay,” he’d whisper. “You’re here. You’re still here.”

Other nights, he wasn’t so sure.

There were nights where the city became an echo chamber. Where every window flickering with life reminded Peter of how far he’d drifted from the world, normalcy, the past. The streets breathed around him—neon and noise, strangers and sirens—and yet, it all felt quiet in the wrong way.

Lonely in a way that didn’t scream, just settled.

Sometimes, he’d spot a boy with Ned’s backpack, or hear MJ’s laugh in the pitch of someone else’s voice. Once, he stopped mid-step in the middle of a crosswalk because a girl with curls looked up from her phone, and for a second, something inside him cracked like ice.

It wasn’t them.

It was never going to be them. New York City was too big to randomly run into them.

Eventually, he began writing their names down. All of the names he knew. Over and over. Just names, no details on lined pages that never got full because he wrote so small, as if looping the letters could keep them from slipping further away. The notebook lived on his nightstand like a vigil. Some nights, it was the only proof he’d ever been loved. Something about seeing the letters made him feel like they were still real, like they hadn’t been taken from him in different, horrible ways.

He didn’t cry anymore, he didn’t even feel like he could. The grief had calcified into something quieter, something heavier. What he felt was hollow, like sitting alone in a room long after the music stops, still hearing it in his bones. Ringing, ringing, and ringing and he thinks if he stands still long enough, maybe someone will hit play again.

But no one does.

No one ever does.

He missed them all—MJ, Ned, Betty, even Brad and Flash. He missed the comfort of being known. The easy and predictable disarray of high school. The way they used to fill his world with noise that didn’t hurt.

Now the silence was unbearable. Silence meant grief.

His days became mechanical—wake up in a cramped studio apartment with a mattress on the floor and one lopsided chair that threatened to collapse any minute. Eat something cheap, dry, and stale, usually whatever he could grab without thinking twice. Clock into work. Swing through the city until the wind felt like a scream. Sleep. Then do it all again. It was a rhythm as monotonous as it was necessary, a routine that kept his never-ending thoughts at bay. The only rhythm that made sense anymore was the city beneath his boots and the sky above his head. The skyline remained his—his tether, his chapel. The wind against his suit, the city’s heartbeat beneath his palms. In that altitude, he was free. For a moment, he didn’t feel erased—it was familiar. At least that hadn’t been taken away.

He swung through the lower rooftops, weaving through cracks and alleys where no one gave a second thought to a young man in a mask. He stopped muggings that barely made the news and found lost pets wandering between buildings. The small, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man things. It wasn’t glamorous—far from it—but it was his anchor. It reminded him of where he started, and why he’d made the painful, selfless choice to let everyone forget him in the first place, even if that meant carrying the weight of that loss alone.

And yet, even this fragile thread of normalcy didn’t last forever.

Manhattan wasn’t Queens, but Queens was a memory too sharp to face anymore. He couldn’t afford May’s apartment, no matter how much it hurt to erase the last evidence he’d ever belonged somewhere. Each step away felt like a slow unraveling, a quiet surrender to the weight of all he’d lost.

Summer crept in slowly—thick with humidity and the kind of golden light that made the city look deceptively soft around the edges, shimmering like illusions. People filled parks and fire escapes, music bled out of open car windows, laughter echoed through alleyways and rooftops. The whole city felt like it was moving on.

But Peter wasn’t.

Every calendar reminder felt like a bruise. MIT loomed for MJ and Ned, their futures were already waiting for them—bright, real, full of possibility. A future that glittered just far enough away from him. A world full of promise that didn’t have room for his name. 

And Peter would still be here, in the same small apartment with the same threadbare mattress and the same invisible life. A ghost in his own story.

There were nights he sat on the roof of his apartment with his knees pulled to his chest, watching the sun set in streaks of orange and rust. He tried to imagine them, a hundred miles away, unpacking boxes and laughing together, meeting new people, living their lives. Lives where he didn’t exist. They were moving forward. And he was just stuck. He didn’t resent them, but he missed them dearly.

It made him feel selfish. Pathetic, even. He’d made the choice—he knew that. He chose their safety over his presence. He chose to vanish so they could shine.

But it still hurt.

And then there were the dreams. Not nightmares—those were easier, at least they made sense. No, these dreams were tender, quiet, mundane. MJ falling asleep on his shoulder in a library. Ned showing him funny videos during a study session. May humming in the kitchen, asking if he wanted grilled cheese. Dreams so soft they felt like lullabies—until he woke up and remembered none of it was his anymore and hyper aware of feeling like his chest had been hollowed out, like the air wasn’t meant for his lungs anymore.

He’d wanted to give them everything, and now he had nothing to show for it.

But May—God, May. If she were here, she’d tell him off. Tell him he wasn’t doing anyone any good by letting the grief rot in his gut. Tell him that surviving out of guilt wasn’t the same as living. That he was allowed to want more. That there might still be a world waiting for him, too.

So he started small.

He pulled out his laptop and looked up colleges in the city—places he could get to on foot, or by web, that didn’t ask for a past he no longer had.

Empire State University wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t part of any grand plan like him, MJ, and Ned heading off to MIT together, nor was it a chance to follow in Tony’s footsteps at his alma mater. But it was open, accessible, something.

He clicked “submit” with a stomach full of nerves and a heart so tired he couldn’t even hope properly. But when the acceptance email came a few weeks later, he stared at the screen like it was in another language. Not because he didn’t understand—but because it felt like it wasn’t meant for him.

