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cherrychilli · 1 year ago

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18+ Perv! Steve Harrington x Perv! reader, F reader, friends to lovers, scent kink, reader being a bit of a creep but Steve's into it because duh, masturbation (f) sexual acts in public, mentions of and allusions to oral sex (f)

WC: 5K

A/N: I was going to split this into two parts but fuck it. Two for one special. Still feeling rusty when it comes to writing so go easy on me, yeah? Also, this one's kind of gross at times. Just a little bit. Nothing extreme but just letting you know incase you're someone who gets squeamish easily. Enjoy!

The hair? sure. Everyone liked his hair.

People usually fell into two camps when it came to Steve Harrington's signature do; either they envied it or they hoped to be one of the lucky ones who got to run their fingers through it.

You used to daydream about the latter when you only knew him from afar but now that he no longer ran with a particular kind of crowd, now that he's just Steve and no longer the King, you managed to get close enough to find out that he smelled nice too.

Really nice.

So, figuring out that he used women's shampoo shouldn't have been the revelation that it was because it made so much sense, his tresses never scented with a wintry pine or spicy cedarwood like most scent profiles marketed to men.

You had your friends to thank for your stumbling upon that discovery, the group of them arriving at your home to bully you out of your PJ's and into a pair of jeans and shoes, uprooting you from your room on a Saturday afternoon for an outing to the fancy part of the mall.

While they searched for new make-up, you wandered a section of the store by yourself, uncapping the pretty bottles in the hair care aisle whenever the sales assistants' attention wandered elsewhere, squeezing each one carefully to sample the array of scents. You did this idly and with no real plans to purchase anything, just something to pass the time while your friends crowded another display a few aisles away, chattering blissfully and swatching lipsticks.

Picking up a fifth shampoo from the lineup of bottles, you brought the uncapped rim up to your face, lightly skimming your cupids bow with it as you gently inhaled. While fun, you'd spent most of your time at the mall feeling a little bored, a small part of you still desiring to go back home where you could lounge and laze in peace. That was until you began to recognize the scent of the newest shampoo you had clutched in your hand, the familiarity of it triggering a whirlpool of memories.

In seconds, your mind plunged back to the night of Jack Sullivan's graduation party. The first time Steve Harrington had spoken to you – really spoken to you since he’d parted ways with Carol and Tommy, seeming much more approachable than he had in the past.

The two of you had ended up sharing the patio swing outside where the air wasn't as thick with smoke and the smell of spilled booze. Making conversation, he offered you a beer he'd originally intended to give Robin before she'd slipped away into one of the guest bathrooms with your best friend Sally. You both knew why, sharing a look of understanding but never mentioning the obvious out loud out of loyalty to your friends.

Then there was the only day it rained in July, remembering the way your fingers brushed against his as you handed him your umbrella. You'd discovered him taking refuge under the awning of the diner you worked at that morning, face twisted all worrisome as he looked up from his wristwatch to the downpour in front of him, forced into walking to work that day due to his car still being in the shop. The only light that shone that day was the gleaming smile he gave you when he thanked you for your kindness.

And then there was the time when you had your head down while scanning a tape at Family Video, bumping face first into Steve's chest when you rounded the corner, his name tag catching on your bottom lip. It was the tiniest sliver of a cut, barely noticeable or painful but oh, how he fussed over you like you were made of porcelain. He’d gone so far as to sit you down on his chair behind the counter as if you might collapse from blood loss at any moment, whizzing into the break room and back with a fist full of napkins to dab the miniscule wound that had already stopped bleeding.

All of those memories and more linked by one scent. This scent.

With your pupils dilating like a cat prepared to pounce, you flipped the bottle over to read the contents.

White frangipani blossoms, toasted coconut, bergamot waters, sea salt breeze and sunkissed musk.

Steve Harrington in a bottle. And the quickest 16 dollars you've ever spent.

And with that purchase came the self-imposed reminder to exercise caution. Upon leaving the mall with your friends, your mood much chipper than when you'd arrived, you made sure to hardly ever use the shampoo when you bathed, afraid that if Steve smelled it on you later, somehow, he'd be able to put the pieces together and know why you'd bought it, even as wildly unlikely as that seemed.

So instead, you huffed the bottle in private on most days, only using it when you knew you'd be spending the day at home. On those eagerly awaited days you luxuriated in the scent as you applied the shampoo in your shower, mind and fingers wandering, working your peaked nipples and your firm clit up to the thought of Steve joining you in your shower and fucking you dumb – tits pressed up against the cold, wet tiles, ass bouncing on his hips as he stretched you open and used you well.

But now that you'd discovered this new kind of hunger you had to make sure to keep it well fed and when the shampoo didn't feel like enough anymore, you set out to purchase his cologne.

The scent was one you had memorized from all of your trips to the video store, hanging around the counter while Steve talked to you about which movie you ought to rent next. You could smell it on his neck whenever he leaned in close on his elbows, face inches away from yours, wishing he'd close the distance and meet your lips with his.

Another trip to the mall had you scouring the men's section like a wolf tracking the scent of injured prey, sampling bottle after bottle of cologne until you found it.

Aromatic sage, dark tonka bean and rich sandalwood. Priced at a cool $39.50 which you gladly forked over because to you, it was all money well spent.

The cologne became part of your nightly routine after that, dabbing drops of the heady scent on your body when you went to bed, the smell making your arousal climb before lulling you to sleep an orgasm later, evoking dreams of Steve throughout the night that made you wake up to your panties all damp and sticking to your core by morning.

You were content that way, the shampoo and the cologne enough to satiate your fixation on the way Steve smelled all while managing to maintain your friendship with him without things becoming weird.

What ended up shattering that peace however was running into him a few weeks later coming out of the Y, just done with a game of basketball as he spotted you passing by and happily waved you down.

He smiled at you just as brightly as he had all those months ago in July, this time dressed in his gym clothes; a pair of green shorts that showed off the thickness of his toned, hairy thighs and a grey t-shirt, the sleeves filled out well by his tanned biceps and its collar darkened by sweat.

Up close, you could smell the exertion on him and that was what became your undoing.

It took every iota of self-control not to rush him to the ground and pin him beneath you, feeling more and more like a caged animal the longer the conversation went on and you were forced to compose yourself.

It was the kind of scent you wanted to sink into, more so than the cologne or the shampoo because this was Steve completely unadulterated – that earthy musk, that rugged, almost spicy all-natural scent that you wouldn't be able to find on any shelf.

Barely managing to hold it together until parting ways with him, you knew you wouldn't be able to rest without it, mind already working to devise a plan.

"Risve- what?"

You chuckled as the word died on Steve's tongue, knowing he'd trip up on the pronunciation. Reaching for a pen and a scrap of paper sitting on the counter, you wrote the word down for him. "Risvegli. It's Italian", you explain, handing it to him as you do your best to repress the shiver that runs through you when his slender fingers graze yours, trying hard to quieten your mind after all the ways you’ve imagined those very fingers touching you in your most sensitive places.

"It's kind of an obscure flick but I like that sort of stuff. D'you think you could have a look and see if you've got a copy in the back?", you try not to bat your lashes too much when you ask, not wanting to overplay the sweetness to the point that it comes off as insincere or worse, suspicious.

Steve looks down to study the paper, cheeks dusted a pretty pink, you can’t help but notice. The ends of his hair are still damp from his shower at the Y, just as you expected now that you knew which days he spent there before clocking in for work.

"For you? Definitely", he looked back up and smiled at you in that way that made your heart somersault. "Be right back". He leaves you alone at the counter and you make sure to wait for him to disappear out of sight into the back, stamping down a flash of guilt for having sent him off to search for a movie that didn't exist to buy you time.

You'd planned it all last night, stepping away from the counter before heading towards the employee break room, able to sneak in without fear of running into Robin because you knew she'd be spending the day with Sally on her day off from working at the diner.

Steve’s duffle bag is in plain view as you shut the door to the little room behind you quietly, resting on a chair that'd been pulled out from the table where you imagined he probably shared his lunch breaks with Robin.

Striding up to it, you find the zipper and tentatively, you pull it open to reveal the contents. What you're looking for is balled up at the very top, picking up the sweat damp t-shirt with clammy, trembling fingers. You're really crossing a line this time and you know it, your teeth close to piercing the soft skin of your bottom lip as you bite down on it but you can't deny that there's just something so exhilarating about the whole thing too. The lying, the sneaking around, the risk – it's all a little too much and your mind grows foggy with it, dulling your once sharp intuition and giving way to a moment of weakness that has you abandoning caution now that you're alone.

Waiting to do indulge your urges until you're safe at home feels impossible now that you've got your hands on it, eagerly pressing your nose into the damp t-shirt, eyes nearly rolling back as you filled your lungs with the smell of him. It must have been the pheromones, it had to be, awakening that primal kind of desire in you that had you parting your lips and pressing the tip of your tongue to one of the sweat stains, sucking on the sour, salty musk that had soaked into the cotton.

What you're doing is so dirty, damn near repulsive and knowing that just fuels you even more as you begin to salivate. You're too wrapped up in the earthy scent of him, too lost in the taste to notice when the door handle jiggles behind you, too drunk on the sick thought of what Steve’s used boxers must smell like if you were to pull those out of his duffle next when all of a sudden, it's too late.

The door to the break room swings open and in walks Steve, the world screeching to a sickening standstill when his eyes fall on you.

Your own eyes bulging, you watch in mute horror as he takes in the sight before him, the scrap of paper you'd handed him earlier slipping from between his thumb and forefinger, fluttering to the floor like the wings of a dying butterfly.

It's impossible to know what he's thinking. Is it disgust? if so, he hid it well. Bewilderment? You weren't sure. Ice crackles over your bones as the two of you stare for a few seconds longer, Steve's expression still unreadable.

The whole thing's all the more uncomfortable because of the way he continues to watch you like you’re something to be studied, looking contemplative as you trembled in place, wishing for the ground to break open beneath your feet and swallow you away into a never-ending crevasse.

But as the seconds tick by and the ground stays perfectly intact you're left to seek your own respite.

Despite what feels like the blood retreating from your veins, your body shifts into auto pilot as you wordlessly place the rumpled t-shirt back in Steve's duffel and do the only thing you can do in a fucked up situation like this – walk away. Even as he tries to call after you, you ignore his shouts, continuing on a path towards and out the exit, mortified.

You don't go back to Family Video after that. In fact, you avoid that entire street for a whole week.

The days following being caught out by Steve were some of the worst you've had to endure. Shame made a home in your body, making you ache with a belly full of thorns and your thoughts growing increasingly heavy and abrasive as they flood your throbbing head.

For those seven days you carried around the dread of knowing that Steve had discovered that secret side of you, the feeling worsening at the thought of him telling others what he had seen and rendering you some kind of town pariah – even though a tiny, hopeful whisper inside your raucous head told you that he probably hadn't said anything, at least not yet since Sally hadn't even seemed to have gotten word of the incident from Robin.

But that's all it was. A tiny, fleeting whisper that did nothing to calm you.

At home, you buried yourself in your blankets, letting your anxieties exhaust you to sleep and at work you moved as if you were fighting your way through thick slurry – slow and dragging your body from table to table, unsmiling as you took patrons' meal orders and served them their food.

You continued like that all throughout your shift, waiting for the moment you could peel your polyester uniform off in favour of your own clothes and drive yourself home. With only 30 minutes left before closing, your shoulders which had been pulled tight all day with tension began to sag, a momentary wash of relief coursing through you. That was until you smelled it – smelled him.

Whipping around, your stomach plummets when your eyes fall on Steve walking through the door – and to make things worse, he’s carrying that duffle on his shoulder.

He's yet to have spotted you, taking a seat at one of the empty booths though you notice the way his eyes are scanning the diner, searching.

It's obvious that you’re the one he’s looking for as worry courses down your spine like a lightning strike. Was he going to confront you? right here? in front of all these people? Normally you wouldn’t peg Steve as someone who’d do something so cruel but after what he’d caught you doing, a little public humiliation doesn’t seem all that undeserved, you had to admit.

So, carefully you retreat into the breakroom without drawing his attention, pulling a perplexed Sally along with you once you'd caught hold of her by her elbow.

Once safely inside, you all but blubber in her face, begging her to wait on Steve's table, even promising her all your tips for the next week in exchange.

Seeing the distress contorting your face must have made her feel sorry for you because she pulls you in for a quick, tight hug, running her hand up and down your back in an attempt to calm you. You'd only given her little snippets of what had happened at the video store, making sure to alter a few details for the sake of concealing how far you’d actually gone that day. To her, the gist of it was that you'd embarrassed yourself horribly and that was all she really needed to know, springing into action as the compassionate best friend to the rescue.

"I've got it, okay? just breathe", she'd repeated soothingly into your hair, giving you a quick squeeze and her best reassuring smile before you reluctantly unwind your hands from around her, allowing her to step out of the break room ahead of you.

Outside again, thirty minutes drag on like hours while you purposely stick to the part of the diner that's furthest away from Steve's table. You don't dare look at him but you do sneak a glance when Sally walks by with his order, a single black coffee and nothing else which he sips leisurely while you tremble.

If his plan was to confront you then what the hell was he waiting for? There was nothing stopping him from walking up to you while sweat collects between your shoulder blades as you clear the tables of customers who’ve settled their bill and since left. Nothing to prevent him from stepping up to the counter while you nervously rubbed the surface of it free of crumbs and stains to demand an explanation for your bizarre behavior last week. Nothing to stop him from simply walking up to you at any moment and ask to know what the fuck your deal was.

But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he finishes his coffee and casually waves down Sally for the bill while smiling politely. Somehow that causes you even more unease.

In that moment you lose sight of Steve when you’re called over to serve the only other table of customers left, a family of five keen to fit in one last round of milkshakes before they call an end to their meal.

You see to their order despite your shaking limbs, returning with a tray crowded with the cold, sweet drinks, setting each one down carefully in front of the smiling children and their parents before you head back behind the counter with your tray clutched close to your chest. The whole thing must have taken you ten minutes and when you sneak one more look in Steve’s direction you find his booth empty this time.

