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luveline · 2 years

Note

hi jade !!! i absolutely adore ur fics of eddie n r with kids they’re always so cute :((( like they fr warm my heart sm !!

if ur still taking requests could u pls write smn w r and roan coloring eddie’s tattoos? it’s totally cool if not !! much luv 🫶🫶🫶

hi yes of course tysm for ur request 🥺

You're curled up on the small couch with your head in a book when Roan runs full pelt into the living room. Eddie, sitting on the floor with his hair tickling your thigh, opens his arms to catch her.

"God, you're a bombshell," he complains as she lands, "and where have your socks gone?"

She digs her feet into him and laughs, a move that shows very much who's daughter she is.

She's not big enough to do any damage and still Eddie whines, turning his face to you to beg for some saving. "She's making ground beef out of my legs."

"You're made of beef?" you ask mildly, turning a yellowed page. "Like a cow."

"Moo," Roan says.

Eddie feels at once like he's been gravely insulted and proud of her for remembering what animal makes what sound. He settles on glaring at her until she moo's again, and then stroking her hair behind her ears with a sigh.

"Your hair is getting soooo long, mini me. Do you wanna haircut?" He pretends to snip at her hair with his fingers.

You actually close your book at that. "It's beautiful. I love how even when it's brushed the ends stay lovely and curled. And when you do the ringlets," you praise, sounding dreamy. You rake your fingers through Eddie's hair and goosebumps race down his arms. "Just like her dad's."

You kiss the top of his head and then stand. "I'm gonna heat up that soup I brought, okay?"

He reaches out to stroke your leg as you go.

Roan hums a song under his head, hands on his arm. She tickles his bicep without meaning to and he giggles like an idiot, wrapping his arms around her back to restrain her.

"You didn't answer my question," he tells her.

"Question?" she says. It's a mouthful of a word for her, he's surprised she can get through it.

"You want a haircut? It's almost to your tummy." An exaggeration. It's just below her chest. "If you cut it all your curls would come back."

"Like daddy's?"

"Kind of."

Roan hums some more and then climbs out of his lap without answering his question. He takes it as a no, anyhow, and isn't surprised. Her hair looks lovely either way, he'd just wanted to express that she has the choice.

Abandoned, Eddie closes his eyes and drops his head into the space where you'd been. He loves Sunday's like this because the cleaning's been done, Roan's clothes have been washed, and all there is to do is sit and listen to his two girls making noise. You flit back and forth in the kitchen buffeted by the sounds of cooking, the smell of soup rich and enough to make his stomach ache. How nice, to be cooked for. Roan bumps around in her bedroom.

"Do you want me to go out and get some bread?" he calls.

"There's enough!" you call back. "Grilled cheese en route."

"Oh god," he murmurs, voice quiet and thick with delight, "I'm spoiled beyond my wildest dreams here. Blessed, even, I-"

His dramatics are cut short by Roan once again catapulting into his lap. He groans at the impact, screwing his eyes closed to play dead.

A cold wetness moves over his skin. He worries she's spit on him, but then Roan presses a little harder and the nib of a pen becomes clear. He peels his eyes open and finds her colouring the puppet with her washables.

Roan couldn't care less at his condition, he finds, her small hands on his arm and turning so she can see the puppeteer and his demon. He'd worried when she was a baby that one day she'd get scared of his tattoos. They're not the most kid-friendly he could have chosen when he was nineteen.

Despite plans for a small 'R' somewhere safe, he hasn't had a tattoo since she was born. Money has either been too tight or too sacred; how could he spend it on himself? There's always dolls and houses and dresses to buy, always ice cream and days out and things she needs.

She's chosen a soft pink. His skin is just pale enough to show it.

"Whatcha doing?" he asks redundantly.

"Colouring."

"I can see that. Any reason?"

"I like pink most."

"I can see that, too," he says. Roan swaps one pink for another. She doesn't try very hard to stay in the lines and he's not bothered. When she colours the puppeteer's hand in a fiercer purple he's actually quite impressed.

"That is beautiful," he says, giving the top of her arm a squeeze.

"'Nother one?" she asks.