Peter Parker didn’t exist on paper anymore, but maybe Spider-Man didn’t have to be all that was left.

So he chose a major in Science, Math, and Technology—something that still felt like his. Something he was still good at and might help rebuild the pieces he had left.

And for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t about saving anyone else.

It was about saving himself.

College wasn’t like anything Peter had known.

High school had always been chaotic—first because he was a quiet nobody, then because he was a not-so-quiet somebody in a red and blue suit. Midtown High was a blur of stacks of homework, half-eaten lunches in the library, and trying to keep his dual life from collapsing. Now, no one here knew him. No whispered rumors, no sideways glances. Professors didn’t care. Students didn’t notice. He was invisible, not in the heroic way—but in the painfully ordinary one.

He kept mental notes as he wandered campus: tucked-away corners near fountains for studying, which food trucks looked passable, which buildings had the best air conditioning. He scratched off each class from his list, one by one, until only Chemistry Lab remained.

The afternoon sun was sharp overhead when he walked into the AC building, climbed the stairs to room 228, and stepped inside.

CHEM 3201: Organic Chemistry I Lab.

Find a partner.

The words glared from the board in dry-erase marker.

He took a spot at an empty bench, dropping his bag and pulling out a scuffed-up notebook. He scribbled the course title at the top of a fresh page and began sketching out a skeleton for his notes. The room was cold, sterile—smelling faintly of ethanol and whiteboard cleaner.

Peter was adjusting the spacing on his margin when someone slid into place beside him.

“Cool if we’re lab partners?”

Peter looked up.

The guy was tall. Tousled brown hair, warm brown eyes, easy grin. Everything about him radiated a kind of calm confidence—charming, slightly disheveled, like someone who naturally landed in the center of a room without trying.

Peter shifted his papers. “Yeah, sure.”

The guy slung his bag onto the stool beside him and smiled.

“Appreciate it. I’m Harry.”

Peter offered a small smile and a hand. “Peter. Peter Parker.”

“Nice to meet you, Peter Parker,” Harry said, shaking his hand. “Name sounds like you’re either a poet or a guy with a strict grandmother who likes alliteration.”

Peter huffed a fake laugh through his nose. “Yeah, something like that.”

Harry grinned, tilting his head as he sat down. “You’re not gonna be weird and make me do all the work, right?”

Peter looked over at the nearly full page of setup notes he’d already written. “You wish.”

Harry raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, overachiever. Got it.” He tried to keep it light, but Peter didn’t budge—just gave a tight-lipped half smile, like he was amused but determined not to admit it. Harry chuckled and shook his head. “No need to be so serious. I’m just here to make sure you don’t do all the work.”

Peter’s smile twitched a little more. “Keep dreaming.”

Harry grinned. “Fair enough. Team effort, then.”

The classroom filled up quickly, chairs scraping, backpacks thudding. The professor entered just after the last student, gray-haired and expressionless as he shut the door behind him.

“Welcome to CHEM 3201,” he said without preamble. “You’ll be spending the semester identifying, synthesizing, and occasionally lighting things on fire. If you’re afraid of your eyebrows, drop now.”

A few scattered chuckles. The professor didn’t smile.

“Today is easy. You and your partner will test three unknown samples and identify the functional groups based on their physical properties and pH behavior. Instructions and kits are at the front. Log your process and preliminary observations. That’s it. You’ve got an hour. Begin.”

Peter and Harry stood to grab a kit and brought it back to their bench. Harry unscrewed the first sample while Peter pulled the pH strips and safety goggles from the tray.

“So,” Harry said, holding up the vial to the light, “what’s the over-under on this smelling like death?”

Peter leaned in. “High. Always is when it’s something acidic.”

He dabbed a strip, watched the color shift almost instantly, and jotted it down.

“pH’s around 2,” he said, “and it’s soluble in water. Carboxylic acid, most likely.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, you got all that already?”

Peter nodded absently, noting the next test. “It’s a classic pattern. Low pH, water soluble, strong odor. You see it enough times, it’s kind of obvious.”

Harry stared at him. “Dude… are you secretly a genius or just incredibly confident about your guesses?”

Peter paused—then laughed. Actually laughed. A full, unguarded one that caught him by surprise. It had been a long time since something came out of his mouth that wasn’t weighed down by memory.

Harry smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “So that’s a ‘yes, I’m a genius and totally Einstein’s long-lost heir,’ right?”

Peter shook his head, still smiling as he reached for the next vial. “Maybe I’ve just had a lot of practice.”

“Well,” Harry said, slipping on his goggles and grinning, “if you’re gonna carry the team, at least let me do the dramatic labeling. Deal?”

Peter passed him the sharpie. “Knock yourself out.”

Harry twirled it like a drumstick. “Oh, I will. I take labeling very seriously. This is an art form, Parker.”

He carefully scrawled “Sample A—Mystery Death Juice” on the label with dramatic flourish.

Peter blinked. “That’s what you’re going with?”

“What?” Harry raised an eyebrow. “You said I could knock myself out. Artistic freedom. Creative expression, if you will.”

“You sound like someone who failed this class once already.”

Harry grinned. “Bold of you to assume I’ve ever even taken chemistry.”

Peter gave him a look, but the way Harry was measuring the next sample—holding it up like a wine critic evaluating notes of tragedy—made it impossible not to smile.