Eyes frantically searching the diner, you manage to catch a final glimpse of him walking out the front door, bell chiming above him as he departs, leaving the diner and you with even more questions than you had when he'd first arrived.

Had Steve changed his mind? Had he just wanted to make you sweat for the hell of it? Taken pleasure in watching you try to keep it together in his presence while you traipsed around the diner all too carefully like a petrified newborn deer?

Why had he shown up at all today if he wasn’t going to...do anything?

You get your answer fifteen minutes later when wearily, you trudge into the staff room at the end of your shift, pulling open your locker and all but fainting at the sight of what’s been placed inside beside your belongings.

Neatly folded inside is Steve's grey t-shirt, the same one you'd tried unsuccessfully to "borrow" last week The scent of him is instantly recognizable as you inhale shakily, fingers reaching out to touch the slightly damp cotton to confirm to yourself that you weren’t in fact hallucinating the whole thing.

When your pulse starts to settle and the static crackling in your ears starts to cease you notice a little scrap of folded paper placed inside too. Picking it up and pulling it open, it's with a deep, dreamy sigh that your chest blooms with sunny warmth as you read the note, a smile gracing your lips for the first time in a week.

Three months later...

The only good thing about working the graveyard shift at the diner was that Steve always insisted on coming in an hour before you clocked out so he could drive you home.

Occupying one of the booths inside the sleepy diner, he'd keep himself busy with his phone while you worked, perking up whenever you came by to freshen up his coffee or sneak him a piece of pie he hadn't ordered with all his favorite fixings.

It was during those moments that he liked to have a little fun with you, quickly surveying the room to make sure no customers or staff were looking over in your direction before he'd slip his fingers under your skirt and pinch your ass. Sometimes you'd see it coming and other times he'd catch you off guard, cruel delight curling his lips into a smirk whenever you had to stifle your surprised squeals.

And that's as far as he usually took, patiently waiting until he could get you in his car for more but today felt different.

With no new customers coming in in the last two hours, Sally had taken to the break room to work in a nap while the kitchen staff had stepped out back to smoke and deal cards to pass the time. That left just you working the front with Steve as the diner's only patron.

Having no one else around meant you could flirt freely with him now, making sure to look over your shoulder every now and then just incase to make sure you didn't get caught.

You spent that time alone together with his boot gently tapping against your shoe under the table, reaching out and fiddling with his fingers because you always liked to be touching him while you happily teased each other as the minutes passed by.

Somewhere in the middle of your playful banter you noticed Steve's cup was now empty, picking yourself up from the booth to bring over more coffee. As you leaned over the edge of the table to pour, you anticipated the glide of his fingers on your thigh, inching up your skirt to situate them between your legs.

"You're going to get me fired one of these days", you chide him, still holding on to the pot of coffee once you'd finished refilling his cup.

"Good – then I can have you all to myself", he teased back, index finger drawing patterns on your inner thigh, just a few inches below the lacy trim of your panties.

"Steve", you attempt to scold but there's barely any heat there for him to take it seriously, fingers daring to trail higher.

Meeting his heavy gaze, you watch him search your eyes for a moment, the soft smirk that had been tugging at the corner of his lips slowly fading away as something more serious clouds his expression when he leans forward to whisper to you.

"No one's around, baby. Please? Can I?"

It takes you a second before you know exactly what he's asking for without needing him to specify, heat rising up from the depths of your chest and gathering in your cheeks.

He's got that look in his eyes too and you know that this is what it must have looked like the day he caught you with your face buried in his sweaty t-shirt. That feverish glint of potent want making his iris' gleam.

"Steve, it's too risky", you try to reason quietly despite the way your thighs are already parting for him, allowing him to skim the pads of his fingers over the seat of your panties, teasing your waiting folds through the thin later of fabric.

"Never stopped you before", he's quick to reply with wink, making you grow warmer at the reminder.

He's got you beat there.

"I promise I'll be quick", he pleads again softly and it's almost comical how quickly you buckle under the weight of his needy gaze.

"Shit, okay", you concede as you step closer to the edge of the booth and he pulls himself closer too, hand moving higher to cup your ass under your skirt.

You sigh contently when Steve leans forward and presses his nose against the front of your uniform, right over the juncture between your legs. You're careful to keep your grip tight on the handle of the coffee pot you're still carrying when he takes in a deep breath, inhaling your scent right through your clothes.

Steve liked to joke that you brought out this side of him, the one that made the both of you realize how alike you really were.

It started with the way he liked to linger between your legs after he'd finished eating you out. Your ruined panties spilled out of his back pocket, never to be returned to you as he took his time pressing sweet kisses against your swollen folds and spent clit with his sticky lips, clearly pleased with himself as you fought to catch your breath from the orgasm that'd rippled through you.

And as things progressed, he wasn't secretive about wanting to fuck you so hard and often that the smell of you would linger in the air long after you were done. Or how he liked to nestle his nose in the curls on your mound once he'd finished laving at your pussy – the moreish combination of sweat, saliva and your natural musk making his twitching cock stiffen all over again as he rut into the mattress for a second time, painting his sticky boxers with another generous load.

Other times he'd get on his knees for you, pulling you close by your hips so he could place his face against your clothed cunt and mumble dreamy praises about how good your pussy smelled. And you always loved it when he got like that, even now as your free hand strokes lazily through his caramel hair, letting him do this to you in the middle of your place of work, your coworkers unaware but not far away enough that they couldn't walk in at any moment and find the two of you like this.

"Stevie", you whined softly as you tried to get his attention, a reluctant reminder that the two of you should probably stop before it's too late.

"Jus' a little more, please? need it to tide me over before I can get you alone". His eyes are all glazed over when he looks up at you, tentatively slipping his other hand up the front of your thigh to hitch up the hem of your skirt ever so slightly, his gaze all pleading as he waits for your permission.

With the way he's managed to work you up, your panties more that a little tacky from his attention and your belly tightening with warmth, how could you possibly refuse when you needed this just as badly as he did?

"Fuck. Yes, okay – just be careful", you urge gently because 'be quick' doesn't seem likely anymore.

A look of pure bliss breaks out on his reddening face. "Christ. Thank you, baby", Steve groans appreciatively, pushing your skirt up to expose your panties before burying his face against your clothed mound. He can feel the outline of your cunt perfectly when he's this close – so soft and plump, his mounting greed has him battling the urge to pull the soaked cotton down to your knees and start sucking the tangy slick from your pretty, swollen pussy lips before pressing deeper to lick at your tight hole and all it has to offer.

Restraining himself, he lets out a muffled moan against your core that has your clit swelling and throbbing, your eyes slipping shut while you give yourself to him. It's almost soothing the way he savors you so shamelessly, head partially ducked underneath your rucked up skirt, fingers gently squeezing your ass with his blunt nails making light indents in your skin.

You let him breathe you in for a while longer until you begin to feel a little floaty and more than a little needy from it all, expecting Steve to pull away soon because how much longer could you get away with doing this in public? Stopping him isn't what you want, not really but you knew better than to push your luck by now.

But instead of him reluctantly withdrawing away from you, what you feel next is the wet drag of his tongue along your messy panties, warm, firm and sudden.

Although definitely not unwelcome, under the circumstances, the feeling of it startles you and you can't help but cry out with a yelp, arm jerking backwards as a splash of coffee makes its way onto the checkered diner floor.

Hearts hammering, the both of you rip apart from each other then, Steve with his wide eyes and ruffled hair as he plasters himself to his seat while you very nearly lose what's left of your balance when your shoes skid over the wet mess of spilled coffee. You manage to catch yourself though when you grab the edge of his table with your free hand, finally placing the damn coffee pot down to hurriedly pull your skirt back into place.

Silence overtakes the room as the both of you peer wordlessly in the direction of the kitchen and breakroom, waiting to see if you'd accidentally drawn the attention of any nearby diner staff.

Seconds turn into a minute and when no one comes through either of the doors you allow yourself to sigh out in relief, turning back to Steve.

"Shit. I'm sorry I couldn't help it – had to taste you, honey. You just – fuck, you just smell so fucking good. I needed a little more", he tries to explain when your eyes connect, his cheeks sheened with a thin layer of perspiration and flushed a deep pink.

You were foolish to think you could let him do all of that and endure waiting until the end of your shift to take things further in his car. Leaving him with his lips parted and his jaw slack, you stride away to the diner's entrance to quickly flip the 'open' sign over to read 'closed', rushing back to tug Steve up and out of his seat urgently, grinning when you catch sight of the stiff bulge straining in his jeans.

"Supply closet. Now. Need you to put that mouth of yours to good use."

#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #stranger things smut #stranger things #steve harrington x reader

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wispitty · 2 months ago

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law x reader | “sugar & surgeons” {ch.1}

summary: you're an aspiring chef that never planned to end up on a submarine full of pirates. but after collapsing in the rain, you wake aboard the Polar Tang, surrounded by a crew that’s far more chaotic (and sweet) than you expected, alongside a certain captain with storm-grey eyes you can’t seem to decipher… or stop thinking about. tag list: law/you, corazon is alive and well and a member of the heart pirates au, slow burn romance, found family, food as love language, romcom vibes, happiness bc they fucking deserve it chapter list:

chapter one

Chapter 1: Cinnamon & Rain

The storm had crept in like a bad habit—quiet at first, but relentless in its persistence. Raindrops hissed against the cobblestones, soaking the narrow streets of the port town in a cold, unwelcoming sheen. The distant thrum of thunder rolled across the rooftops like a sigh of warning.

Corazon’s coat flapped heavily behind him, waterlogged and clinging to his frame. He muttered something half-hearted under his breath, not quite a curse, but far from cheerful.

This had been meant to be a simple errand. In, out, back to the ship with a restock of medical supplies and something warm to eat for the crew. Instead, he was soaked to the bone, the bakery had been closed, and the only thing he’d managed to pick up was an umbrella he forgot to open until after the rain started.

Brilliant.

He rounded the corner, boots splashing quietly through shallow puddles, and tugged the collar of his coat higher. The streets were mostly deserted now, save for flickering lanterns hanging beneath awnings and the occasional stray dog darting between crates. The town, in all its gloomy hush, almost felt asleep.

Until he collided with something—someone.

He staggered back a step, arms reflexively catching hold of what at first he thought was just a bundle of fabric. But it wasn’t. It was warm. Breathing. Trembling.

A young woman.

Corazon blinked, startled, looking down at the figure now cradled awkwardly in his arms. Her clothes were soaked, her hair plastered to her face, and she looked like she’d been out in the rain far longer than he had.

“Hey—” His voice cracked out of his throat, rusty from disuse. He cleared it and tried again, softer. “Hey. Are you alright?”

She stirred faintly at the sound, lips parting, her expression flickering with something between confusion and relief. Then her knees buckled fully.

Corazon caught her before she hit the ground.

A moment passed. The rain fell.

He knelt there in the street, her weight in his arms, heart thudding not from fear—but from a strange, quiet urgency he hadn’t felt in a long time. She wasn’t unconscious, not fully, but close. And burning up.

Fever.

Corazon shifted her in his arms, brow furrowing under the wet strands of his hair. He glanced down the street. The Polar Tang wasn’t far—just past the next dock. Law was still aboard, probably irritated that he hadn’t returned yet, but—

He looked at the woman again. She smelled faintly of sugar and spices, even soaked to the skin. Her hands were scratched. Fingernails stained with something—cinnamon?

A baker?

No. A cook, maybe.

What the hell were you doing out here?

He sighed and stood, adjusting her weight gently in his arms. Rain rolled down the side of his face, stinging against the cuts he'd gotten earlier from a smashed bottle. He ignored it.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered quietly, voice barely more than a breath. “Hang on.”

And with that, Corazon carried her through the rain.

Toward the ship. Toward safety.

Toward something none of them knew yet.

After about ten minutes, her breathing started getting worse.

Sharp, shallow gasps against his coat, each one shuddering like her body couldn’t decide whether it was hot or freezing. Her fingers curled lightly into the fabric at his collar, grasping at something—anything—to anchor herself.

Corazon’s boots pounded against the slick stone as he picked up his pace, arms tightening protectively around her trembling frame. She was still conscious, barely, but whatever had weakened her was setting in fast. And the storm wasn’t letting up.

Another crack of thunder split the sky, closer this time. Wind surged through the streets like a living thing, howling between buildings and slamming a nearby shutter open and shut.

He didn’t flinch. He couldn’t afford to.

“There, just a little more,” he whispered to her, though he wasn’t sure if she could hear. “Stay with me.”

The Polar Tang came into view—its clean yellow hull a comforting contrast against the dark storm. Crew members stood just outside the hatch, scrambling to secure tarps and equipment before the wind tore them loose. Two men in matching uniforms looked up when they heard the hurried footsteps. Their eyes widened.

“Rossi?!”

“Who’s that?!”

Corazon didn’t stop to answer. Rain streamed off his hair and down his face, his coat dragging like lead behind him as he barreled toward the ramp. His arms shifted her weight again instinctively, his voice raised—not panicked, but tight.

“She needs help. Get Law.”

The commotion brought more of the crew to the entryway, boots thudding, voices overlapping in confusion. A few of them backed up at the sight—Corazon, drenched, carrying someone unknown and clearly feverish.

The sight of him alone was enough to sound alarm bells.

“She’s burning up,” he said more firmly this time, breath hitching. “She collapsed—on the street—"

The crowd parted.

And Law stepped forward.

He was dry, composed, standing just inside the threshold with the lighting overhead casting shadows under his eyes. His coat was unbuttoned, a cup of untouched coffee in his hand. But the second he saw Corazon, soaked and wild-eyed, and the girl in his arms…

The mug was forgotten.

“Bring her in,” Law said sharply, voice already shifting into command.

The medical bay lights flickered on.

And Corazon—heart pounding, soaked to his bones, and still not letting go—finally crossed the threshold, never once loosening his grip.