He bradishes his other arm. "Please, baby."

She tries to colour the bats in green and pink, almost like flowers. It doesn't really work, as they're almost solid blocks of colour, but it's a valiant effort and he thanks her for it with a sloppy kiss to her cheek.

She loves it, giving him one in return. The pen in her hand leaves a long line up his neck as she ducks in.

Roan pulls away with a beaming smile.

He takes a chance and cups her face in his hand. Or rather, his thumb, because her face is tiny. "Thank you, Roan. You're a good drawer, you know? You're really good."

She smiles some more, shy and happy and adorable. He's shocked at how lovely she is whilst looking like him. It doesn't make any sense at all.

"Roan, you want grilled cheese, princess?" you call.

Eddie caps her pen and pulls her up into his arms. She takes it for a cuddle and hugs him as he carries her to the kitchen, all heavy and sweet in the nook of his neck.

"My girl's an artist."

You melt at the sight. Table set and dinner plated, you throw the hand towel over your shoulder and stand as close to him as you can. "Nice tattoos, handsome," you say.

"She is! Yes. Maybe I can have some tattoos after dinner," you say, voice taking on the bubble affect of parentese.

"Yes!" Roan shouts.

"I think we're agreed," Eddie drawls. "Now for our feast. Thank you, my lady."

You flick his shoulder. "Yeah, you're welcome, hotshot."

more eddie and roan

#eddie and roan #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x reader fluff #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #dad!eddie munson #eddie munson x fem!reader #fem!reader #stranger things x reader #stranger things fic #stranger things

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harcove · 1 year

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hi 🥺 i hope you’re doing all right — i’m sending so so much love 🫶🏼 i don’t want to bother you with a request so please feel free to just read this and move on if you need to ! i was just doing my hair, and as a curly girl i imagined begging Billy to let me do my post-shower styling routine on his luscious hair. he’s probably protective over his hair but i think it would be so cute !! like , him sitting on the edge of his bed, a little (a lot) stiff, with hair strands in his eyes as his s/o fusses over his wet hair, scrunching product and twirling clumps into ringlets 🥹🫶🏼 and he hates to admit that he loved being taken care of and despite his grumbling, he liked how his hair turned out 🥹

A/N: me, a year after taking a hiatus from writing, answering all my year old requests: "heyyy guysss...."

Fr I'm sorry y'all I stopped writing, and left all your beautiful requests in my inbox cause I didn't wanna delete them cause I love them and always wanted to do them someday... Even if it's LATE BY A YEAR IM SO SORRY... I hope this kinda makes up for it 🥺

Pairing: Billy x reader

Length: 3.4k

Warnings: Nopepepepe, but I will say OOC Billy just so no one tries to tell me I write him OOC even though this is how I characterize him lmao

Nah, I trust you - B.H.

Billy's back was stiff as a board.

He couldn't help it; it was his natural reaction to the situation. Facing his back towards people. It was hard. But you had begged- pleaded. Please let me do your hair, please! And no matter how many times he said no or brushed you off, you wouldn't let up. You were absolutely relentless.

To Billy, his hair was a key part of him. It was one of the few things he had complete control of in his life; something that was completely his and something he had the free will to do with it as he pleased (even if it meant his father would make a nasty comment or two about it) and it was something he took pride in.

Yes- he had let you touch his hair before. But that was after a long day, when he knew he wouldn't be going out again and was winding down in bed.

Not after a shower. He usually did that himself because he was the only one who knew how to do his hair the way he wanted. Or at least, he believed he was the only one who could do it right.

It may have sounded stupid; people might say it's just hair and its not that big of a deal. But to him it was a big deal. It was an integral part of him that even his father couldn't take away, even if he had something to say about it.

He supposed, maybe, if there was anyone who he might trust enough to do his hair after he showered, it might be you.

Your hair was beautiful. Thick curls that you tended to and he had seen you tend to before. Times where he'd been in your room, reading some random book he found on your bookshelf while he waited for you to finish showering- you walking out with wet hair and sitting at the vanity to put things in it- to make sure you took care of it.

So, if there was anyone he might trust for this, it was you.