They worked through the rest of the samples in tandem, Peter scribbling data and hypotheses with the ease of someone who actually found comfort in lab work, while Harry narrated everything like they were co-hosting a late-night science show.

“And here we have Sample B,” Harry said quietly, “smells like vinegar and looks like the aftermath of my Saturday night antics.”

Peter tried not to chuckle but failed, the sound bubbling up before he could stop it.

“Man, I haven’t even been here a full day and I’m already doing your emotional labor,” Harry said, mock-exasperated. “Keeping you alive through humor? Exhausting.”

Peter smirked. “Well, someone’s gotta do it.”

They looked over their notes together once the hour wound down. Harry was surprisingly engaged despite his commentary—asking questions, pointing out patterns, actually keeping up. When they handed in their lab worksheet, the professor gave them a gruff nod without comment, which was probably a win.

As they stepped out into the sunlit hallway, a wave of warmth hit them—late summer lingering just a little longer.

“That was surprisingly painless,” Harry said, stretching his arms above his head. “Might not even drop the class.”

Peter slung his backpack over one shoulder. “You were considering it?”

“Oh, absolutely. Chemistry and I have a long, storied history of mutual hatred. But I guess if I have a brainiac lab partner and access to high-quality Sharpies, I might survive.”

Peter glanced over at him, hesitant but curious. “You, uh… you going into science?”

Harry shook his head. “Nah. Business. Technically economics, but that’s just code for ‘I want my family to pay my rent while I pretend to be productive.’”

Peter let out another soft laugh, something quieter this time but just as real.

Harry tilted his head toward him. “What about you?”

“Science, math, and tech,” Peter said. “Kind of a mix of everything. Still figuring it out, honestly. But—why organic chem? Seems a little out of place for a business major.”

Harry’s expression shifted, a flicker of something serious crossing his eyes. “My dad’s company was biotech. He passed last year. So, I guess I’m supposed to know enough science to keep the business running—or at least not mess it up.”

Peter nodded slowly, sensing there was more beneath the surface but choosing not to press. “Sorry about your dad. But yeah, that makes sense. College is weird like that—everyone expects you to have a plan, but most of the time you’re just figuring it out as you go.”

Harry gave a small, knowing smile. “Exactly. Like you’re supposed to have it all mapped out, but half the time you’re winging it.”

“Half the time?”

“Okay, more like ninety percent.”

They reached the end of the hallway where the stairs split in two directions and paused.

“I’ll see you next week, Parker,” Harry said as he turned to leave. “Try not to invent quantum tunneling or rewrite the periodic table before then. Save some genius for the rest of us.”

Peter grinned. “No promises.”

Harry flashed a grin over his shoulder and disappeared down the stairwell.

Peter stood there for a second, still holding onto the tail end of that laugh. The sunlight streaming through the window caught the dust in the air, all soft and gold and aimless. For the first time in a long while, something felt different. Lighter. Not better, not healed, but like something had shifted. Like maybe he wasn’t only a ghost anymore, which just might be enough to start with.

[strokesyaoi]

bill dickey headcanons because uhh 👅

- he has visual snow syndrome

- autistic but he refuses to get diagnosed because he doesnt want to seem stupid for it

- issues with needing validation/attention from being ignored a lot (borderline neglected) as a kid

- arthritis. like. this boy is like 16 and already got fucking arthritis

- TECHNICALLY good at school. he just doesnt turn in/finish his homework unless hes forced to

- would be a SHIT pet owner. he gets a dog and refuses to take it on walks. makes his siblings do it instead

- kind of guy to have a CRAZY crashout just to come back 15 minutes later as if nothing happened

- queer and so deep in the closet he turns homophobic. like would genuinely vomit at the mere thought of kissing a man (his parents did NOT help with that. i doubt theyre very supportive people..)

- cannot draw for SHIT. his "art" looks like something the mother of a 3rd grader would hang on the fridge and go "thats great sweetie.." to

- would listen to the strokes. i dont make the rules.

- would 100% love dr pepper. his ass can NOT put that damn dr pepper can down

- would probably start smoking cigarettes really young after like. stealing a pack from his dad or some shit. probably thinks hes mad cool for it too

- southern boy. idk why but he feels so painfully southern. so southern hed sit on his porch while sipping on a glass of sweet tea and go "i smell a storm comin.."

[reorientation]

zyn anon. sorry again for the long ass updates I shall stop unless I get pregnant lmao.

speaking of, have more faith in me 😭 Ive been playing it mostly safe. kinda. I don't have to stop smoking and i dont want to 😒 and all this is mostly reversible unless he gets me pregnant, so I'm a lil more cautious. and im not pregnant i checked a few days ago, not because of a pregnancy scare but just paranoia lol im definitely a dumb whore tho. we've discovered he has a breeding kink. LMAO. lol. im so fucked

anyway so, as it turns out I was right about lacking self control.

he went on a camping trip for a few days, and i was really pent uppp and so was he lol. and when i came over to his place, almost immediately horny brain took over. we just started kissing on the couch, and took it to his room. thankfully his roommates still on holiday. i got so desperate and pathetic, i begged him to fuck me even though no iud yet. he was definitely enthusiastic lol. he only took his pants off enough to take his cock out. he also ripped my panties 😒 he went to grab a condom from the night stand,

he was like "gotta play it safe now aha" and i was like

"no. go bare. 🗿"

he didn't even question it, i was so wet and i felt how easily his cock slid on me before entering.