The metal doors hissed open, the soft sterile glow of the Polar Tang’s infirmary spilling across the floor as Law strode in ahead of them. He’d already rolled his sleeves to the elbow, black gloves snapped on with clinical precision. The moment Corazon stepped through the threshold, the warmth hit like a wave—artificial but welcome.

“Put her on the table,” Law instructed calmly, pointing to the main med bay cot. He was already moving to the cabinets, grabbing supplies with practiced ease. “Bepo, start the vitals. Shachi, Penguin—blankets, towels, anything dry.”

“Aye!” “On it!”

Corazon didn’t say a word as he laid her down gently, water dripping from his coat onto the tile. He knelt at the edge of the bed for a moment longer, brushing her soaked hair from her face with fingers that were starting to tremble—from cold, probably. Probably.

Her brow was furrowed. Her lips parted. Her breathing, still shallow, rasped faintly with each inhale.

She looked… like hell. Yet, there was a softness to her face, even beneath the paleness and damp hair. Skin flushed with fever, lashes clumped from the rain. A bruise was forming at her knee from the fall, and a faint cinnamon scent still clung to her.

“Rossi,” Shachi’s voice broke through the hush, “you’re soaked. You’re gonna catch somethin’. Go change before you collapse too.”

Corazon blinked, barely registering the towel that had been shoved into his hands.

Bepo stepped between them, paws already checking her pulse and temperature. “She’s burning up. Fever’s been building for hours, maybe longer. Did she say anything?”

“No,” Corazon croaked, then cleared his throat. “Just collapsed. She was standing. Then—gone.”

“Then she’s lucky you found her,” Law muttered without looking up, focused entirely on inspecting her limbs, checking her responsiveness. His brows knit as he observed her condition. “There’s no sign of injury aside from the fall. This looks viral. Possibly exhaustion too—malnourished, dehydrated…”

He paused, glancing at her hands.

Small cuts, calluses. Fingertips stained faintly red-brown.

“…Cinnamon?”

Shachi peered closer. “Wait, is she a baker?”

“She smells like cookies,” Bepo offered, ears twitching.

Law didn’t reply, but his gaze lingered for just a second longer than it needed to. That's when your eyes fluttered open briefly, hazy and unfocused, and he caught the faintest glimpse of color—somewhere between honey and warm morning light—before they slipped closed again.

“Responds to light stimuli. That’s good.” He reached for an IV line. “Let’s stabilize her vitals, get her fluids—Penguin, prep antibiotics.”

“I’m serious, Rossi,” Shachi warned from behind. “You’re sneezing already. You’re not helpin’ anyone if you keel over.”

As if on cue, Corazon sneezed. Loudly.

“…That’s not a denial,” Penguin added, tossing him a dry shirt and a sour look. “Get your ass changed.”

Corazon, who had been hovering just out of Law’s way, reluctantly caught the clothes. His eyes never left her as he slowly backed toward the door.

“I’ll be right outside,” he murmured.

Law gave a curt nod without looking up.

The door slid shut behind him.

The room quieted—save for the steady beep of a monitor, the rustle of blankets, and the slow, strained breathing of a girl who smelled like warmth and sugar, even as she lay on the brink of breaking.

Law glanced down once more, his hands stilling slightly as he adjusted the IV line. For all her softness, there was something stubborn in her brow, something that made him pause.

“…What the hell were you doing out there?”

He didn’t expect an answer. But he waited.

Eventually, the rain began to soften outside.

It still pattered gently on the steel of the hull, rhythmic and distant like the lingering echo of a heartbeat. The ship had stilled with it—no rushing crew, no barking orders. Just a hush that settled over the halls of the Polar Tang like a blanket.

Corazon sat on the bench just outside the infirmary, now clad in dry sweats and a towel draped around his shoulders. His hair, still damp, clung lazily to his temples. A mug of tea rested untouched in his hands, the steam rising up to kiss his nose, but he didn’t drink.

He was listening.

Through the door, he could hear the soft beeps of the machines, the quiet shuffle of movement as Law wrapped up treatment. No alarms. No panic.

She was stable.

That alone made his shoulders ease slightly, though the knot in his chest refused to fully loosen.

The door opened with a soft hiss. Law stepped through first, removing his gloves with a snap. Bepo followed, giving a small nod and thumbs-up. Behind them, Shachi and Penguin trailed in with quieter footsteps.

“She’s asleep,” Law said flatly, coming to a stop across from Corazon. “Vitals have normalized. Fever’s still high, but under control.”

Corazon exhaled, just barely.

Bepo sat beside him with a warm sigh. “She’s lucky you found her when you did.”

“I didn’t find her,” Corazon muttered, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. “She found me. I turned a corner and—bam. Face full of cinnamon girl.”

“…Cinnamon girl?” Penguin repeated under his breath, exchanging a look with Shachi.

Law raised a brow. “You didn’t see anyone else?”

Corazon shook his head. “Just her. Standing in the middle of the street. She looked confused. Pale. Barely upright. Then she fell into me.”

“She might’ve been looking for help,” Bepo said gently.

“Or trying to get somewhere,” Shachi added. “Didn’t look like she had anything on her, though. No bag. No coat.”

“Yeah,” Penguin muttered. “Just soaked and barely breathing. She definitely wasn’t out there sightseeing.”

Law crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “We’ll need to ask her questions once she wakes up. For now, let her rest.”

Corazon nodded, but his brows tugged together.

“…She smelled like bread, Law,” he said suddenly. “Even through the rain. Not just cinnamon. Dough. Yeast. Butter. She must’ve been cooking.”

Law gave him a sour look. Bread, ew.

“I’m saying,” Corazon added, defensively, “she might be a chef. Or worked in a bakery. Something happened to her. Maybe she got caught in the storm trying to escape something.”

Law didn’t argue. He just sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Look, I’m not patching up a cinnamon-scented mystery girl just for you to adopt her, you know.”

“Well, duh. She’s not a stray cat.”

“You sure?” Penguin teased. “You already brought her home and wrapped her in a blanket.”

Corazon opened his mouth, then sneezed again.

“Get back in bed,” Law said flatly.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re always ‘fine’ until you faint in the hallway.”

Corazon grumbled but sank further into the bench. Bepo gently patted his arm.

Inside the med bay, the girl lay curled under thick blankets, color slowly returning to her cheeks. She didn’t stir—but a small crease remained between her brows, like her dreams hadn’t quite let her go.

Corazon’s gaze lingered on the closed door.

“She looked scared,” he said quietly. “Even before she collapsed.”

Law followed his line of sight, arms crossed again.

“Then let’s make sure,” he murmured, “she has no reason to be anymore.”

A few hours passed after that.

And the Polar Tang hummed gently, cradled in quiet waters.

The storm outside had faded to a light drizzle, barely audible against the hull. Inside the infirmary, the harsh white lights had been dimmed, casting the room in a calmer, warmer tone.

She was still asleep.

But this time, it looked peaceful.

Her brow had smoothed out. Her breathing had evened, soft and steady. A faint flush returned to her cheeks, the fever no longer raging but resting, like embers banked in a hearth. Her damp clothes had long since been changed into one of the med bay’s clean shirts, slightly oversized, the collar dipping off one shoulder.

She looked… better. Human again. Real.

Law stepped in first, his clipboard in hand, though he didn’t bother pretending to take notes. Corazon followed, this time dry, and significantly less sneezy. He’d left the towel behind but still had a faint halo of frizz around his head from letting his hair air-dry in true stubborn fashion.

Neither of them said anything at first.

They just stood there, a comfortable silence settling between them. The kind that came after everything had gone wrong… but then slowly started to go right.

The kind they were used to.

Law glanced down at the sleeping woman, his gaze scanning her face for any lingering signs of distress. None.

He didn’t realize how much tenser he’d been until his shoulders eased.

“She’s recovering well,” he murmured, voice low to avoid waking her. “Temperature’s nearly normal. Her immune system’s fighting back.”

He paused.

“…She’s stronger than she looks.”

Corazon stood at the edge of the bed, one hand in his coat pocket, the other lightly tapping against his thigh. His gaze was steady.

And then—softly, thoughtfully—

“She’s pretty, huh?”

Law blinked. Looked at him. Then scowled.

“That’s not medically relevant.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Corazon didn’t repeat himself.

He just tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving her sleeping form. His voice wasn’t teasing or flirtatious. It was just… honest.

Law followed his gaze. He looked again. Properly this time.

And now that he wasn’t in surgeon mode—now that the fever had broken and she was no longer clinging to life—he saw it too.

There was something warm about her. Even asleep. Even still pale and recovering. The roundness of her face, the soft lines, the faint crinkle of her lashes. The way her lips curved, just barely, like she was dreaming about something sweet.

“Hmph,” Law muttered. “Still not medically relevant.”

Corazon smiled faintly, a hand brushing over his damp bangs.

“And yet you haven’t disagreed.”

Law gave him a look.

“I’m just saying,” Corazon shrugged, sheepishly.

The girl stirred slightly, shifting beneath the blankets. One hand peeked out from under the covers—small, fingers twitching slightly, reaching toward the empty air beside her like she was searching for something in a dream.

Law stepped forward automatically, leaning in to check her pulse again, but her breathing stayed steady.

“She’ll wake soon,” he said.

Corazon nodded, glancing toward the corner of the room. “You want me to set out something for her to eat? She’ll be starving.”

Law hesitated.

“…Something light.”

“You got it.”

Corazon turned to go, a hint of his usual lopsided smile returning to his face.

“I think she’s gonna be alright,” he said quietly, more certain this time.

Law didn’t answer.

Just stood there a moment longer, watching the cinnamon-scented stranger sleep as the storm finally passed.

393 notes · View notes

sonotpattismith · 5 months ago

Text

savior complex

pairing: satoru gojo x reader word count: 9.6k content: manga spoilers, fluff in the beginning, angst, if gojo had survived, depression, feelings of worthlessness, hurt w/ comfort, smut, 18+ inspired by: would you fall in love with me again from epic the musical (my SHAYLAAA)

Gojo wasn’t sure that he’d had to try so hard at anything in his life— not as hard as he tried for you.

It took weeks after that first day that you’d transferred into Jujutsu High during his third year to even get you to look at him. And sure, he knew that his flirting was rusty given the fact that he’d… never done it, but he also knew he was a handsome guy, paired with his untouchable strength as a sorcerer (pun intended), and of course his sizable wealth didn’t hurt either— he figured he was a catch.

Then you came along, with your fierce personality and your killer smile and your tendency to completely walk past him each time he tried to get your attention. It was embarrassing— the amount of times he had been left in your dust, a cocky grin slowly falling from his face as he dropped whichever technique it was that he was trying to impress you with that day, his friends barely holding back their laughter at the peacock type display Gojo seemed so confident in.

He was clueless as to what he was doing wrong. Did he stink? You didn’t seem as… uninclined to interact when it was Suguru asking you how you were adjusting to a new school. Trying as hard as he could not to look as similar to a perturbed toddler as he certainly felt, he even tried inserting himself into your conversations sometimes. It often ended horribly awkward for him, your sentence usually trailing off and your eyes giving him a tentative once over before you would continue your story— definitely not as enthused as you had been prior to his interruption though.

“Do I smell?” Satoru asked with an expression of stone cold seriousness one afternoon to an exasperated Suguru, who had already had a long day as it was without his best friend’s nonsense adding onto it. The black-haired man swiveled his head around to gaze tiredly at him, allowing his face to speak for him. “No, I’m serious. Sniff me, tell me— please.”

“Get off of me.” Suguru grunted as he shoved at the boy who was currently damn near straddling his waist while shoving his exposed armpit into his friend’s face. “Why am I nose deep in your pits right now, Satoru?”

“Because I don’t know what else is wrong with me.”

“I could think of a few—”

“It’s like I don’t even exist!” Gojo pointedly interrupted that jab before tossing himself back on Geto’s bed. “I’ve done everything. I’ve taken over missions for her, I bought her that weird ass keychain she was looking at when we all went to Kyoto— I even tried doing that thing where I blocked the rain with my infinity. She pulled out an umbrella, Suguru. If I wasn’t so embarrassed I would’ve laughed my ass off.”

“Satoru—”

“I’m talking perfect comedic timing. I thought she couldn’t get hotter and now she’s funny—”

“Have you tried getting your head out of your ass?” Suguru finally raised his voice to cut through his incessant rambling.

The six eyes blinked at him a few times from behind his rounded glasses, an expression of petulance slowly overtaking his features. Crossing his arms over his chest, he looked defiantly in the other direction.

“You didn’t have to yell—”

But he was once again cut off, this time not by his aggravated friend, but the heavy thud and clatter from the next room over. Both boys’ heads snapped to look at one another with wide eyes. It was silent for a moment.

“Isn’t that…” Gojo’s question trailed off when the boy beside him nodded affirmatively with an equally concerned expression— your dorm.

In an instant, both boys were flying out of their lazed spots on the bed, fighting to squeeze through the door at the same time. It was Satoru who first pounded his fist on your door.

“Are you okay?” He shouted as Suguru finally stumbled behind him. After a moment of silence, he tried sliding the door open, but, as expected, it was locked. Pounding his fist three more times against it, he began yelling. “Hey! I’m coming in!”

He probably could have used his technique for a less… destructive route, however your lack of response was making his mind muddle with horrendous possibilities. Leaning back, one swift kick had the offending door crashing in, and both boys were quickly hopping through. You were laying in a heap on the rugged floor by your desk, a handful of your supplies strewn around you.

“Get Shoko.” Satoru commanded blindly, sliding to his knees before you to check if you were still breathing. Just as his fingers brushed against your neck though, and Suguru was halfway out the door, you stirred from your sudden coma-like state.

Your brows furrowed, and your eyes were bleary when they opened as you slowly moved to sit up. At once, the boy in front of you was pushing you back down by the shoulders.

“Don’t move until Shoko comes to see you.”