In fact, it was always you. For every thing that Billy found himself alone in, found himself with no one he could trust, there was always you. He trusted you.

"Trust me, you're in good hands."

You note his stiff shoulders as you sat behind him on his bed whilst he sat on the floor. Billy was caged; in the beginning of your relationship he was especially so in all situations. Some days were still harder for him but he was much better than before.

It took a lot of patience and thinking past his personality at times, but it was worth the effort. He was worth it.

It was just too bad that so many people in his life didn't think so.

"I'll stop driving you to school if I'm fucking not," his voice is low, and much of his words came out as a grumble from his chest.

Gently, you place your hands on his shoulders and lean forward, bracing yourself on him so you don't fall from the bed. For a second his shoulders tense a bit more but when he realizes what you're doing they start to relax.

"Trust me," you kiss the side of his face gently- your lips brushing against the spot beside his ear, his wet hair tickling your own face.

Before you can pull back to work on his hair, his hand grasps your arm and he drags you back with enough force you think for a minute you're going to fall over his shoulders onto the floor, but thankfully you manage to use your other hand to grab onto his shoulder again.

He's pressing his lips to yours. It's rough and it's almost as if he's kissing you for the first time after years of not seeing you. Billy Hargrove is a great kisser. It's passionate at times and gentle at others. Oftentimes he's stronger than he realizes, but he's never hurt you.

You feel him bite your lip, and you squeeze his shoulder hard, pulling back.

"You're trying to distract me," you breathe out, trying to catch your breathe.

There's a heat deep in your lower body, in your stomach, and your face feels a tad warm. He knows what he's doing, he always does. But you won't let him get away with trying to distract you- besides, making him wait grants a better reward, for you and him both.

"I don't need to try babe," his eyes have a glint in them and you push his back as you sit up straighter.

"Okay Prince Charming," you role your eyes and bring your hands to his head, feeling the curls in his hair.

Billy's got a mullet; a ever popular hairstyle at the moment, but his looks better than others you've seen. He's also got a natural wave and some curl to his hair. He uses a curling iron on it too sometimes to really accentuate the curls.

He could always try to get a perm, but it was something in the back of his mind. He was fine right now doing what he was used to. Besides- who knew better about how much curl or wave he wanted than himself?

Pouring a bit of leave in conditioner into the palm of your hand, you slap them together to coat both of your hands before running them through his hair again. Your fingers tangle into his locks and you can already see the natural curl and wave in his hair. It's thicker at the root and thins out a bit at the ends.

With it damp like it was, it looked brown rather than the dirty blonde/brown you're used to seeing. His hair is beautiful, and you're unafraid to let him know so.

"Your hair is so beautiful Billy," you say with a smile that can be heard in your voice "Beautiful just like you are."

Billy's not used to being called beautiful. It's not a word people commonly use on him. Hot, yes, sexy, of course. Beautiful, no.

Yet you always seem so keen on using the word on him. At first, he'd always push back and claim that a word like that was meant for the likes of you, not him. Just call him sexy like everyone else did.

But you were insistent. You always were. And you'd brush him off and do it anyways. And soon, the word began to have a different meaning to him. A word that he associated with you. He wasn't sure if he thought himself beautiful but he knew you were and to you he was.

It always managed to make him feel something in his chest, that was for sure.

"Jesus, can't you call me hot, or some shit?" Billy bites out, but there's no malice in his words. More so, he sounds akin to a petulant child in that moment.

You suppose he's never had a chance to really be a child in his whole life. Never been taken care of, or babied.

So of course you'd do it for him now.

"You are hot," you make a sizzling noise with your mouth as you pull your hands from his hair, "but you're also beautiful."

"Glad you know."

It quiets down from there, a gentle lull in conversation is peaceful and welcome. Sometimes, Billy can be so loud (and as he likes to tell you, you can be especially loud when you're alone with him) and he can play loud music and get angry. But he likes the silence sometimes- only with you- because when he's alone, it's the music that blocks out his darker thoughts and his father's words.

But with you, the silence is safe.

Your hands pick up the heat protector Billy has on his bedside table and you spritz it a few times in the air to see that it's working, making Billy grab it.