he only ever went raw a handful of times even before my failed vow of celibacy. since he thought it was dumb for me to get plan B even if he swore he didn't cum at all in me. other than that one time. he'd tell me when he's close, and immediately pull out to finish on me.

but this time it was so primal, being skin to skin and that bare and close was insane. he had a hand on my hip, and he'd basically pull me back down on his cock but fuck lol it just felt so strong. we stopped at one point, i was still all the way on his cock and on top of his lap but no riding. is that cockwarming?

idk but I want to do it again. i felt his dick like. move inside of me during that. all we did was make out but it was way too hot.

anyway, he pushed me on my back and told me he was close, as predicted, I told him to cum in me. he asked if I was sure and not only did i beg him to cum in me.

i told him to get me pregnant 😭

i wasn't thinking properly and I got scared immediately after saying it. i was worried it was gonna put him out of the mood but it did the opposite 😭😭 he asked smth like "oh, you wanna have my kids?" and omfg he kept mumbling about it. telling me to take it all deep, telling me hes gonna get me pregnant.

i came so hard, and only with penetration. it was such a weird feeling, and before i could become rational and tell him its just a prank. pull out. it was over, he came in me while mumbling about knocking me up 😭😭 i was short circuiting lol. and it was different than last time. it felt more shakey, and he kept doing these small thrusts after I think most of his cum was already pressed deep, and then he just settled all in me. he was soft by the time he pulled out, i was way too hazed out ngl

he came a lot. some started to drip down when he pulled out, and i felt him finger it back in me.

he said he didnt nut the whole trip, and was saving his cum for me. he knew id be too horny and impulsive to make good decisions. 😒.

as it turns out, he has a big thing for breeding, but was scared to tell me incase i took it a bad way.

im terrified of having a partner who gets off on the idea of getting me pregnant but I can't stay away.

i complained that id have to wake up so early to run out and get plan B, and buying it will be expensive.

so he told me to just not get it then. and I'm like .. well .. I'm not on any birth control and im full of cum .. like maybe risking it be a bad idea. ironically, like you had once suggested, he suggested I leave it up to chance.

I did take plan B after. twice lol. im still really anxious, but incredibly horny and I didn't know both could exist at once

he's arrogant now too. ill go over after work and when we're about to fuck, ill ask him to wrap it. and he's like "nah, don't feel like it tonight". he also threw out his condoms. but even if i bring my own he doesn't use them 😒

my birthcontrol method was to start riding him when he's about to get close, and pull off before he's about to cum. but he caught on and now just grinds me down on him as he's cumming

i told him about my detrans kink and he leans heavyy in it. or he probably is just an actual straight man. he reminds me daily that he can't believe i ever thought i was a boy. he doesnt even say it in a kinky way like he just means it. lol :/

im pretty much always thinking about it. everytime he finishes in me, im stuck dripping his cum for two days, and im still paranoid that ill be carrying more than just his cum from this blip up lol. and also, you taught me more about post nut clarity right. he told me to risk it maybe half an hour after he came. surely hed have post nut clarity and not actually want a baby, right?its weird to feel fear and horny at the same time.

(Previously)

have more faith in me 😭

-

I told him to cum in me. he asked if I was sure and not only did i beg him to cum in me. i told him to get me pregnant 😭

Oh, I certainly have faith in you, Anon. I know you're going to do just what you're supposed to. 🖤

Come on, sweetheart. Do you really expect to make it out of this without him putting a baby in you? You begged for him to knock you up, took a week's worth of his cum in your unprotected pussy, and then just lay there blissed out and hazy while he made sure every drop ended up inside you.

Sure, you took Plan B afterwards. But now he knows what kind of girl you are, and that you won't stop him from keeping you full of his cum. Sooner or later, you'll be ovulating, and you'll conceive for him.

And that makes you dripping wet, doesn't it? Knowing that your straight boyfriend, who never thought of you as anything except a girl, is doing his damnedest to give you a baby bump. That you already came off T for him, and now you're taking his load in your fertile pussy whenever he tells you to.

When the day of your IUD appointment comes, I hope he just holds you down and fucks his cum into you, instead of letting you go. Clearly, he'd be justified: you can't possibly claim to be a reliable source on what you really want.

You thought you wanted to be a boy, but you eagerly turned back into a girl the minute a straight man got his cock into you. You thought you wanted to be safe, and then you begged for him to knock you up. Hell, you thought Zyns were worth whoring yourself out for, and you don't even like them. Why should he think that not wanting to have his babies is the one way you really know your mind?

[l0ttienatz]

hey you. i dont mean that threatening i mean it in the like flirty barista who knows ur order way

how far do you think lottienat's precrash connection went? I know a lot of people imply they were close, since lottie alludes to nat's home life a bit, but what was the extent? Like, hazed confession they couldn't help? Nat crashing at Lottie's on a bad night? Lottie making Nat stay the night when she couldn't stand up right? additionally: how long do you think they've been friends?

heart you wife mwah mwah

okay i giggled. but also i love u so fucking much for asking this

i mean i adore fanon lottienat where it runs DEEP and i would love to go into it however realistically i think that they weren't as close as id want them to be (not saying that fanon is WRONG because we literally dont know but im trying to be somewhat of a mediatior.)