“Shoko? No, no, I’m fine.” You sluggishly brushed off his hands before carefully standing up. A sigh of irritation left you as he shot his arms out to steady you should you fall. Sure, you knew he was only trying to help, but he wasn’t exactly your favorite person, and you were slightly (severely) embarrassed that he’d found you in such a state.

“Fine?” He laughed dryly with a shake of his head. “Sweetheart, you and I have two very different definitions of fine.”

Biting back a scowl at the pet name, you bent down to begin picking up the things you’d dropped on your way to the ground. Scoffing in disbelief, he placed his hands on your shoulders to push you down to sit at your desk chair.

“Will you sit down? You just passed out—”

“I said I’m fine. You’re not my father, and you’re not my boyfriend. So you can cut the savior crap with me.” You snapped, and the regret was almost instant the second the last syllable fell from your lips.

It was hard not to get irritated with him though. Satoru and his perfect life and untouchable powers and abundance of wealth that he seemed so sure everyone would drop to their knees for. After having fought tooth and nail to prove to your family that exploring your cursed technique would be worthwhile, it felt like a slap in the face for him to be constantly boasting about how easily everything came to him.

“Yeah? Thank god for that. I’ll make sure to call your father or your boyfriend next time you decide to collapse instead of showing any sort of concern myself like a decent fucking person.”

You weren’t sure you had ever seen him actually riled up, always with a bright (albeit obnoxious) smile on his face as he tried so desperately to get everyone else as giddy as he constantly seemed to be. A pang of guilt struck you for having been the reason Gojo finally frowned. Mentally cursing yourself, you tucked your legs against your chest, chin resting on your knees as you chewed pensively on your bottom lip. He didn’t storm out as you were sure he would have, but his back was turned to you now as he stared at the door awaiting Shoko’s arrival.

“I just… I forget to eat sometimes when I’ve got alot going on.” You explained quietly, eyes cast down to your desk. From your peripheral, you saw him turn around to face you once again. “And I won’t remember until I pass out.”

It was silent for an uncomfortable minute before a strangled laugh threatened to escape the boy’s mouth. Your head shot up to glare at him in question, exasperated at his hot and cold behavior. Upon noting your irritation, he covered his mouth with his hands as if it would stop you from hearing the cackles that shook his frame.

“You know what— fuck you, Gojo.”

“No! No, I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you— I swear!” Though he was barely able to get his frantic explanation out due to his continuous giggles. He desperately tried to get himself together as you turned away from him with burning cheeks. “I-I’m laughing because… Suguru is pulling Shoko out of class as we speak to check on you, and I broke your door down, and you… just needed a burger.”

Satoru cursed himself to sleep that night as the scene replayed in his mind of you finally having opened up to him, and he pathetically wasted the opportunity by… laughing at you. Slamming his head repeatedly against his pillow, he thought perhaps you were just out of his league at this point, as he couldn’t for the life of him seem to get anything right with you.

He tried desperately to catch you alone the next week or so, but it seemed something else always had your attention. Whether it be your being sent on a mission, or spending time with Shoko (who knew Satoru had been begging to have a minute alone with you), or holed up in your room, headphones pressed snuggly over your ears as you hunched over your desk.

After the collapsing fiasco, you had been leaving your door slightly ajar for fear that it may be broken down again should you have another episode. The white-haired man couldn’t count how many times he’d strolled by the door under the guise of seeing Suguru who was just one room over. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could play that one off, because his friend was beginning to grow impatient with the way he’d slide into his room multiple times a day with nothing to say, standing there for a few minutes with his hands in his pockets so it seemed like he’d actually had some business there.

“Will you please just talk to her? You’re driving me insane.” Geto groaned out, just having been woken up from a nap by one of Satoru’s unexpected drop ins. “This is getting pathetic, Satoru.”

“I would if she didn’t look so busy all the damn time.” He grumbled, his forehead knocking against the door in aggravation.

His own words played back in his head, and they had him quickly straightening his posture, an unreadable expression on his face. Had Suguru been more conscious at the moment, perhaps he would have questioned his sudden mood shift. The black-haired boy was already slipping back into his leaden slumber though, allowing Gojo to quickly slip back out of the room without a second glance.

It was an embarrassing amount of time later when he returned to that hallway, though he wouldn’t know the difference because he’d never had to make an utter mess of the kitchen just to make himself— or anyone for that matter— lunch. Still, oblivious to just how unnecessarily chaotic he had been in the process, Satoru was standing beside your desk expectantly until you caught his imposing form in your peripheral. Pulling down your headphones, you looked up at him with confusion etched all over your tired face.

“Eat something.” Was the only explanation he gave, shoving a plate of… interestingly shaped onigiri toward you. You blinked down at the messy plate, your eyes trailing up to the hand attached to it that still had remnants of rice sticking to their fingers. Satoru pursed his lips at your silence, undoubtedly taking it as the same refusal you’d been giving his time and attention for months. “You’ve been in here all day studying. Eat something before you pass out again.”

But your silence wasn’t born out of the usual annoyance the white-haired man typically sparked in you. Instead, it was a stunned type of speechlessness, too touched and taken aback by what you thought was uncharacteristic thoughtfulness from the boy you were sure only thought about himself.

Gulping down the gentle lump in your throat, you slowly accepted the plate from him, eyes fixed on the lumps of rice staring back at you. From your peripheral, you watched him nod before resignatingly turning around to leave and let you eat in peace.

“Gojo?” He swiveled around frantically at the hesitant call of his name. There was a shy smile on your face as you looked up from the plate at him, tugging the headphones from your neck. “Aren’t you gonna stay?”

It was clear in the way he shifted his weight antsily between his feet and stopped the widening of his already unnaturally large eyes that he was trying with everything in him not to look too excited. Pretending to check the time on a watch that wasn’t present on his wrist, he nodded with feigned nonchalance.

“Uh… yeah, I can sit with you for a minute.”

“Just a minute?” You quipped with a raised brow.

“Or longer— no rush, y’know?” He quickly corrected as he yanked desperately at the bean bag in the corner of your room to sit beside you. The plush cushion was dragged so close to your desk chair that you wouldn’t be able to roll it away from him if you tried.

You smiled knowingly at him, holding out the plate for him to take one of the rice balls.

“Those are for you.” Satoru shook his head, pushing the plate back toward you.

“What would I do without you?” You teased, though there was a poorly concealed sincerity behind your fond eyes that had his heart beating out of his chest. With an amused smile, you shook your head at him. “Gojo, look, I appreciate the sentiment, but you made these the size of baseballs. Take one.”

A furious blush overtook his features at your words. It was admittedly quite refreshing to see the typically haughty sorcerer actually embarrassed, and it made him seem more human to you despite the lightyears of differences that seemed to separate you two. Sinking into his seat, his knees were nearly touching his chest thanks to the combination of the low seat and his freakishly long legs.

“I’ve never really made anything before.” He confessed through a sheepish murmur as he finally picked up one of his messy creations. “Guess cooking isn’t one of my countless innate talents.”

“Are you telling me the strongest sorcerer has a flaw?” You gasped dramatically, revelling in the way he narrowed his striking eyes at you from behind his glasses in feigned offense. They had slipped down his nose, revealing those long, white lashes that would have any woman green with envy.

“Can’t have it all, can I?” That infuriatingly charming smirk of his attempted to catch you off guard, but you fought past the urge to melt for him just as everyone else did so willingly. It was taking all of his own willpower to not squirm in anticipation under your gaze, what with the way you seemed to study him so closely.

“Well, that would imply you’ve got everything else.”

“Don’t I?”

“How about some shame? Humility? Social aware—”

“Would you please just eat?”

Though Satoru’s damn near shameful attempt at onigiri wasn’t exactly gonna win him any culinary awards anytime soon, it certainly won him something even better— your long-awaited attention. That next day in class, he had all but walked past you and Shoko, who were huddled beside each other discussing the reversed curse technique that you had been desperately trying to learn more about.

He figured, as you always had in the past, that you didn’t want him budding into your conversations. You caught his towering figure in your peripheral, that stark, white hair traceable in even the largest of crowds. It made your words trail mid-sentence, and you smiled apologetically at your friend before shifting around to call out to him. The typically cool-demeanored boy nearly tripped over his own feet when you asked him to join you two to give his opinion on the matter.

Shoko’s eyes rolled, a poorly concealed smirk of amusement poking up around her lit cigarette as he raced over, pushing his friend not-so-subtly aside with his shoulder in order to take the spot next to you.

It seemed as though he knew that each time you graced him with your attention, he had to make sure he made it worth your while, and he began spouting off on a shockingly eloquent rant about the subject at hand. You hadn’t been aware that he was actually… quite intelligent under all that bravado and foolishness. In fact, you were quickly learning, as you watched him turn red in the face from the speed at which he was info-dumping, that Satoru was kind of a giant nerd.

This newfound side of him that you’d been a fool not to allow him the chance to show to you, made you actually start to understand why everyone seemed to be so fond of him. Aside from his boyish charm and knockout face, he was an avid intellectual— a trait he always seemed to be bursting at the seams to share with anyone who would listen to him.

The two of you traded books and tips, and he tried to reel back his innate cockiness each time he was able to teach you something you didn’t know, though you were quickly beginning to understand that haughtiness was simply part of the Satoru Gojo package. Alongside his surprising thoughtfulness and undeniable ability to make you crack a smile even in your lowest of moods, you decided that you could let his occasional arrogance slide.

Despite all your best attempts to maintain your nonchalance at the man who wore the title of the strongest like the boldest of tattoos across his forehead, no levels of his infuriating infinity could even keep you away from falling right into Satoru’s orbit. Even the heavens above knew that nothing would keep him from pulling you right in either.

That was why even all these years later, no one in this world could have convinced you that the same boy who fought tooth and nail for your affection as a mere teenager would have abandoned you so carelessly now.

“Would you please just eat?”

Those painstakingly familiar words were now falling from the lips of Megumi Fushiguro, who, alongside his fellow students, seemed to be the only evidence of the white-haired man you had had contact with in the days following your fiance’s battle with the King of Curses. The ring on your left hand only served to mock you the longer this charade went on.

You looked up from the glimmering stone to glare haphazardly up at the raven-haired boy before you. He was clutching a tray of somen noodles within his scarred hands, his face firm with exasperation despite the disheartened glint in his dark eyes. Ignoring the furious growls in your stomach at the sight of the dish, you glanced to the side.

“It’s been three days, Megumi.” You stated monotonously, but the tears that brimmed in your waterline betrayed you. “If he died, then just tell me. I can handle—”

“He doesn’t want to see you. He left.” The boy repeated for what must have been the tenth time since breaking the news to you.

Itadori and Kugisaki trailed just outside the entrance of the common area where you had taken up residence in protest of Gojo’s sudden disappearance. Fushiguro had always been closer to you than the others had, what with your having been there when his benefactor took him in. The other two student’s weren’t sure they could handle that broken look in your eyes as well as their aloof counterpart could.

“He wouldn’t have left like this.” You insisted through gritted teeth, swiping furiously at the traitorous tears that raced down your sunken cheeks. “Tell him if he wants to leave me that he can come say it to my face. Until then, take your food and go come up with a better excuse.”

The shadow-user sighed desolately at your continued refusal. He only wished he could tell you that he wanted nothing more than for his mentor to man up and come face you himself. It was killing him to see you waste away like this with the hopes that it would draw Gojo out from wherever it was he was hiding. You had refused to leave that stiff couch, refused to eat, refused to accept the lies your fiance had told them to give you to explain his absence.

While it infuriated him to no end, Megumi could also, for once, understand the white-haired man’s ever-confusing decisions. Despite that part of him that felt he would have likely done the same thing, the boy knew deep down that you would be able to handle this situation far better than what Gojo was giving you credit for.

Setting the tray down on the table in front of you, Megumi nodded to his friends to leave you be once again. It was now his turn to report back to the man of the hour, hoping that something would get through to him if he heard how long it had been since you’d moved an inch.

Your form of protest was skillfully thought out, because you were right— it was killing Satoru to know that you were wasting away by yourself in that desolate common room. After all these years, it would have been foolish of him to assume that you wouldn’t know the best ways to get under his skin. Perhaps he should have had them tell you he was dead, though he was selfishly worried about the permanent consequences that lie would have. That, and he had a feeling that somehow you two were far too soul-tied for you to not be able to tell if he’d truly left this earth or not.

The supposed strongest was trying desperately to stay resolute in his decision, because if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was that he no longer deserved you. After everything he’d done, everything he hadn’t been strong enough to do, Satoru couldn’t bear the thought of sleeping beside you each night knowing what he was once capable of, now that he was no longer.

What would you think of him? Even if you did accept him as he was now, would it only be out of pitiful obligation? He wasn’t sure he could stomach the idea of you shifting your life to accommodate him— not when he had made it his life’s mission since you two were teenagers to assure you never had to lift a finger if it wasn’t what you truly wanted to do.

Satoru would hardly be able to blame you. When he got down on one knee, you had agreed to marry a version of him that no longer existed— one that was an unstoppable force, that could protect and please you without so much as breaking a sweat. This version of himself that he was now being forced to come to terms with was worthless, only a shell of his former self that you had fallen in love with.

The stubbornness that he had grown to love since you first turned your cheek to him all those years ago was only infuriating him now. It was making it that much harder to leave you behind as he knew was best for you when you were reminding him with each passing day how well you knew him, and he wasn’t sure anyone had ever understood him on such a level— and no one ever would again.

After nearly a week of this back and forth, with your only leaving your post to shower and barely accepting food, Satoru wasn’t sure if he’d be able to wait out your stubborn protest as he thought would be his only option. Each day, he’d tell himself that you’d cave eventually— you’d give up and go back home. You would move on and live your life until you forgot about him, safe from the burden of who he’d become. Each day though, you proved him wrong.

The lights of the common room had already dimmed for the night, the only illumination coming from the gentle rays of the moon’s glow as it creeped in through the windows. Winter was taking its toll on the campus, especially the room you’d stubbornly decided to stay put in for the past week or so. At least if you had been at home, the comfort of your heater promised protection from the building cold.