"That shits expensive," he says before he starts spraying it into his hair himself.

"Alright, alright, I'll buy you a new one for your birthday- stop, I'm supposed to be doing this!"

With a quickness you grab the bottle back from his hands and spray his hair once more at the back before putting the bottle back on the table.

You're the only one he let's do these things.

Once that's done you run your hands through his hair again, half because you want to feel his hair again and have to make sure the product is everywhere.

You can feel it; the way his body relaxes just a smidge as you place your hands into his hair, playing with his locks and massaging his scalp. Compared to when you started, his body has loosened, his back is not as stiff- he's actually somewhat slouched, and his shoulders are too.

Moving to crawl across his bed, you grab the hair dryer and curler to really get to work on his locks. As you plug the former in, Billy looks at you, just drinking you in in those simple and quiet moments.

He's fucking whipped for you, and at one point in his life, that terrified him. It still did sometimes. But only because he'd never felt that way before. And he didn't want to ruin you.

Soon his hair is dry and your moving onto the curler.

His natural hair is already wavy as it is, and he's got some natural curls- especially on the nap of his neck he has what you called baby curls. You pull on them lightly, tug them, and you're doing it on purpose because soon Billy's large hand is grasping yours from behind and you're giggling.

"You're like a fucking child," he squeezes your hand, not enough to hurt you, but he's always been more heavy handed than most, "You're not touching my goddamn hair again if you don't stop."

"Your baby curls are so cute," you smile- removing your hand from his grip and placing both of your hands on either side of his head, tilting it back to look up at you.

He's always had the most beautiful eyes. Blue, clear, piercing.

Beautiful.

You gingerly place your lips against his as you lean forward. But he kisses back less gently, more needy, and his hands are soon finding their way backwards to hold the side of your own head. The position is odd, but the passion is familiar.

But this time it's not you that pulls away, it's him. And you can't help but pout as he does so- his tongue jutting out to lick his lips before a Cheshire like smirk shows itself, beautiful white teeth making their appearance like a vampire.

"Well? We don't have all night," he's so snarky when he speaks, knowing what he's doing to you- in a battle of wit and playfulness, Billy is the master. He is always one step ahead of you. You can never win. He throws your actions back in your face- the ball in your side of the court but he's the one holding it.

You let out a hmph as you take the heated curler and begin the task of curling, ignoring the heat that pools in the depths of your stomach and the way you can still feel his lips on yours. And he sits there, shoulders hunched slightly; a tiny thing that you notice with a soft smile and a bittersweet happiness. For so long when you had first met him, he was always tense; even alone, he always seemed like he was wound tight. At first it was confusing, worrying, and your worrying was warranted when you found out about his father. Neil Hargrove was at the bottom of the bucket, not worth any of your time or energy. Only ever worth the energy if you were trying to protect Billy.

He tells you to leave it alone. But you would never sit there and let him get shoved around in front of you. Something his mom should've been there to stop, you were trying to stop instead.

But now, he relaxes his shoulders, slumps his body lazily, when you're with him alone he is all mush. Usually. Right now, you were both aware that Neil and his wife, Max's mother, were away for a weekend trip together or something like that, so he could be this way in his own home.

It breaks your heart to think about how every other time he was home, and Neil was too, he was wound tight; always on edge, always waiting. Wondered how he could sleep at night. (That was probably why he liked to take naps at your house whenever he was there.)

If you could, you would keep him with you at your house. Your parents didn't mind his presence and were privy to the knowledge about his father. It was inevitable they found out that his relationship with his father was less than stellar. The extent of their knowledge wasn't that deep however- because if they knew, they'd call the police.

You weren't opposed to that. But Billy was. Vehemently so. Claimed that if the police were involved, it would only get worse- not just on him, but on everyone involved (this was code word for Max, you knew it). Also told you that police had been called before, when he was younger, by a neighbour who had suspicions. But his father was a good actor. And the police didn't dig hard enough, try hard enough.

You tell him all the time when it comes up that Hopper is different than the police in California at least. Hopper is a good man, a man with morals, and a man you trusted and one who would take this seriously. And it is not just you talking out of your ass, trying to convince him- no, you know Hopper would take it seriously.