BUT thats because i wanted them to be on top of eachother every second of every minute of every hour of ever day of every week of every year

they definitely weren't in the same group of friends but i can 100% see them smoking together and as CLICHE AS THAT IS i believe it so deeply. like i dont think that they seek eachother out unless theyre somewhat in the same space.

i think that they were probably closest with each other out of their team, BECAUSE of them smoking tg. like drill warm ups? BOOM! together. the team bonding/resolutions like the scene we saw? IMMEDIATELY!!!!!!!!!!

and even when they had classes together i feel like unless their closer friends were in it they'd sit together and bullshit the entire class

AND!! how long i feel like they've been friends im going into fanon. they definitely seem like they were in the same schools from kindergarten to highschool. and i feel like they would've been BESTTTT friends in like 1st-3rd grade then had either a petty falling out or just met new kids and started hanging with them more

and middle school is an awkward phase for everyone so i dont think they would've interacted much UNLESS!!! they had a soccer team for their school, because if they did then i definitely see them bantering on the team and shit

and then they get to highschool, probably around the time they both start smoking, same team, and it just came naturally to them

also as much as i dont think they'd hang out of school i could kind of see it. one day. or maybe just like a party. and one of them is like "hey man we sure do talk a lot but never hang out" and they like dont go to either of their houses but maybe a park

[crzy-gh0st]

OOC INTRO AND RULES!!

This is a nevermore oc rp blog. and before you say anything I'm well aware she doesn't look like a nevermore oc. Don't flame me </3.

they werent made with the intention of fitting the "nevermore academy rules". I have excuses reasons.

Est time zone but i tend to be online alot due too a shitty sleeping schedule

anywho, rule time!!

RULES

1. pretty please dont be mean to mean. Being mean to Val is fine, shes a bitch lowkey. Just uh not me </3

2. no nsfw! im a minor! gosh, keep it in your pants.

3. no fastpass spoilers. i am a fastpasser, but still. dont wanna spoil it for other!

4. no copy and paste/chain messages. please keep asks to only rp things or ooc questions.

5. if its enjoyably feel free to ship val with anyone (unless its an obvious no), just send me a quick ask first so i know!

6. just have funnn. be sillay, because thats what were here to do!!

VAL STUFF

NAME: Valerie

(Goes by Val)

PRONOUNS: She/They

SEXUALITY: Pan (with a preference for women)

AGE: 19

DATE OF BIRTH: February/7/1984

DATE OF DEATH: August/31/2003

CAUSE OF DEATH: Overdose

STYLE: Scene

PERSONALITY TRAITS: Pretty annoying, enjoys pissing people off, loud, hyper energetic, most definitely has mental issues, rarely/ doesnt show weakness, oh so unserious, absent-minded, bratty

SPEACH: An annoying amount of 2000's slang.

(Sick, Take a chill pill, Your mom, le, XD, Rawr, Oof, Rekt, etc.)

MEMORYS: Multiple small memories but she forgets them not long after remembering them

SUITCASE: craft kit, mp3 player, wired headphones, scissors, a pack of markers and a notebook, a locked diary she has recently guessed the code for, and pack of pop-tarts

EXTRA STUFF: enjoys/enjoyed Avril Lavigne ALOT (basic, ik, just shhh), unmanifested, she unsure why but she does remember things she enjoyed while alive (movies, hobbies, etc.), rarely has good sleep at nevermore (due to night paralysis and anxiety attacks because of withdrawal)

(this is unfinished, i will be adding to this. i may reblog with something along the lines of "updated this" when i do. idk.)

(PFP ART BY MY QUEEN @r0sy-maple-m0th)

FULL ART FROM THE PFP HERE

VALS GROUP;

kane - @b4ckseat-bingo-ch4mp

madeline - @undergroundbell

evangeline - @evangeline-diaries

[tbc];

OTHER NEVERMORE RP BLOGS

Ocs!

margret - @margret-nevermore-student1

boria - @boria-volkov

helen - @everybody-hates-helen

ligeia - @sea-creature-fanatic

eleonora - @eleonoras-library

noeline - @fortheloveofnoline

hoshi - @nottokyodrift

sandy - @little-red-axeing-wood

Clusterfucks

annabel - @annabelleewhitlock, @l4dy1nwh1te

prospero - @rats-of-death

ada - @adaa-lovelace

monty - @asshole-cowboy-devil

genderbent monty - @montresor-genderbend-cowgirl

will - @diary-of-a-willy-kid

Misfits:

lenore - @lenorevandernacht

duke - @duke-laurent

pluto - @purr-of-smoke

eulalie - @imtheghostnow

berenice - @berenicenevermore

morella - @angel-in-green

pluto - @purr-of-smoke

Staff (and others)

deans - @nevermore-merry-official, @nevermore-mourn-official

dolly - @nevermores-only-nurse

poppet - @your-favorite-teacher-poppet

wisps - @wispsofthenevermoreacademy

the stag - @youcantrunfromthewildhunt

void boy - @a-boy-in-a-void

the hounds - @theloyalhoundsofthewildhunt

the raven - @a-raven-thats-not-so-raven

eulalie's doll - @never-doll

Backstory/Background characters

johnny & sally - @johnny-kicking-up-dust

luca - @way2rich4this

theo - @theo-vandernacht

prosperos mother - @motheroftheratman

montresors mother - @blessedangel666

egaeus - @egaeus-exists

manor girls - @victemsoffical

thomas - @mastertamerlanethomas

catterina - @aristro-cat-catterina

sallie - @the-kansas-kutie

percy - @teaandcheckmates

basement girl - @randombasementgirl

ira whitlock - @ira-whitlock-official

isidor - @isidor-fauntleroy

eulalie's doll - @never-doll

Antonia @cutelillesbian

montys dog - @a-worthless-mutt

nessa- @yourfavemaid

lucille - @lucille-vandernacht

thaddeus - @thaddeus-vandernacht

bathroom boy - @im2kool4school

viktor -@not-viktorr

matteo - @ihaterats

[blissfulbluee]

Just saw in your tags that you fw Junhun so I gotta come ask you for some Junhun thoughts 👀

- Player 016, as if anyone is shocked

Omg I’m so surprised I would have never guessed 😳

Idk something about junhun really calls out to me. I’m not usually big on age gap relationships but this one is nice. It has really really grown on me and i feel like you are at least 30% responsible for that lol.