Despite how much your body trembled under the solace of the blanket Megumi had brought for you, you knew that home wouldn’t be nearly as comforting as the trick of nostalgia was telling you— not without Satoru there to share that warmth.

Curling in on yourself, you stared blankly at the low table in front of you where another tray of food had been left untouched. Truthfully, a part of you wondered how much longer you could keep this protest up, only the occasional pack of soda crackers fortifying you as you waited out Satoru’s absence. The more stubborn side of you said you’d wither away here on this unforgiving couch if it meant you at least went down trying.

The soft patter of snow falling against the windows lulled your stinging eyes shut. Even your dreams had been desperately trying to make sense of your fiance’s uncharacteristic abandonment. Nightmares plagued you most nights, Satoru being at the forefront of each one; they all ended in his horrendous death— because death was the only logical explanation you could conjure up for him leaving you behind so mercilessly.

Tonight’s cinematic retelling of the endless possibilities of his final fate had you awakening with a start. No matter how many nights now that you had spent reliving the same grief over and over again, no amount of repitition could stop the way the tears that should have run out by now would pour from your eyes first thing each morning.

The moon was still watching over you when you decided to pull yourself from your latest nightmare. Panting out through strained sobs, the blanket slipped down your shoulders upon your abrupt descent into a sitting position. It didn’t take you long to realize that you weren’t alone tonight, despite the criminally early hour it must have been.

Your wide, burning eyes blinked a few times at the man standing before you as though he might vanish back into the depths of your imagination should you clear your bleary eyes enough. He remained firmly in his place, silent as death as you processed the scene you had woken up to.

He figured you might yell at him, hit him with all the force of a scorned woman, tell him off for having disappeared, but you only assessed him quietly. With narrowed eyes, you took in the way his hair had grown out slightly past his normal length, covering his forehead in a manner that almost seemed intentional. His dark-rimmed glasses covered up the eyes that you had been longing to see for so long, almost mocking you as your own reflection stared back at you through the lenses.

Satoru— he was standing right before you, shoulders rising and falling, but silent, and uncharacteristically so. You’d be able to pick him out of a crowd, you were sure of it, but there was something so different about him now as he stared down at you. The tendrils of cursed energy that were typically flowing out of him in overwhelming waves no longer filled the air around you. They once blanketed you in their demanding presence, but now the air surrounding you was lighter, his energy a stark difference to the one you had grown used to.

Slowly, you stood from the couch, the frigid touch of the wood floors permeating the thick layer of your socks and sending a shiver down your spine. Your eyes never left his concealed ones as you rose to stand just a hair’s breadth away from him. His Adam's apple bobbed at your sudden proximity, and it was taking all of his already frail energy to not wrap you in his arms to chase away the cold that dared to bite at your frame.

The man flinched back notably as your hand reached up for his glasses, but it didn’t deter you from carefully pulling them off of his face. He closed his eyes though, desperately resolute in his attempt to conceal the truth from you.

“Look at me.”

Your simple demand nearly broke his resolve after so long of longing to hear that melodic voice of yours again. Clenching his jaw, he slowly allowed his eyes to open, unsure of why he thought you wouldn’t be able to tell that something was different about him.

And different it was.

Satoru’s once other-worldly, glittering eyes that shone with the promise of his earth-shattering abilities were now dulled— still that breathtaking blue that you had come to love, however the absence of the trait he prided himself so devoutly on was evident, even in the dim moonlight.

You watched as he tried to keep his face neutral, but that fierce insecurity that was so rare to see on him was breaking through his changed eyes. There was no explanation needed— you understood now with stunning clarity why he had tried to stay away.

He must have taken your silence for horror, his lips pulling into a firm line as he leaned down to grab the tray of food he had come here with the intention of delivering to you himself. The carefully prepared meal was shoved forward.

“Eat.”

His firm order shook you from your trance, and you were now beginning to notice the countless scars lining his face and arms that hadn’t been there when you kissed him goodbye that dreaded morning before the battle. Blinking back the mist in your eyes, you sniffled and shook your head at him, squaring your shoulders in a fierce display of determination.

“I want to eat at home.” You explained through calculated eye contact. “Take me home, Satoru.”

It was becoming increasingly difficult to conceal the pain it was igniting in him to refuse you. Painting a scowl onto his features, he pressed the tray against your chest.

“I didn’t change my mind.” He insisted unyieldingly, hoping the contempt he was feigning was convincing. “I’m leaving, I don’t want to be with you anymore. Now— eat.”

His words were undoubtedly a slap in the face, evident in the way you flinched back subtly. Gulping down the lump in your throat, your eyes trailed down his visibly tired frame once again. His arms were trembling ever so slightly with the weight of the tray in his hands, and you were now noticing the matching scars circling both his arms.

“You don’t want to be with me anymore?” You repeated, though your question came out more like a statement, and it took him a moment before he reminded himself to offer a solid nod in confirmation.

With a solemn nod of your own, you took the tray from him to place it back on the table before tugging the engagement ring off of your finger. His face contorted gut-wrenchingly at the sight, barely able to register what you were doing as you lifted his hand to place the ring in the center of it. Your expression remained fiercely neutral as you held out your own palm to him. He only blinked down at you, a misty haze clouding his gaze.

“Give me your ring.” You demanded simply.

It had been glaring at you since you first opened your eyes and saw him, glimmering under the faint glow of the moon. The promise ring you had given him in exchange for the one he gifted you on your third anniversary together— it was still sat proudly on his left-hand’s ring finger, awaiting to be replaced by a wedding band just as he’d replaced yours with an engagement ring only a few months ago.

He swallowed thickly at your request, but you only shook your outstretched palm at him in expectation. Looking down at his left hand, his thumb absentmindedly rolled over the silver band, feeling the indents of you two’s initials carved into the metal under his fingertip. Despite his best efforts to control his expression, his bottom lip trembled at the implications of what he was about to do. Your heart cracked as you watched the tears pool in his eyes. Dropping his head, he allowed his hair to curtain over his eyes as the salty streams began pouring down his cheeks.

“Don’t do this to me.” He whispered desolately with a shake of his head. A heavy sigh fell from your lips, drooping your shoulders in the process.

“Then put that ring back on my finger and take me home, Toru.”

“And then what?” Satoru exclaimed, finally looking up at you through the blur of his frustrated tears. The abrupt motion shifted his rustled hair, revealing a sliver of the thick scar running across his forehead. “I’m not the same man you agreed to marry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—”

“Look at me!” His furious command had you flinching back ever-so-slightly. “I can barely stand on my own two feet without running out of breath. I’m weak— I lost damn near everything, and I’m not the same Satoru anymore, okay?”

“Then I will walk with you every fucking day until you get better. I never loved you because you were strong, so I don’t give a shit if you’re weak now, Satoru. And don’t you dare stand there and tell me you lost everything because I am still here, and no amount of scars are going to make me leave.”

An agonized sob shook his frame, and he was quickly stumbling forward to sink onto the couch with a wince. Tears of your own began slipping down your face as you moved to sit beside him. He buried his face into his hands, your engagement ring still hanging on the tip of his pinky finger.

“I don’t have anything left to give you.” His pained whisper struck you in the chest.

Leaning forward, you carefully wrapped your arm around his bicep. There was an attempted subtly in the way you ran your fingertips delicately over the new scar circling the muscle, and you tried not to cry out as your mind put two and two together of what could have possibly happened to warrant such symmetrical marks across his body. As you tucked your chin onto his shoulder, he finally peered over at you. You offered him a wistful smile even through your tears.

“When have I ever asked anything more of you than to stay with me?”

Just like all those years ago in your dorm room, Satoru couldn’t bear to deny you— not when you asked him so sweetly with those wide, hopeful eyes of yours. He slipped your ring back onto its rightful place and pressed a lingering kiss to the stone. The wetness of his tears dripped onto your hand, but you couldn’t possibly think of a better feeling after having gone so long without him.

It wasn’t until you two finally made it back to your shared home that night that he realized that in the haste of his giving into you once again, he had all but forgotten about why it was so important to him that he stay away.

“Why don’t you take a hot shower? You’re still shaking, you wimp.” Satoru tried to sound lightheaded, poking fun at you like was once so common for him, but nothing about this new arrangement would ever be common again.

You glanced over your shoulder from the sink, where you had busied yourself cleaning the bowls you two had just eaten from. It admittedly took longer than you had expected to finish eating, as your fiancé kept pushing more food onto your plate to make up for the hunger strike he was still grumbling about that you went on.

Turning back to place the final dish on the drying rack, you smiled fondly.

“That depends, are you gonna come help warm me up?”

Your teasing offer made the smile slowly slip from his face, though you wouldn’t see it with your back turned to him. He looked down at himself— the scars that now littered his body and how difficult even the most mundane of tasks had become for him in his gruelling recovery. The gentle hum of question that escaped you at his sudden silence reminded him that you were still expecting a response.

“Well, I—”

“C’mon, I’ll meet you there.” Your airy invitation cut off whatever excuse he was about to make, and he couldn’t help but wonder if you knew exactly what he was thinking as you made your way to your shared bedroom, ruffling at his already tousled hair on the way. He remained idly at the table, staring down at himself hesitantly as the soft patters of the running shower reached his ears.

It had been quite some time since you two were last intimate— what with his being sealed and the immediate need for his services following his release. Sex had never been an area of insecurity for Satoru. After all, he was strong and confident, and he never once had to doubt your attraction toward him. Now though, his stamina wasn’t the same, and his body sure as hell didn’t look as aesthetically pleasing as it had the last time he’d bared himself to you.

Carefully standing from his seat, he stretched out his stiff muscles before practically dragging his feet toward the room he once couldn’t wait to get you alone in. The bathroom had already steamed up considerably from the scorching water you always liked boiling yourself in. The apprehensive man hovered in the doorway, lips parting at the sight of your heavenly silhouette through the fogged, glass shower door.

“Toru?” You called out upon hearing the door creak open a bit further.

Cracking the shower open, you poked your head through with an anticipatory smile, but it quickly fell upon seeing the sullen expression on his face and the way his fingers twisted in uncertainty into the hem of his shirt.

“It’s just me, babe.” You offered gently, and he responded with a barely noticeable nod.

“Yeah, just… give me a minute. I’ll be right there.”

He was grateful that you were gracious enough to recognize his need for your patience as you nodded in understanding and slipped back into the shower. Glancing up at the ceiling in hopes that he wouldn’t catch his own reflection in the mirror, he carefully lifted his shirt over his head, wincing faintly at the stretch. His bottoms were soon joining the discarded top on the marble floor. The mirror in his peripheral taunted him, and he kept his gaze cast down as he slowly made his way to the shower.

You smiled upon hearing the door slide open behind you, biting your cheek in anticipation of his warm hands sliding around your middle— because Lord knows your fiance was never known for his ability to keep his hands to himself. Those wandering hands never came though, and you gradually peered over your shoulder.

He was standing just outside the shower stream, arms hovering hesitantly at his sides. The expression on his face appeared angry— not at you though, almost as though there was a self-inflicted war waging in his mind as he awaited your reaction. You blinked the continuously running water from your eyes as you turned fully around to face him. After a moment of careful, reassuring eye contact, you allowed your eyes to drift down over his tense frame.

There were a myriad of the tiniest slashes running across nearly every inch of him. Even more striking though, was the thick, jagged scar circling the entire circumference of his waist. The lump in the back of your throat made it nearly impossible to swallow down the tears threatening to spill out. Still, you did so for his sake, because the cautionary glint in his eyes told you he was waiting for your disapproval.

The tips of your fingers reached out to graze the area carefully, knowing that despite how much the RCT must have sped along the healing process, it likely still felt fresh. He shivered under the featherlight touch of your fingertips. Your glistening body drew closer to him, and he wasn’t sure whether his insecurity would be stronger than his lust for you as your breasts grazed his chest.

With a fond hum, your hands drifted up his chest to circle around his neck. He tried to conceal his grunt of effort as he leaned down to your level in order to kiss you properly. Nearly slipping as you lifted yourself on your tiptoes to help him, his hands immediately shot forward to steady you shakily.

With all the doubts running through his mind, he expected you to huff in frustration, to pull away from him as he certainly wouldn’t blame you for doing. You only smiled witsfully against his dewy lips though, the bridge of your nose brushing against his as you whispered sincerely.

“I missed you.”

Still, Satoru wasn’t sure that his long awaited presence would ever be enough.

After some time, you agreed to go back to work at the school, especially since Gojo was nowhere near prepared to get back into the swing of things. Though no one dared speak it into existence, everyone had already silently accepted the fact that he’d likely never be able to take on missions like he once did. More hands off teaching— sure, though it felt like a slap in the face compared to what he once was capable of.

It wasn’t as though this was something new you were needing to jump into now. No, you had begun working as soon as you graduated just as he had. The difference was, you worked with the understanding that you really didn’t need to be doing it, and your partner always made sure you knew that you could quit at any time under the safety of his sizable wealth. Now though, there was a significant need for more help with the students in Gojo’s absence, and it was eating him alive that you now felt responsible for picking up that slack despite your insistence that you wanted to help.

Satoru had no clue anymore just what it was that he was providing you in this relationship.

“Baby, they’ll be fine.” He pleaded for the upteenth time, unable to bear the thought of you breaking your own back while he stays at home— utterly useless. “They can wait a little longer until I come back.”

You smiled with a shake of your head, slathering on some of that lotion you always wore before bed that never failed to drive him crazy.

“I’ve been home for the past week. You’re not sick of seeing me?”

He scoffed as though personally offended by your accusation. Shifting forward to replace your hands with his own, he kissed your shoulder as his hands continued to work the cream into your thighs from behind. The tiniest sparks of hope ignited in him when you sighed quietly under your breath, your head gently falling back against his bare chest at the sensation of the devastatingly familiar ridges on his fingertips against your skin.