But it always falls on deaf ears. And you can't force him to do something he doesn't want. You've tried. So you relent. For now. Things are more calm than they've ever been with Billy and his father. It could be related to the time he spends at your home, not around enough for his father to start too much. It's not good. But he's not bruised up. So for now, you relent.

You do not want to make things worse.

"You should sleep over next week," you casually suggest as your hands move to curl another section of his hair, running your fingers through already finished curls to make them look more natural.

"I slept over last week," Billy says, one of his legs stretching out in front of him as his body further leans back, "Can't get enough of me?"

You wonder if he's aware of the reason you always ask him to sleep over at your home. Well, part of the reason. You enjoy his company, you enjoy falling asleep beside him, flush against his body because your bed is meant for one person, not two, and God forbid he stays on the ground to sleep or sleeps in the living room on the couch away from you. You enjoy waking up to see his beautiful golden touched skin from his time soaking up any of Hawkins sun, and you enjoy watching his face- calm and at ease, as he sleeps. Not worried, or on guard. Just calm.

The other half of your reasoning is to keep him away from his father when you can.

If hes aware of the secondary reasoning, he hasn't said anything. Or made indication of it. But you're positive he must know or have an idea, because Billy Hargrove is perceptive and he is smart, something people don't tend to realize. More the fools they are.

"I'd just die without you," you playfully respond, (though you aren't sure how playful it is when you think about losing him- it horrifies you and you don't know what you'd do) as you turn the curling iron off, setting it aside to cool down before it can be put away. You run your fingers through his hair again, lightly pulling curls and brushing through them so they're not so perfect and the blend. So they look natural.

It isn't hard. Billy's hair is amazing. And you're not so bad at doing hair yourself, you remind yourself with a smug grin. Your hair was tended to nicely and you took pride in the curls and coils.

"I know," he scoffs, letting your fingers massage his scalp, "I'll think about it."

You smile softly. As much as you try to keep him at your place, you could never force him to do it. It was up to him when he would accept the offers or show up randomly for a night or two. He was independent. And you knew that was a part of him that he cherished and held onto tightly; the independence to choose to come over, the independence to own something like his camaro. His father took a lot from him, made him feel small- you would never take away his freedom to choose, never make him feel small. Never make him feel like you wanted to force him to do anything.

"All finished... My mom is making those cookies you like by the way," you tease, tugging on his hair, "the ones with those tiny peanut butter-"

"Cups in the middle," he finishes sharply, suddenly pulling himself away from your soft fingers in his hair. He flips himself to face you in a quick motion, a devilish look on his face as he surprises you with his sudden movement- pushing you down against his bed- his body pressed against yours as his face is so close you can feel his warm breathe fan across your lips, "trying to bribe me is a shit tactic. Won't work."

You roll your eyes, but you know he loves your mothers cooking. But you really aren't bribing him. Just a little, jokingly- he knows this too. He knows you.

"I know," you wiggle beneath him, trying to make yourself more comfortable. He rests his entire weight onto you, and it feels like you're covered in a weighted blanket, "she always leaves some aside for you anyways. Sometimes I think she likes you more than me."

Your mom adores Billy. Tries to baby him when she can. And at first that made you nervous; afraid of how he might react to it. He was wary at first but he took it well. He was charming, and good at making people like him. And you thought perhaps he secretly liked having someone try to mother him. Maybe it made him feel safe. Or happy.

"Of course she does, I mean, look at me."

It sounds so funny coming from him. He's referring to his good looks- and how Nancy Wheelers mom had tried to hit on him before.

"Don't be gross," you push down against his shoulders, not doing much to change your position or deter him. If anything it makes him worse.

But this time he relents, if only to get a look at his hair. When he looks in his mirror, you wait with bated breathe, still laying on his bed from where he'd been on top of you and pushed you there- but

His lips catch yours, hungry. He forces his tongue into your mouth, though it doesn't take him. It never does. He's intense and he isn't letting up; his hands move to dig into your hips, pushing your body deeper into his bed.

Billy's body stops resting on top of yours so heavily as he moves, placing one of his knees between your legs, and heading straight for your neck.