(Jun-ho looking like he wants to eat Gi-hun, as always)

Okay, my Junhun thoughts and headcanons:

-I love that they can bond on their lives being ruined by Jun-ho’s bastard of a brother, lmao, even if In-ho’s identity isn’t exactly revealed

-I think they really match each others freak in so many ways. I feel like they both have the level of maturity to make it work, though they might have trauma get in the way.

-They have their similarities. They’re proactive and impulsive. When they have a goal, they’re all honed in on it to the point they ignore their own health and well being to reach these goals. They’re willing to risk their life for these things and for the people they love. LOOK. THEY COULD REALLY BENEFIT FROM TAKING CARE OF EACH OTHER OKAY!!!

-At first I think they’d both be hesitant. Gi-hun would definitely be the most uncomfortable. First of all, he sees anyone under, like, 35 as a kid. I can see him being very antsy about being heavily attracted to and falling in love with a 33 year old Jun-ho. He’s thinking “I’m nearly old enough to be this guys father, wtf am I doing.”

-Jun-ho would probably just be hesitant because at first he’s very tunnel visioned about relocating his brother, but then he realizes “oh wow i really think i want this old man.” Then it’s time to follow Gi-hun around like a lost puppy, much like the Jun-ho in your fic. I don’t know if he would let the age gap stop him, especially since he has probably been around a lot of people with the same amount of age gap due to his brother being the same age. He probably has had millions of conversations and even many friendships with people much older than him.

-I can’t help but think about how they literally would only have each other… like it would be hard to be able to tell people about that kind of trauma. Since they both have prior knowledge to everything, they skip all of that added mess. They can (kind of) go straight to the comfort and gentleness they need.

-I love the added angst of Jun-ho either never telling Gi-hun about his brother being the frontman or eventually breaking it to him. Oh, the betrayal?? Delicious.

-I think Gi-hun would forgive him, too. He’d rightfully be upset, I think. it would definitely be a bit of a rock in the relationship, but he would understand. That’s Jun-ho’s big brother, of course he would protect him.

-Which also brings me to this. THEYRE BOTH FUCKED UP. They have to do a lot of communicating to solve their issues but I think it may be hard for the both of them sometimes, especially Gi-hun. Gi-hun lost a lot of his willingness to open up unless it’s absolutely necessary, me thinks.

-But I think it has its potential to be like one of the healthiest of ships for Gi-hun and for Jun-ho. Jun-ho is one of the least toxic in Gi-hun’s harem, lol. I think he’d treat him right. Same for the other way around.

-I think they’d enjoy each other’s presence a lot. Quality time, ya know? They don’t even have to be doing anything. Just knowing the other is safe and there for them is what they need.

-coffee/smoke/bar dates…but its junho staring at gihun while he smokes or drinks.. junho just has m coffee or something, or just sips a little on his favorite alcohol. (whiskey or something other bullshit his brother likes probably because hes a fucking inho copycat if anything)

-junhun sharing clothes because they wear similar sizes and mix their clothes up accidentally. (if it’s purposeful on junhos part…we dont judge him okay…it goes unnoticed or unaddressed 😊)

-they eventually just share a pink motel room together, but junho makes gihun make renovations to their room so it’s more homey, lol.

-junho DEF does his best to get gihun to take care of himself and his space. the junhun meme going around “damn bitch you live like this?” yeah jun hos not letting it happen anymore, even if he’s also pretty depressed and traumatized.

-gihun is SO protective of him it’s almost suffocating, but lets be honest its not something junho isnt used to

-it’s really just sad tired dog energy central in their relationship, lmao.

Okay I hope that satiates you!!! Thanks so much for the ask. I am sorry I got so carried away…I love them a lot

[yourclumsyguardianangel]

the seven + a few others future headcanons

percy:

becomes a high school teacher

teaches high school marine biology (idk how it is in other schools but when we hit sophomore year we got to choose different bio classes ie: marine bio, ag bio, med bio + regular bio)

also teaches the mythology elective and is the swim team coach

annabeth:

we already know this queen is an architect with obvious inspiration from greek architecture

learns how to make blue food for percy and their kids from sally

has traveled all over the world looking at different architecture

learns the basics of many languages so shes able to communicate with the locals

her and leo team up to build a small school near camp half-blood for year rounders so everyone can learn consistently but dw they get summers off

piper:

love her but shes a nepo baby

she doesnt act like it tho

”are you tristan mcleans daughter?” “who?”