Being intimate with you again was something he was pointedly avoiding— too ashamed of his own body to feel remotely confident enough to engage in it, and far too worried the new stress on this body would make for a comparably disappointing experience than what you were used to. Even so, he could see it on your face and feel it in your wanton sighs just how much you had missed him, and it was becoming harder and harder for him to act as though he didn’t miss it too.

“I’ll never get sick of you.” Satoru breathed sincerely against your cheek, his thumbs digging desolately into the fat of your inner thighs. They parted in anticipation at his languid motions, allowing his hand to slip up the loose leg of your silken sleep shorts.

“Promise?” You teased breathlessly, fisting the fabric of his sweatpants as his fingers creeped up your fluttering core.

“With everything in me.” Though he wasn’t sure just how much that entailed anymore.

Maybe, he thought as he dipped two fingers into your awaiting heat, if he could at least make love to you he wouldn’t feel like a complete waste of space— like there was still something he could give you even if it meant pushing the limits of his already fragile body. His arm began to ache in tandem with his steady rhythm, but you were whimpering so sweetly into his ear as though he still deserved to hear it.

Leaning down, Satoru captured your lips in a frenzied attempt to swallow up all the pent up energy spilling from your plush lips. In his lust-clouded mind, he thought maybe it would heal him, breathe life back into his sore muscles and tingling nerve endings that taunted him with every curl of his fingers against your sweet walls. Your mouth parted involuntarily against his in a blissed cry, and it was enough to convince him that— maybe he did still have it in him.

Offering a forlorn moan of his own, your fiancé frantically parted from you to push you back down against the mattress, each scarred over stitch across his torso screaming in protest, but he had something to prove now as he allowed his sweatpants to fall to the floor.

Your half lidded eyes drank him in greedily, relieved to see that despite his carefully calculated restraint throughout the past few days, he still wanted you just as much as you had been craving him. Slipping your shorts down easily, neither of you seemed patient enough to waste anymore time after so long without one another.

Satoru climbed back onto the bed, hoping you didn’t notice his wince of effort on the way. It seemed he was in the clear though, and your graceful fingers slipped up his nape and tangled into his freshly cut hair. Though he wasn’t too keen on the idea of going to a barbershop just yet— what with the peculiar scar running across his forehead, he had agreed to sit on the closed toilet lid just a few nights prior as you stood between his spread legs and carefully trimmed the wisps of white hair that had grown past his wide eyes.

You were so grateful that you did, because now your view of those messianic eyes was unobstructed and knocking the air straight from your lungs as they always had the unique power of doing. With a heart that felt as though it was turning to mush under his zealous gaze, your impatient hands circled his hips carefully to pull his already lined up length into you.

“God— I missed you so much.” He gasped, though he could barely get his words out through the desperate kisses he was pressing against any inch of you he could reach. You moaned in relief, tears threatening to pool in your eyes at the intensity of the long-awaited connection. “I’ll never leave you again— I swear. I’m sorry, I love you. Fuck, you feel—”

You cut him off with a sloppily aimed kiss, a fond smile breaking through your lips as you realized that of course, if his near death was going to leave him with one thing, it was going to be his rapid-fire tongue. Satoru only whined against your mouth, forgoing his previous caution and shifting his hips forward to roll into you. His stamina was already dwindling by the second, emphasized by the growing tenderness in his torso, but he’d be damned if he wouldn’t see you through your much deserved climax.

“You okay, Toru?” You panted against his lips, taking note of the way his fist trembled against the sheets beside your head.

“‘M perfect— don’t worry about me.” He lied, dipping down to nip at your collarbone in hopes of distracting you from the clear discomfort racing through his bones. “You’re perfect, keep making those pretty noises for me, yeah?”

It was enough to placate you for just a second longer, unable to deny him as the pitched moans continued flowing from your lips. Your pliancy spurred him on, making him feel far more confident than he should have in his current state as he ran a heated hand down your body to hook it behind your thigh. It wasn’t until he lifted it over his shoulder to snap his hips up in that way he was so used to making you melt, that a strangled curse fell through his gritted teeth.

“Satoru—”

“I’m fine, please.” Your fiance quickly implored even through the pained scrunch of his striking features. His hand fell from your thigh to cup your face, squishing your cheeks between his frenzied fingers as it was clear the once blissed expression on your face was falling in place of frantic concern.

“You’re not—”

“I am. C’mon, let me take care of you—”

“Satoru, get off.”

The continued plea that was preparing to escape him got caught unceremoniously in his throat at your command. Gulping down the bile that threatened to rise up his throat, his blown out eyes searched your face while he slowly inched away from you. Shuffling up onto your elbows, you carefully pushed him onto his back, falling safely against the mountain of feathery pillows.

His face remained solemn as you crawled over him, and though he had never been one to deny the sight of you on top of him, with the silken skin of your thighs glistening in the moonlight that flowed in through the windows and the flimsy sleeves of your tank top slid halfway down your arm— the fact still remained that it was because he couldn’t do it. The very body hindering him betrayed him as his jaw dropped at the bittersweet feeling of you sinking down onto him.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Your face still mirrored the very bliss it reflected when he had you beneath him, but every roll of your supple hips that inched him closer to his release felt like a slash to his already mutilated chest. How could you still look at him with such admiration, and who the fuck was he if not the strongest anymore?

That night, you slept soundly beside him, curled carefully into his side with all the peace of someone who’d just made love to a partner they’d long believed dead. It drew a smooth tranquility over each crease and furrow that once dared to disturb your delicate face, your lips parted crookedly due to your cheek’s positioning against his chest.

Dawn creeped closer and closer with the looming threat of what he’d soon be forced to accept while sleep drifted farther from his reach. His eyes burned as they stared down at your slumbering figure for hours on end, willing himself to be able to see every atom that worked in angelic harmony to make up his love the way his six eyes once allowed him the privilege of. He only grew more restless as the mundanity of his pupils only graced him with the surface level of your fathomless allure.

Blinking away the haze that had glazed over his tired eyes, Satoru looked away from you for the first time in hours to glance at the time on the clock. It wouldn’t be long before your wretched alarm would be waking you to get ready and shoulder the burden that was once his alone. With a huff of vexation, he carefully maneuvered himself out from under you, replacing himself with the body pillow you always used in his absence.

A strained wince escaped him as he stood quietly from the bed, yet no amount of stretching seemed to soothe what he feared would be an everpresent ache. Willing himself through it, he used his foot to scoop his discarded sweatpants up in order to avoid bending down and reminding himself of his deficits.

The lights of the kitchen nearly blinded his sleepless irises when he flicked them on, and he groaned while attempting to adjust to the sudden onslaught. His shoulders fell slowly as he looked around the kitchen in uncertainty, opening up various cabinets until he found the small collection of bento boxes the two of you had accumulated over the years.

Gojo chewed at his bottom lip in concentration, rummaging through nearly every utensil drawer and refrigerator shelf in his pursuit. It was actually a damn miracle he didn’t wake you up in his chaotic gathering of tools and ingredients— what with each grunt of effort as he squatted and reached above his head in search of a specific pot or seasoning.

Despite his best efforts to take it easy, his mounting frustration only grew with each tremor of his hand as he attempted to cut up the leftover salmon you two had eatent the night before into tiny chunks. With a shake of his head, he tightened his grip around the base of the knife in determination, praying to whichever god had forsaken him that he could just do this one thing for you.

In typical Gojo fashion, there was a trail of chaos being left in his wake— bonito flakes spilled about the counter and used utensils strewn all around him by the time he was finally finishing up what would have been a simple project if at the hands of anyone else. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of your alarm going off in the next room, and it had him speeding up his movements in a frantic attempt to get everything organized before you stepped out.

“Toru?” Your voice was still laced with sleep by the time your gentle footsteps were making their way out into the kitchen.

Washing off the remaining bits of sticky rice clinging to his fingers, he swiveled around to face you. Your eyes widened a bit upon seeing the flush of effort still staining his face, but he smiled tiredly at you nonetheless, a subtle timidness behind his eyes that you hadn’t seen on him in so long. Stepping forward slowly, you eyed him carefully as he wiped his trembling hands on his already stained sweatpants.

“You sleep okay?” He mumbled into the crown of your head as he pulled you into his chest, careful not to mess up the style you had placed it in for work.

“Yeah,” You answered hesitantly, pressing a kiss to his chest before pulling away from him and adjusting your bag over your shoulder. “What are you doing up so early?”

Averting his gaze from you bashfully, he turned around to grab the neatly folded bag to present to you, weighed down by the brim-stuffed bento box he had placed in it. Staring down at it to avoid looking in your eyes, he pursed his lips awkwardly as though embarrassed by his attempt at packing you a lunch.

“They’ll probably be up your ass all day since they’ve been short.” Satoru began, his fingers drumming quietly against the bag with a small shrug of his shoulders. “Don’t need you passing out on me.”

His attempted chuckle at his half-hearted joke came out hesitantly as he watched you blink owlishly down at the bag outstretched to you in offering. You slowly took the bag from him, a small smile tugging at the corners of your glossed lips. He reached up to scratch at the nape of his neck in uncertainty.

“It’s just some rice balls, but I can probably go out today and get some—”

You cut him off, reaching up onto your tip-toes to press an appreciative kiss to his jaw.

“What would I do without you?” Your love-sick smile caught him by surprise, a dumb-struck expression falling onto his flushed face.

Before he could stammer out a response (not that his short-circuiting mind would be capable of coherent speech right now), you pressed one more, longing kiss to his lips before promising to see him later that night and rushing out the door.

Satoru stared absently at the door that had just closed behind you as a gradual understanding flooded his consciousness. Perhaps it was just because it had been so long since he felt the need to fight for your approval, or maybe it was that he simply never learned his lesson, no matter how much you had worked to engrain it into him over all these years. It was hardly fair to blame him though, given that all the love he’d ever been shown had those six eyes of his trailing not too far behind.

But you— you had never batted an eye at his status, or his money, and certainly not his powers. All those years ago it had only taken some horribly disfigured rice balls for you to fall for him, stubbornly never too impressed by his technique or silver tongue.

It was a few, lovingly crafted onigiri that helped you recognize his place in your life, and it was the very thing that, even all these years later, was helping him recognize it as well.

a/n: inner theater kid effectively placated thank u

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bloodblanks · 7 months ago

Text

one umbrella cover two [mr. scarletella x reader] — chapter iv.

Your escape doesn’t go as planned.

note: reader is not player (mc).

author’s note: dead dove: do not eat. this fanfiction will contain dark and explicit content, including heavy dub-con, stockholm syndrome, violence, and similar themes.

please read at your own discretion.

<- previous chapter

Beyond the door, there was nothing.

Well, technically, it wasn’t nothing—there were long, empty corridors outside the room. The man in the umbrella, however, was nowhere to be seen, nor were there any visible signs of danger.

You let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding, sighing heavily as relief quelled your rapid heartbeat. You could almost cry again from the joy you felt.

You took a tentative step out, almost as if expecting invisible bear traps to lunge at your calf. Luckily, there was nothing of the sort. Closing the door behind you, you started making your way through the desolate halls.

This building seemed colossal, even the ceilings being much higher than the regular ones you’d see. Perhaps it was an abandoned factory or warehouse of some sort. If only you had your phone right now; you would be able to check your location. You even made sure to keep an eye out for the device, hoping you would be lucky enough to find it somewhere on the floor, but there was very little in the corridor.

When you eventually made it to the end of the corridor, you found multiple doors. You weren’t sure which to open—for all you knew, this could be some kind of trap. Maybe if you opened the wrong one, acid would spray out and melt you down to the bone. The thought alone was enough to perturb you, and you considered just returning to the room. At least you weren’t in any immediate danger there.

Despite your reservations, you knew you had to push forward. You couldn’t let yourself get stuck here forever.

Eenie meenie miney moe, you recited the rhyme in your head, alternating between the doors with each syllable. The last moe landed on the left door.

You gulped nervously, reaching towards the left door’s handle. This one it is. You took a long inhale, holding your breath as you opened the door.

Behind the door, there was nothing but darkness. The small bit of light that the hallway illuminated showed what seemed like rusty brown stains on the filthy floor.

Instantly, your gut wrenched, your instincts screaming to not enter. You didn’t need to be told twice; you instantly shut the door, your breaths leaving your mouth in heavy pants.

Reciting the rhyme in your head once more, you decided on the right door, which you opened much slower than the last, dreading to see what’s inside. You peeked your head around the door, sighing in relief when it appeared to be a regular room with a few buckets sitting around.

You entered the room, glancing inside the buckets—there was nothing. No decapitated heads or organs, which meant that you were off to a good start. You cautiously passed through the room, which led to another room, just as empty and barren as the last.

There were only two doorways in this room, the one you just went through and another that was closed. You decided at this very moment that you absolutely despised closed doors. With each door you opened and the amount of stress it took, years were definitely deducted off your lifespan. Maybe you’d return home with a full head of grey hair. You supposed that would entail your head was still attached to your body, which was better than nothing.

You knew you were taking up too much time. If you were to be rational about this, the quicker you got out of here meant the fewer chances of you getting caught. But goddamn, was it hard to open those doors.

After much deliberation, you finally twisted the doorknob, pulling on it to reveal another normal room. You walked in, glancing at the corner as you passed through. You noticed a small opening in the wall. It took a few seconds for your eyes to focus on what was inside the dark space, but as soon as you noticed it, you shrieked, stumbling backwards and nearing falling over.

A head. A person’s head was inside it.

Oh, god. You stared at it wide eyed, unable to tear your gaze away from the grisly sight. You wondered what a human head was doing here. Could the umbrella man have killed someone and—

You never finished your thought.

The head noticed you staring, and it responded with a harrowing grin, before reaching a grey hand out. You instinctively stepped backwards due to the sight, but this time you lost your balance, and your ass smacked into the hard cement. You hissed out in pain, forgetting to get back to your feet, transfixed by the strange creature in the walls.

“▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮?” The wall man appeared to ask you a question. It took you several minutes to respond, too stunned by his existence to process the situation.