He always knows what to do. How to make you feel good in any situation. He's not even giving you a chance go breathe. You squeeze his biceps with your hands suddenly, letting him know you need him to stop for a moment. His baby blues look into your eyes with mild annoyance.

"Don't you want to look at your hair?" You manage to say as you catch your breath, "see if I... Messed it up?"

He looks at you in silence for a few moments, his face deadpan; too void of emotions for you to pinpoint what he's thinking. His eyes search your face and flicker from them to your own curly, thick hair and his tongue darts out from between his lips unconsciously to wet them. He breathes through his nose.

"Nah," he brings himself close to your face again, a small tilt in the corner of his mouth, "I trust you."

#billy hargrove #billy hargrove x reader #billy hargrove fanfiction #mine #stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #stranger things x reader #my writing #amy writes

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highhhfiveee · 4 months

Text

smoke break

here ye here ye i'm having satoru gojo thots o_0

pairing: line!cook satoru gojo x blackfem!reader summary: workplace relations were always a no, yet, that doesn’t stop satoru gojo from falling for the new waitress. wc: 2k tags: fluff [nothing suggestive, no smut, just pure CUTENESS]! non-curse au, line cook!satoru gojo, BOH shift lead!ryomen sukuna [LMAO], f!reader. cigarette smoking occurs. also i've seen the bear but all of my kitchen knowledge comes from my own work in kitchens and restaurants. this is slightly [highly] self-in[dulgent]sert lmao. a/n: y'all, okay. i’ve been writing part five of safety net but i CANNOT get this fucking thought out of my head cause i’ve been watching jujutsu kaisen and i am obsessed 😭 not only with the show, but the world, characters and everything [the big three is my family fr i don’t play ab them]. IN SAYING THAT, i was at work one day and boop! in my head pops a non-curse au of line cook!gojo. when i told my roommate this, they looked at me like i was certifiably insane because “there is nothing attractive about line cooks” [see exhibit A] but please please PLEASE Y’ALL HEAR ME OUT! Y’ALL ARE THE ONLY ONES WHO WILL UNDERSTAND!

like imagine being the new girl at your job, a diner-style restaurant parked dead center in a high traffic plaza on the outskirts of the city, and even though you swore you’d never work in food service again after leaving your previous hellhole of employment, of course you find yourself walking up to the employee entrance rehearsing your script.

“hi! my name is y/n, i’ll be your server today….hi! my name is y/n, i’ll be taking care of you today…howdy, i’m y/n…ugh, really? fucking howdy?”

you’re so caught up in your perfect waitress greetings, staring down at your non-slippable feet when you crash into someone [a tree] wearing all black exiting the bathroom corridor.

he’s so tall that only his torso knocks into your shoulders, jolting your step and causing you to lose your footing.

you’re squealing out a million things; gibberish because you’re falling, “i’m so sorry!” for not paying attention, and…”thank you,” rather quietly as you feel a strong arm keeping you from crumbling onto yourself.

the movement is quick, so light that you’re not sure if he actually helped you up or if you’d just levitated back to your feet; either way, you’re silent as he stares down at you with the brightest blue eyes you’d ever seen, a glint in them that matches the small smirk pulling on the corner of his mouth.

“careful now,” he playfully chastises, running a hand through his platinum blonde hair as he walks away from your frozen frame, his stride as confident as ever as he turns the corner to the kitchen.

you shake your head softly, knowing that you shouldn't think too much into the interaction. it was short, one, and two, if your years of work in this industry taught you anything, it was not to get involved with anyone that worked in the kitchen. front of house and back of house didn't mix, not that way.

you're grateful that you're not even able to think about it after you clock in, your brain unable to process your racing thoughts of gojo’s touch and the millions of tables that you’ve had to take; order after order after order stacks up against the feeling of his arm around your waist and a few hours into your shift, it becomes a passing memory.

while you’re not able to see gojo with the amount of back and forth you’re doing, he’s able to take you in in all your beautiful glory.

you’re wearing the usual all black: a button down that shows off a mole on your collarbone and well-fitting black slacks. your hair is thrown back into a slick ponytail, your black and white scrunchie nearly concealed by the sheer amount of dark brown curls it contained. little flyway ringlets frame your eyes, wide, brown pools that gojo knows will be impossible not to melt into; though he’s observed you for most of his shift, top to bottom, your lips captivate him the most.

full, bow-shaped and painted powdery red, he nearly burns himself on the grill watching you take someone’s order, a tinge jealous of the warm, genuine smile you give them.