loves her dad to bits but does not like being seen out in public by the paparazzi

marries shel, they dont have kids tho, neither of them want to bring any into the world especially with america’s downfall and the government erasing women and poc rights

is basically leos big sister atp

leo:

him and calypso dont last, maybe a year and a half in they split bc calypso wants to explore the world and leo is very emotionally unstable and calypso has a hard time understanding

they end on good terms but dont ever talk unless its with a group of friends

he goes into a trade to become a mechanic and owns his own shop

starts smoking cigarettes/vaping

his friends dont really approve but they understand he cant quit just yet as hes not in a mental space to do so

goes to therapy with a psychologist whos a demigod that specializes in grieving and war trauma

they all go to therapy but hes the last one to do it

he’s still the ‘happy go lucky’ guy hes always been but as he gets closer w the others they start to see the true sadness in him

piper and him grow a lot closer after jason died and have a big sister little brother relationship

hazel:

my girl stays at camp jupiter

takes nicos place at camp

horse trainer

her and frank also dont work out as a romantic relationship, they felt that the age gap was too much after frank turned 18 and hazel was 15 theyre still friends tho

hazel often visits leo in his shop

as much as leo reminds her of sammy, through therapy she has recognized that theyre separate people and to not push all her past feelings for sammy onto leo

not only does she train horses but she also teaches little kids basic math, science, and history to the younger kids

they all call her ms. hazel

she prefers to teach the really young kids (age 4-7)

wears her hair in different braid styles after BOO

frank:

my friggin HOMIE

i relate to frank a lot personality wise

therefore i think hed be a 4/20 fanatic after BOO

hes not stoned during training or during important camp duties

but otherwise you try talkin to him and you dont really notice until you look and see the far off look and red eyes and he just goes “huh?”

other than that hes a great leader

after he gets his cool new look from mars he takes really good care of his body including consistent exercise and eating really healthily (maybe he has a soft spot for fast food when hes hi)

him joining the military does not make sense to me

he lost his mom to war, and he was in one himself, idk about you but i would not wanna join the military after being the main character in a war

he studies to be a veterinarian for exotic animals

when no one is around he shifts into the animal to find out whats wrong

”dr. zhang prefers to work by himself” “why” “idk but hes always right, if it aint broke dont fix it”

jason:

rip home-slice

nico:

my other homie

my guy does not get taller than 5’8

stays at camp during the summer to train the new and old kids

him and will get a house together

teaches history at the camp school

cat dad (5 cats and counting)

will:

takes nicos last name when they marry bc its cooler

him being a doctor doesnt click w me i more picture him being an EMT

EMTs are hotter anyways

does med training with new apollo kids whenever he gets time

if he’s not busy during working hours he drops by nicos classroom w his fav drink from dutch bros (starbucks is MID) and hangs out with him and his students

[lowandlonesomelow]

•south park headcanons•

philip "pip" pirrup

i am a sickly woman. set to die soon. this shalt be my last post. (not really. common cold i believe. and this will not be my last post! ....i think. ha ha.)

•glove wearer

i know he doesnt in canon media. (south park atleast. i still havent gotten around to reading great expecations.) but, a blacksmiths apprentice, ....you know....all of the other stuff he did before going through gentleman school. i think he would wear gloves because his hands are coarse, scarred, calloused, burnt,, &c., and he dislikes the feeling of his bare hands rubbing against certain materials. (think of the way skin gets caught on microfibre towels.)

•he doesnt like damien as much as damien likes him.

in the post about damien i mentioned how he was close with pip. how philip was damiens only 'close friend'. (i cant recall what i wrote at all. that may not be accurate....) however, damien still did all of the horrid things to him. philip, whilst he could eventually work up to forgiving other people - due to him learning that, in order to fit in at south park, he had to be a pushover - never could fully forgive damien. whether because of the fact that damien was the son of satan - and that was slightly repulsive to philip, or the countless things damien did to philip in the past. or rather, merely damiens attitude. nevetherless, the fact remains that- no matter how much damien 'apologizes', both boys will never be close friends with one another. therefore - neither will have good friends. (unless you love the foreign kids friend group....thing.... . then perhaps? i guess? but not damien) philip's only friends; estella, and herbert, are both still in britain. (....bonus headcanon, he writes to them frequently.)

•physically disfigured

take this as you will. i dont have many specifics as to what scars, marks, and ..all else, however i am very set on this. constantly getting ruthlessly beaten by other students whilst only trying to fit in and have friends. surely one is bound to have 'a few' scars. ive came across someone on his app saying something about philip having a lazy eye due to said abuse. personally ive thought of him to have just alot of scars. ive seen some draw him with numerous burn scars. never mind details, i think physically scarred philip is something that needs to be drawn far more often. (and mentally scarred aswell. truly, no one child can go through that and be completely alright in the head. back in my day, the 19th, 20th century, we wouldve thrown that boy in a madhouse.)

•he doesnt hate christophe that much.

dont get me wrong. i believe philip still hates french people, and of course he despises christophes overall dirtiness and frequent swearing and smoking, but really.. they arent too bad of friends. sure, they would not be spending time together one on one, but they could go through a day of the group being together and them existing in their own places within the foreign kids group. also, i do not think christophe would 'hate' philip. it would be more one sided 'despising'. i think gregory would eventually be like an elder brother to philip. therefore, i think gregory would stand up for philip whilst he was getting bullied. if ever in a situation where christophe was around whilst the boys were picking on philip, christophe would take gregorys place in standing up for pip. ...well, perhaps it would rather be christophe merely breaking it up and getting the other boys to leave.

FIN.