“Uhm, sorry, I don’t understand that!” you squeaked, finally realizing that you should get back up and be ready to run. You stared at the wall man as you stood up. A part of you couldn’t help but silently hope he would understand your words—and also not come out and murder you—but it didn’t appear so, as he simply retracted his hand, retreating into the shadows.

Well, that was horrifying. You grimaced, staring at the opening for a moment longer, wanting to make sure he wasn’t coming back, before turning your back on it and coming face to face with a man that definitely wasn’t here before.

You instantly screamed, toppling over and falling on your tailbone again, letting out another yelp as the hard, unforgiving floor mercilessly collided against you.

If you were to be technical about the details, you weren’t face to face with the man prior to this; he was on his hands and knees, long black hair covering his eyes like the woman from The Grudge.

After having pathetically fallen like this, however, you were definitely face to face with the man.

“▮▮▮▮▮.” He smiled at you. Goosebumps broke out over the surface of your skin, his voice much too jovial for a situation so terrifying.

You were much too scared to think of a reply—not that you’d be able to communicate either way—and instead stayed silent.

“▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮?” The crawling man seemed to be asking something.

“What?” you breathed out, finally finding your voice.

“▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮?” Another question that you didn’t know the response to.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know your language,” you answered him. While you knew he couldn’t comprehend you, you also felt uneasy about not replying at all. You didn’t want to come off as rude, though you weren’t sure just how much your manners mattered in this situation.

He remained silent after that. You wondered if he was thinking about something, unsure what to say, or just patiently waiting to startle you and give you a heart attack.

The crawling man hadn’t attacked you yet, so you decided to take the opportunity of tranquillity and carefully examine your current circumstances. The place you were in was colossal. You had walked for quite some time—or maybe it just felt that way—and didn’t seem anywhere close to an exit. Not only was this place enormous, it was also inhabited by many monsters, all of which shared the same grey skin tone as the red umbrella man. They also seemed to all speak a different language, of which the only word you knew was ‘hungry.’

At this point, you couldn’t help but wonder if this was even a place on Earth, or the world that you knew of. Just a day or two ago, you would’ve chastised yourself for considering something so improbable and ludicrous, but considering how you’ve now seen the existence of paranormal creatures, you weren’t in a position to deny any supernatural occurrences.

Could this be some kind of realm for these creatures? You wondered, continuing to stare at the crawling man who merrily watched you in return.

If this was indeed a realm, then was there even a physical exit? You weren’t sure how places like these worked, but if there was a way in, there should be a way out. The problem was just whether the way out was through a doorway or through an ancient ritual of some sort.

Your options here were limited. You either went back to the red umbrella man, who was likely looking for you now and very much ready to break all the bones in your body, or you could keep going.

“I’m going to go that way,” you told the crawling man, pointing towards the doorway and slowly pushing up to your feet. You didn’t want to offend him and possibly get yourself killed, so you figured it’d be best to notify him of your intentions.

It didn’t seem like you successfully got your message across, because he continued staring at you, his head tilted up to observe you now with an expression of confusion.

Mustering up every last one of your brain cells, you tried to explain through gestures.

“I,” you pointed to yourself, “go that way.” You pointed to the doorway.

“▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮?”

You sighed. It didn’t seem like you were getting anywhere with this. You started walking towards the door, taking baby steps so that you wouldn’t alarm the crawling man.

His smile widened, causing a bolt of panic to shoot through you. You hoped this wasn’t a bad sign.

“▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮! ▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮!” He repeated the words from his previous sentence. You figured that they meant something similar to what you said about you going somewhere. You mentally noted it down.

You opened the door to find another room, making sure to scan the entirety of the room to avoid any sudden surprises before you entered. After you deemed it safe enough, you stepped through, letting go of the door.

You expected to hear the sound of the door closing as you had all the previous times, but you didn’t. You turned around in confusion, a sharp gasp leaving your lips at the sight of the crawling man coming through the doorway, the door now shutting behind him.

Is he following me? You felt uneasy at the thought, but so far he hadn’t hurt you. You supposed letting him follow was technically harmless. At least, you tried convincing yourself of that as you continued through the next couple rooms, the strange creature determinedly training behind.

You made it through a few more rooms like this, simply walking in silence with the crawling man following behind you. Every once in a while, you checked over your shoulder to see if he was still following. He was.

It was already nerve-racking enough, having an inhuman creature with unknown intentions trailing behind you, but the lack of conversation made it much worse. The silence was not only tense but also immensely awkward. You were itching to speak to him for the sake of easing the discomfort, but the difficulty of expressing yourself still remained.

You were so focused on trying to think of what gestures you could make in order to initiate an interaction that you failed to notice the bizarre little creature in the room.

Before you knew it, something had dashed towards you. Your eyes weren’t fast enough to track its movements, nor did you have time to shield yourself before you felt a sharp pinch on your cheek.

“Ow!” you exclaimed. “What the fuck?”

You instinctively swatted at your cheek, your palm smacking against something soft and fuzzy. For a second, all you could think about was how whatever it was had extremely smooth, luscious fur.

But then it clamped down harder on your cheek, eliciting a string of curses from your lips.

If only there was a mirror here, you thought, your eyes scanning the room, unable to find a reflective surface for you to see just what the fuck happened to your face. Without any other option, you desperately turned to the crawling man, pointing at your cheek in panic.

He crawled towards you, reaching a hand up to your face. You weren’t sure what he was doing, but you stood still in hopes that he’d be able to do something.

The pressure from your cheek released. He pulled his hand away, revealing what appeared to be a black ball of fur with a singular eyeball.

The resentment you felt towards the creature for gnawing on your face began to disintegrate. You hated to admit it, but it was rather cute. You almost felt the urge to try and pet it, but the throbbing in your cheek was enough to stop you. You touched your hand to your cheek—there were some small indents in your skin, but you were unscathed besides that.

Letting out a sigh of relief, you turned back to the crawling man with a smile.

“Thanks,” you said.

He didn’t seem to understand it, but he nonetheless mirrored your expression, his grin stretching even wider than yours.

“▮▮▮▮▮!” he cheerfully replied. Does that mean ‘you’re welcome?’

He let the eyeball creature fall to the ground; it scurried away before you could even blink.

You weren’t sure if he completely understood you, so after much deliberation, you bent down, hesitantly wrapping your arms around him for a quick second. Hugs are universal, right?

Before you could let go, however, the man quickly returned the gesture, wrapping both arms around you and squeezing you tightly to his chest. You let out a small squeak of surprise, but relaxed into the hug soon after. You let out a small chuckle, relieved that an embrace was indeed a universal gesture, though it sounded more like a wheeze with how tightly he was holding you.

After a minute of being crushed by the crawling man, he let you go, and you continued on your way. Somehow, the paralyzing tension and overwhelming dread of your circumstances had lifted—or you were just fatigued—off your shoulders, your muscles finally relaxing a bit. You felt more like you were exploring a haunted house rather than trying to escape from a ghostly entity that likely kidnapped you.

Without the presence of immediate danger, you had let down your guard, which turned out to be an immensely foolish decision.

The floor rattled ever so slightly beneath your feet. Confused, you glanced down, trying to see if you had just imagined it or there was actually something there. However, nothing appeared out of the ordinary, so you kept walking ahead, albeit more cautiously.

The ground convulsed again, this time much more forcefully. Instantly, your senses were on high alert, and you glanced towards the crawling man, alarmed.

“▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮▮,” he called out to you. “▮▮▮▮ ▮▮▮!”

Despite the slight urgency in his tone, you couldn’t for the life of you figure out what he was saying. You thought it would be best to go over to him—it seemed safer—but at the same time, what if he told you to stay where you were? What if it was better not to move?

Your indecisiveness took hold of you, its roots wrapping around your ankles and shackling them in place. You didn’t know what you were supposed to do, you couldn’t figure out the best choice, and the more the ground rumbled, the more stressed you felt, and once again, you stood there like an absolute moron.

The crawling man might’ve said something to you then—you weren’t sure—but you couldn’t hear him over the sound of your own pulse ringing in your skull. Your chest felt tight, your own ribs constricting your lungs like a snake would its prey, and god, just what were you supposed to do?

Your time ran out. At that moment, the ground violently split, rubble and darkness engulfing you whole.

next chapter ->

if you enjoy my writing, please consider reblogging; i really appreciate the interactions.

thank you everyone for reading and supporting my work! (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

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taetebebe · 1 month ago

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SUMMER OF POLAROIDS

Pairing: Jay x afab!reader

Synopsis: This story is like a Polaroid - slow to develop but filled with little details that make it worth the wait.

Word count: 1.5k+

Author's note: Any feedback is appreciated :) Requests are open!

Enhypen Bookshelf [[]

The corner café on 5th wasn’t much to look at - half-faded awning, a rusty wind-chime that played off-key notes in the breeze, and potted plants someone forgot to water weeks ago. But it had the one thing most cafés in the neighbourhood didn’t: silence.

Jay liked that. He liked the stillness between things - the hush before the espresso machine screamed, the quiet clinks of a spoon against porcelain, the way time seemed to slow down inside this particular four-walled bubble.

And most of all, he liked the window seat. The same one he claimed every Friday afternoon. From here, he could see life moving past: hurried pedestrians, dogs dragging their humans, summer rain dripping from telephone wires.

He brought his Polaroid with him, always.

At first, it was just a habit, his quiet rebellion against the endless scroll of digital feeds. The click, the whir, the soft ejection of film. It grounded him. So he snapped the things no one paid attention to: a child with a too-big balloon, the cracked pavement shaped like a heart, light splitting through a glass of water.

But today, something shifted.

You entered, umbrella folded at your side, hair damp with rain. You weren’t dramatic about it, didn’t sweep in like a storm. You just ordered your drink, thanked the barista with a tired smile, and looked around like you were measuring solitude.

Jay raised his camera instinctively but didn’t press the shutter. That was new.

He didn’t know you. You didn’t know him. And yet…

Something about you felt like the first page of a story he wasn’t ready to read aloud.

𖤐

A week passed before you showed up again. Jay had almost convinced himself that you'd been a one-time flicker in his life - like a spark caught on camera, too quick to register.

But there you were. Same café. Same worn denim jacket. This time, you sat by the bookshelf and pulled out a novel like it owed you something.

Jay picked up his drink, but didn’t sip and set it down again. He glanced up once, then again, then more than was socially acceptable.

You didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe you did, but didn’t mind.

Click.

His hand moved before he could talk himself out of it. He captured the moment between your inhale and exhale, the curve of your lips as you turned the page, the soft focus of someone lost in thought.

Later, when the film developed, he tucked the photo into his journal. No label. Just an invisible thread that now tied you to this place in his life.

It wouldn’t be the last.

𖤐

Sometimes, you sat a few seats away. Other days, you chose the bar by the window. You became part of the café’s rhythm - like the windchime, like the shadows of ivy against the walls.

Jay didn’t speak to you.

Not yet.

Instead, he learned your patterns. The way your eyes lingered on certain lines in your book. The way you always finished your drink, no matter how cold it got. The way you sometimes smiled at nothing, like you were remembering something warm.

He never took more than one photo per day. That was his rule. The first click had to matter.

And he never looked directly at you when he did. It was less about hiding and more about reverence. Like he was afraid looking straight at you would make the film melt in his hands.

𖤐

You caught him.

It was bound to happen. One day, you looked up - right as the Polaroid clicked.

He froze, hand hovering, lips slightly parted in surprise. But you didn’t look startled. Just… curious.

You stood up, slow and steady, walked over, and tilted your head.

“Did you just take my picture?”

Jay didn’t lie. “Yeah.”

“Ok.” Pause “Why?”

A pause. Then, softly, “You looked like a memory.”

You blinked. A breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat.

And then, just like that, you smiled. “Can I see?”

He handed you the photo without a word. You studied it for a long time, longer than he expected.

“I don’t usually like pictures of me,” you said, fingers brushing the film’s edge. “But this one… feels quiet. Like I don’t have to try.”

Jay didn’t know what to say to that. But something flickered in his chest, slow and warm.

“I’m Jay,” he finally offered.

You looked up, still holding the photo. “I know. I asked the barista last week.”

𖤐

After that, things didn’t rush forward. No sudden confessions. No grand changes. Just… more.

You sat at his table sometimes. Not every time. You talked about books, and sometimes music, and once about how you think people forget their most important moments until something reminds them.

He asked if he could photograph you again. You said yes, but only if he let you take one of him, too.

You weren’t very good with a Polaroid. The photo came out slightly blurred. But Jay kept it anyway.

They became a pair. Yours and his. Tucked between the pages of his journal. A before and after. A beginning.

𖤐

The days got hotter. Then shorter.

Jay wasn’t good at saying things. But he was good at capturing them.

So when you told him you’d be leaving at the end of the month - moving, just a few cities away. He didn’t try to change your mind. He just nodded. Asked what day. Marked it in his notebook.

The final week, he took one last photo. You, at the café, looking right at him this time. Eyes steady. Smile soft.

He didn’t hand it to you. Not yet.

Instead, on your last day, he met you outside the café with a small box. Inside: a stack of Polaroids. All of you. All the quiet, beautiful moments you didn’t know you gave him.

At the very bottom: the first one.

You held the stack like it might crumble in your hands. Then looked up. “You kept all of these?”

Jay met your eyes. “I wasn’t ready to forget.”

𖤐

You wrote sometimes. Not often. Short letters, tucked between bookstore receipts and café napkins. You’d send them in the mail. He’d respond with photos.

You didn’t label what you had. Neither of you needed to.

The Polaroids faded slowly, like all good memories do. But the feeling stayed.

Long after the summer ended.

𖤐

January 3rd It’s been over a year. The bookstore café closed last week. I walked past anyway. Took a picture of the “FOR LEASE” sign, even though it hurt a little. Your photo is still in my wallet. I don’t take it out much. But I know it’s there. I wonder if your new city has cafés like ours. I wonder if anyone’s photographing you there. I hope not. (Selfish.)