“yo, ‘jo. focus! we got, like, eight cheesesteaks all day and you’re over there gawkin’ like a dumbass. look, the meats’ burnt!” he remembers where he is and what he's doing, senses prickling at the calls of "corner!" and "hot!" and the sound and smell of food cooking all around him.

“shut the fuck up, ryo….and it’s not burnt!” gojo sharply retaliates, looking down to the profoundly browned shaved steak. he grabs for his spatula, ignoring ryomen’s dickish chuckles behind him. “shit.”

he manages to focus somewhat, knocking out a few more hours of his shift without letting his eyes wander over to your slim frame as you shimmy between tables, or his ears catch the soft lilt of your voice as you ask someone what they'd like their side to be.

he tucks you into the back of his mind, keeping your presence within as small as he possibly can.

you’re still in residence up there when he takes his first [third] smoke break, stepping out back. he can still hear the plain muzak from inside reverberating against the insulation, the open and closing of car doors all over the plaza, and the rattle of the wind through the chain link fence that keeps him separated from the world 10 hours a day.

all he can do is sigh at the monotony of it all, leaning against the bricks while he fishes his cigarette carton from his back pocket.

deep down, he knows he should quit. he could count the number of people that have asked him to quit on both hands, but always waved off their concerns. there was nothing better to calm his nerves, or help relieve the agitation he felt from working with ryomen, friend or not.

he’d always said that a cigarette or four a day wouldn’t kill him, though he wasn’t sure why he always chose to tell such a boldfaced lie.

he snakes a cig between his lips, grabbing for his lighter and closing his eyes before that crackle he knows all too well fills the void around him.

not seeing the end of the cigarette flame red is another lie on gojo’s part; if he can’t see the chemical reaction working to activate the toxic substances, there’s no damage he can do to himself.

it’s illogical, once again, though it’s his own logic, and to him, it makes sense.

“my dad used to do the same thing,” gojo’s eyes fly open, his breath catching in his throat as he glances at you, your hand pressed against the cracked door. you give him a little smile before fully stepping out into the breezy summer air, taking a deep breath. “you light the cigarette with your eyes closed so you can fool yourself into thinking that you’re not actually harming yourself.”

gojo exhales smoke, watching with careful eyes as you pace before him. you catch his stare, blinking slowly before saying, “he lived by that until he didn’t.”

if he didn't know any better, he would've thought you were a completely different girl from the one he'd bumped into this morning; then, you'd seemed so reserved, so meek, but now, he realizes that he'd like to get to know the real you. he was sure you didn’t even know his name, but here you were, condemning his MO like it was your place.

he hated anyone telling him off, even slightly, but he found himself more than willing to hear you out; more than willing to let you do it again and again and again.

“you come out here jus' to scold me?”

“no,” you answer plainly, coming to a stop just a few inches from him. “i came to smoke too, but my pack was empty. i asked someone in the kitchen for one….who was it…oh! ryo said he didn’t have any, and that i should come out here and ask satoru."

gojo’s heart skips a small beat at you using his first name instead of his last; he forbade anyone he didn’t know from using it, ryomen knew that, but of course he’d play these juvenile games. gojo could see the shit-eating grin plastered over his face now, his full laugh radiating throughout the kitchen at his scheme.

“i assume you're satoru, unless he was just messing with me.”

"don't mind him. he's a dickhead," gojo swears, deliberating on how he's gonna make ryo pay for this as he begins to reach for his pack again. he's not expecting you to stop him with a gentle touch to the wrist, though.

“oh no, i don’t need a full one….is it okay if we share yours?”

gojo nods, silent and alert as your fingers glide against his in order to slip the cigarette to your grasp. he nearly closes his hand around yours, embarrassingly.

you take your first drag with a hum, your eyelashes fluttering as you turn to the sunset and exhale with no effort, no cough.