////i havent posted these in, what, ten-twenty days? ...and for that i apologize!! again. i think ive already apologized. ....ah, who cares. thank you @sillyharmonydragon for the request. i was going to post this as an answer to what you've sent in my inbox, however, ..i may have accidentally started this on a new draft and i do not wish to copy & past it over. sorry if this does not meet expectations . i did not rewatch any episodes including him. so i could not reference anything. oops. i tried, though.

[squipdop]

HIYAA !! im here to ask about your camp counsellor max au >:3 who is the camper that grows attached to max? do you have any sketches or a description? also what responsibilities does max have around the camp? does it change frequently or does he have a routine of stuff to do? i love this idea so much and I'm so glad to see that you have some content cooking up for this concept >:]

awaawa!! hii :]

yes!! i dont have much but i do have a few sketches!! her design isnt final yet, ill have to see how i feel about it going forward... and find colors i like LMAO

her name is adeline, her mom signed her up for summer camp (genuinely simply just 'summer camp' camp) because ade was really struggling to find friends and make connections on her own, and her parents thought summer camp would help her learn those skills!! unfortunately lots of new people all at once is. very scary and the plan didnt work. BUT she did latch onto max almost immediately! now she hardly leaves his side and wont join activities unless he does as well. oh boy.

max' duties are a BIT all over the place! lots of busywork, lots of clean up, he 'volunteers' for kitchen duty frequently (he WILL serve these kids edible food or god help him), david wants him to plan his own camp activities real bad but max kinda. dodges this so far. he also often is available for the kids later at night since he sleeps real late. nets him the added bonus of getting to sleep til breakfast and not having to do the wake up round. does he sometimes use his night time privileges to sneak off and smoke at the lake? maybe.

oh! not really a responsibility, but! there are a few times him and gwen set aside for paperwork and all - max is trying to get emancipated from his parents at this point.

ok this is Really Long so!!! thank u for asking 🥺 🥺 im glad u like this concept!!! its been cooking for years and i didnt expect ppl to really,, respond to it LMAO :'0 im very happy <3

[triple-u-and-one-y]

My Headcanons for Jotaro, His Wife, and Their Marriage

she has elegant giggles if she finds something funny.

at first i thought she would be bubbly suzie q and holly type of character but after her (really little) screentime and her wedding photo i doubted that.

she looks like career woman with formal and elegant appereance for most of the time. which is really opposite from jotaro's type araki revealed back then (his type was something like japanese housewife). i love polar opposites couple but i love couple that similar in act too so i have no problem with changing my headcanon(?)

she always hide her curiosity towards whatever jotaro hide. jotaro could go to another country under spw for months but she just, "okay. take care. don't forget to call us." and give him kisses before he leaves.

"he did it for us." she said with her wet cheeks as she hugged jolyne in her sleep after she cried for hours asking where's daddy go.

sometimes she goes to suzie q or suzie q visits their resident but she never talk about jotaro's "special" work at spw.

for when jotaro stopped smoking, i have three (four) headcanons;

after she coughing smelling his stained smell on his coat.

after their lovemaking, jotaro did cigarettes after sex and jotawife coughing sniff the smoke in her sleep.

this is my least favorite headcanon, after jolyne's born. since i headcanon-ed her as non smoker i dont really like the idea of "dad stop smoking after he has kid(s)" while his wife isnt "immune" to cigarettes.

never think about it until i write the thirdd point, but they both smoker that's stopped smoking after she find out she's pregnant.

their divorce initiated by jotaro. he realized act that's nothing happened after hiding things from his wife "torture" both of them. her light grow dimmer and her red eyes hurt him each time he sees her. he light his cigarette after such a long time and looking at divorce paper on his work desk. he didn't sleep that night and went to their house next day handing that paper.

i think would have bunch of hcs for her respond, but i only can think one rn. after heavy inhale-exhale, she said, "so finally this is how it ends, jojo?" and jotaro numbing all his senses to ripped the paper and giving no single reaction with eyes on the floor instead (uhj i suddenly forgor what names of looking at the floor avoiding someone sight)

i love them but i think their relationship more kind of toxic according our source canon material. (which that's why i love them being happt in fanworks lol)

i also have bunch of hcs that probably kind of villainize(is that a word) jotaro's relative. i mean how she doesn't know anything when she's like in law of suzie q, joseph joestar, and holly kujo who's directly associated with stand hamon dio and stuff. unless... 🧐 (stop this would contradict all of those above)

[beauisoffline]

haii idk if you're still doing the SWTD headcanon ask thingies but do you perchance have any for Rennick.. begging emoji

i dont think i have a ton for rennick, but i can give u the ones i got!!

he is around 63-64 at the time of swtd

as said in a past post i made for roper hc's, i feel like him and roper knew eachother from childhood, living in the same neighborhood as roper, but rennick is around 6 years older than him.

He served in ww2, though i dunno what theater I'd put him in (pacific or atlanic)

rennick barely checks backgrounds because hes so cheap and needs a good workforce. if you do your job and stay in line, he'll let you work there (unless you bring the cops to his rig...)

rennick was very self conscious as a kid and teenager. when he got the promotion, all the power went to his head and he became an egotistical asshole.

He only tolorates addair. rennick knows how much of a prick addair is, but he gets the job done.

rennick sits outside on good days and drinks/smokes. it time was around when he had just hired finlay, which started their routine of meeting outside/inside his office to talk and drink coffee in the mornings.

speaking of finlay, she once found a photo of 5 year old rennick in his office during one of these talks and may or may not use it as blackmail to get things from time to time.

rennick despises doing taxes since he hates spending money.