“i don’t usually smoke whole cigarettes. i go through maybe…two in a day? a couple hits here and there is usually enough to get me through."

“this must be your first food service job then.”

“try sixth,” you respond jadedly. you take another hit, and another, and another, and gojo doesn’t even mind that you’ve seemingly forgotten to pass the cigarette back to him. he can tell that you're lost in the tale you're telling, and he wants to keep you there with him. “i’ve been through my chain smoking days, trust me. seeing what happened to my dad definitely made me assess whether a pack a day was really worth it.”

with the mention of your nicotine journey, he begins to hear the scratch in your voice, noticeable more when you’re talking in this low, casual tone. as unfortunate as it is, its method of fruition, gojo can’t help but think about how sexy you sound and how he'd listen to you talk about anything if it always came out like that.

“why not quit then?”

you giggle, throwing gojo a pointed look that makes him want to swallow you whole. you purse your lips, ready to challenge him with your response.

“we all have our vices, don’t we?”

gojo returns your laugh, standing to his full height. he crosses his arms across his chest as he stares down at you staring up at him. your height difference is almost laughable, with your head barely even reaching his shoulders.

his mind begins to wander to X-rated places as you take your spot on the wall beside him, allowing the wind to graze your skin and create a conversation between the two of you that requires no words.

“shit!” you snap after a while, looking to the now small cigarette between your index and middle finger. “i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to smoke so much of it.”

“’s all good. maybe...you’ve convinced me to smoke in moderation.”

you give him that smile, warm and genuine, and his heart flips again as you slip the remnant of his cig back into his palm, letting your fingertips linger for just a moment longer than you should.

“maybe…i’ll have to hold you to that, satoru.” you dust your hands off on your pants before poising yourself to return to the hustle and bustle of the dinner rush. “i’m y/n, by the way. it’s nice to meet you. thanks for the smoke, andcatching me earlier, as embarrassing as that was."

“i’ve seen worse,” he reassures, but while he'd seen much, much worse, he was positive that he had never witnessed anything better than you. even in the small, nearly six hour window that he’d known you, he's unwaveringly sure that you’re his heaven personified.

“i’d hate to know what’s worse, but then again…if that means i get to talk to you, maybe i don’t.” you give him a wink, an actual good one, and he nearly drops to his knees, uncharacteristically ready to wholly give himself over to you.

you give him one more smile and a wave before leaving him alone, his brain alternating between reeling and shutting down.

he looks down to the filter in his palm, chuckling at the negligible amount of tobacco you left for him. he’s about to toss it into the stack of other disregarded butts as routine calls for when he notices the red marks smeared all over it.

he holds it a bit closer to his face, examining the soft, messy lipstick stains you’ve left behind. it’s art, something he thinks should be showcased in the MoMA or The Louvre, titled how satoru gojo fell in love.

while he wouldn't be able to get it to either of those places anytime soon, he decides that behind his ear works as a close third, and finishes the rest of his shift with that reminder of you close to him.

LIKE ISNT THIS SO CUTE????? I HAVE SO MANY IDEAS, PLEASE OMG! I PLAN TO CONTINUE THIS AU BUT PLEASE SEND ME YOUR JJK REQS!

faire's seedlings ✿

@leahdhopkins4321-@pyr0-kai-@angstywhore-@sunazroo-@nyxthoughtss-@mirophobic-@fayethor-@marixsimps-@regretfulme-@ithinkitszeph-@707xn-@cattt777-@violetta-ximena-@amnesia33-@topnerd03-@fastnights-@laprvphette-@savage-aespa-@mfdxz-@0-tatiana-0-@dusstory-@delwrites-@mikeschmidtgf-@jun1p3rlol-@xyzstar-@aquamarine001-@atrociouslybear-@ickleronniekinsemotionalrange

*exhibit A

i love you all 🫶

#jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #jujutsu gojo #faire is writing stuff #faire says #my man my man my man #faire's (line cook) satoru gojo <3 #jjk fic #jjk fanfic

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