Jay clicked the pen shut and leaned back in the chair, the smell of dust and citrus cleaner mingling with the faintest memory of you. It had been six months. Long enough to move on, supposedly. But he hadn’t filled the journal since.

Each blank page stared back at him.

Each one whispering: she’s gone.

𖤐

The new café in your neighbourhood had nothing on the one you left behind. The windows were too big, too clean. The music was always too loud.

But today, something pulled you back to the city.

You weren’t sure what it was, maybe nostalgia, maybe something else. You walked without planning, let your feet find familiar streets, turned corners you hadn’t in months.

And there it was. The bookstore café, emptied, faded. But still standing.

You paused across the street. The wind lifted your scarf. For a second, you didn’t feel cold.

Then you saw him.

Jay.

Leaning against the edge of the café, camera in hand, staring up at the windows like he could still hear your laughter echoing from inside.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

And you suddenly remembered the first photo he gave you.

The caption you wrote on the back months later:

“A memory I walked into.”

You took a step forward.

𖤐

He looked up right as you crossed the street.

Jay didn’t freeze this time. He moved.

Fast. Like instinct. Like he’d been waiting at that corner every weekend hoping for a moment like this.

You stopped a few feet away.

“Hey,” you said. Like no time had passed.

His smile came slow, but real. “You’re early.”

You blinked. “Early?”

“For the next photo.”

You laughed. God, it felt good to hear him again. “I didn’t know I was scheduled.”

Jay tilted his head, mock-serious. “You’re in at least 57 of them. I figured you knew.”

You shook your head, smiling as he reached into his coat pocket. He handed you something small and soft - a photo.

This one was different. Taken recently. A shot of the café door, slightly ajar.

On the back, written in that familiar neat handwriting:

“I kept hoping the wind would blow it open again.”

You looked up. “So what now?”

Jay glanced down at the Polaroid camera in his hand. Then back at you.

“Now,” he said, “I start a new roll.”

𖤐

March 12th – Café on 12th & Willow Subject: Her, again. Lighting: soft. Backlit by late sun. Expression: something like coming home. She told me today that she never got rid of any of the photos I gave her. I wanted to ask if that meant she was staying. I didn’t. Instead, I took a photo of her hand beside mine. Caption: “Two frames lining up.”

𖤐

#enhypen #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen fluff #enhypen ff #enhypen jay park #enhypen jay #enhypen x reader #jay x reader #jay angst #jay fluff #jay smut #jay ff #jay #park jongseong #park jay #jay park x reader #park jongseong x reader #enhypen senarios #bookshelf [[]

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spiderfunkz · 9 months ago

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─── 𐙚 moon, rain, & our hearts intertwined

pairings. peter parker x fem!reader

word count. 0,3k

cw. fluff, everything u expect from a nerdy + awkward guy, established relationship, some spider-man swining action, and a kiss (in the rain).

a/n : been so busy lately so i haven't written a fic in a while. this is kinda rusty, dunno if i'll be posting more after this but lets just see..

"oh, it's raining." peter looked up, he should've known. should've picked a different day where the skies are free of tears. he frowns as he turns around, "shoot, i forgot my umbrella. sorry."

"nonsense. it's just rain." you smile, "we can wait it out." you added, you both are standing underneath the awning anyways.

he stood beside you, hands down, pinky reaching out to yours. a small gesture you always thought was cute. "it's raining hard, it'll be up for a while," — "that's okay. i have all the time in the world." you lean your head on his shoulder.

"the moon's coming up," peter pointed. the stars were starting to shine under the surprisingly empty street you're on. peter knew this street well, he knew it was quiet, humble. the perfect spot to have a third date with.

the restaurant was quaint, old-fashioned, and definitely underrated. fairly cozy too.

you hum, harmonizing with the buzz-y streetlights. "do you trust me?" peter asks, "why shouldn't i?" you raise a brow.

peter knew it was risky, but boy—would it be a memory.

"okay. i'll swing you to your place. don't worry, your curls won't get damaged. i promise. my jacket will be on your head and i'll hold you tight." he says, it sounded more like a statement rather than a suggestion. his voice was low, though, he knew the old couple sitting by couldn't hear him either way.

"you promise you won't drop me?"

he giggles, "i would never drop you, promise."

you nod your head, agreeing as he lent his jacket to you. it smelled like him, or rather the cologne you bought for him. he never used another one since.

the minute after that felt like a rush. at least your curls were fine though. the rest of you, whatever, you knew peter will fix you up after.

the land to your place snapped you out of the rush. "you okay?" peter fixed up the jacket covering your head, "yeah, are you?" you laugh, peter's hair was drenched.

"i think so." he smiled.

"the rain smudged your lipstick." he wiped. he's always so gentle with you, his touch is soft.

"still pretty." he smiles.

"do i get a goodbye kiss now, bugboy?"

he leans in, never mind, he thought. today was the perfect day, the rain is no one against the two of you.

#flufftober #peter parker #peter parker x reader #peter parker fluff #peter parker imagines #peter parker oneshot #peter parker fanfiction #tasm #tasm peter #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter #tasm!peter parker #andrew garfield!peter parker #tasm andrew garfield #the amazing spiderman #the amazing spider man #peter parker x y/n #peter parker x you #peter parker x fem!reader

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teklarn · 6 months ago

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devoted little thing, pt 1. - j. todd

masterlist!

jason todd x fem!reader

link to the fic on AO3 -> here

genre: angst (series)

summary: After the death of your boyfriend, Jason Todd, your life has never been the same. You abandon everything you've ever known: your job working for Batman as a detective, your home, your friends. That is until three years after his death, your life is saved by a mysterious vigilante calling himself the Red Hood.

You assume it was a one-off; that the infamous anti-hero just happened to be in the right place at the right time. But you're finding his calling card everywhere. He's around every single corner―you can't seem to get rid of him. The mystery of his identity brings you back to Bruce in hopes of finding out who he is. But as intimidating as the Red Hood is, with his blurry morals and all, you can't help but find yourself falling for him.

Your devotion to your late lover, Jason, is strong, but it feels so nice to be touched again―how could you say no to the man who saved your life?

warnings: non canon compliant, heavy themes of depression and anxiety, slight yandere themes to come, slight stalking, suicidal thoughts, heavy angst, death, unedited.

He had always been angry. So damn angry. At you, at the world, at Bruce.

And you knew, dammit. You had known deep down that his anger would cost him dearly one day.

You just didn't think it would put him in the ground.

Tears erupted from your eyes like a waterfall, Bruce and Alfred the only other people present as they dropped your beloved into the ground, his youthful face illuminated by the silver moonlight spilling over the graveyard. The three of you stayed silent. What was there to say? At any other funeral, people would say the usual: He died too young. His life still has meaning. He's looking down on us right now. He'll guide you.

Damn it all. Damn everything. As you stared at that coffin, the dark wood splattered with raindrops violently crashing down, you couldn't help the anger boiling in your veins. Sad as you were, you couldn't help but think to yourself: Was I not enough? Not enough to stop him from chasing his anger down into a well. A pit of darkness so deep and inescapable even you couldn't pull him out of it.

Bruce rests a hand on your shoulder, lifting the umbrella higher to further shelter you from the violent downpour. You pretend not to notice the way his cheeks are rosy from the cold, or how his eyes are watering the longer he stares at the grave.

Death curls its bony fingers around your throat―it whispers sweet nothings in your ear. Once upon a time, you'd been just like Jason. Alone on the streets, an orphan with no direction in life. But cursed with a talent for solving any mystery you could get your hand on, Bruce welcomed you into his family, where you had met Jason. Someone who knew what it was like to be alone. Someone with the same resentment towards the world. The only person who understood you was in the ground now. And, just hours before his death, you had fought.

Jason was no easy-going boy. There were some days where you pondered that perhaps Jason liked to bicker with you. He liked the thrill of fighting, of winning. Your relationship was perfect by no means, but it wasn't toxic. Not until his anger got the best of him, like it had hours before his death. The fight had started like many others and had ended the same way: with him storming out the door, cheeks reddened with fury, hints of tears glinting in his eyes.

On any normal day, you would have chased after him. Told him not to run away from his problems. He would have returned with a scowl on his face, but at least he would still be home. It was the one time you didn't chase after him. The one time you let him slip away.

And dammit, the guilt was stabbing your gut like rusty knives.

You resisted the urge to shove Bruce's hand off your shoulder, instead opting for the respectful option of turning away, claiming you just needed space. Which wasn't entirely a lie. You didn't want to be near Bruce, nor Alfred, but if they hadn't been standing at Jason's grave, you would have stayed there and cried all night. Until your eyes were puffy, until the rain left you a shivering, soaking mess. Until Death came to claim you itself.

Back inside, when Bruce and Alfred finally rejoined you, you'd already showered and changed into a dry pair of clothes. It had taken all the strength left inside your soul to take care of yourself. To not throw yourself onto your bed and drown beneath the plush sheets.

You couldn't look Bruce in the eye. The fire flickered, casting shadows on his harsh features, the flames dancing across the walls. His eyes were angry. His eyes looked like Jason's.

On long, hard days, Jason would rant about Bruce. About his antics, his supposed cowardice, his lack of courage when it came to doing the hard thing over the right thing. On those days, you yearned to tell Jason that he looked just like Bruce. That the only real difference between them was that Bruce would choose his morals over everything.

Now, Bruce's eyes darkened. There was hate behind them. Thoughts swarming, filled with white-hot anger that mirrored your own. That same anger that mirrored Jason's. You couldn't do it. You could barely keep yourself on your feet.

"Is everything all right?" Alfred asked, his gaze averting from his master to you. The wrinkles in his face made you sick. It felt wrong to see someone so old, so wise, someone who had lived life to the fullest of years. In fifty years, Jason should look just like Alfred. With wrinkles and smile lines pressed deep into his features. Crows feet should crinkle at the edges of his eyes and his smile should reflect accomplishment.

You tried to shove the image from your head, but staring at Bruce and Alfred was like looking at future versions of the man you loved. The man you'd just buried underground mere hours ago.

Blinking away tears, you waved off the poor butler. "I have to go. I'm sorry."

Weeks later, you felt entirely, hopelessly useless. And Bruce had allowed you to rot. Your bed was your only comfort aside from your imagination. You'd pull your pillows close, running your hands over the smooth cases, digging your fingers into the wrinkles the same way you'd fist Jason's shirt when he'd hold you. Bruce's disciplined antics hadn't ceased, but he was shockingly understanding.

Well, maybe not shockingly. To him, he'd lost a son. To you, you'd lost a best friend, a lover, a soulmate. Whatever your naive little mind could conjure up. Jason was everything.

As the days dragged on, your anger subsided. All you wanted was him, now. One more minute to apologize for your attitude, one more second just to run your fingers over his olive-toned skin. Just a moment. One fleeting, desperate moment to say three words: "I love you."

Your mind was a prison of grief, your body was a shell housing a half-dead soul. Periodically, Alfred came in to set plates of food on your nightstand. Your mouth watered, but the food remained untouched for the most part. Guilt prodded at your stomach. Bruce should find a way to drag you out of bed. He should force you to stop mourning; to find a distraction. Perhaps a new case for you to dive into.

You felt like throwing up.

Just the image of Bruce's face brought back the image of Jason's. An older, colder version of Jason hardened by the vices of the world. And Alfred, sweet Alfred could place a reason as to why you refused to look at him, too.

It was all because of Jason. Because he deserved to live, to be old and die old. He deserved to be ninety and to rot away in some hospice, waiting for death to greet him like an old friend. His hairline would be receded and his face would be marred with age spots and freckles from years of baking under the sun.

"Miss?" A knock at your door sounded, and the familiar voice of Bruce's friendly butler flooded your ears.

A quiet sob slipped past your lips. Loneliness was consuming you like a disease, but who could you talk to that would be worth your time? Who would understand you, who would bring you back to life the way he always knew how to?

A soft, "Mhm?" was all you could manage.

You heard Alfred peel the door open with a creak, and the smell of steaming hot food invaded your nostrils, the mouth-watering spices wafting into your room and filling the space with warmth and love. He set the plate down on your nightstand, exchanging it for your un-touched dinner from the night before.

"Master Wayne is requesting your presence. Would you...care to join him after breakfast?" The hesitance in Alfred's voice made your guilt ten times worse. You were bloated with regret and sadness―it was spilling through your mouth, your eyes. Your very being was drenched with remorse.

"I can join him now," you say weakly. You didn't care much to make yourself presentable. Bruce had known both you and Jason's since you were children. You'd both been welcomed into the family under the same circumstances. Jason, being only a few years older than you, had been the first to make you feel truly at home. Everything seemed to revolve around Jason and it made you so...so angry.

"He insists you take your time getting ready." The gentleness in Alfred's tone told you everything he meant to portray. Take all the time you need. There's something important he needs to tell you.

When the door clicks shut, you don't know how, but you manage to crawl out of bed. The feeling of your feet on the scratchy carpet is foreign, even the hot water running down your body feels like a new sensation when you're able to drag your ass into the shower. Damn, how long had it been since you last washed up?

The depression had a chokehold on you. It had sunk its teeth and nails bone-deep, slowly slurping the life from your veins. Your body obeyed nothing but sloth. It was a shock even to yourself that you had offered to meet Bruce downstairs.

By the time you wipe the steam off the mirror and see yourself, you look the same as you had the day you buried Jason. Your eyes are still painfully puffy, your skin dry from tears dragging down your cheeks. You throw on suitable but casual clothing, and you have to admit, it feels nice to put yourself together after spending weeks sinking into your mattress, practically binding your body to it.

Downstairs, Bruce is already waiting. Alfred has your coat ready. Your footsteps halt on the stairs as hesitance builds its way through your body. You can still barely look at Bruce without seeing Jason. You train your eyes on Alfred instead, hoping that you'll find his wrinkled face easier to bear.

"What's going on?" Your voice cuts through the silence, echoing painfully along the empty walls of the manor.

Bruce sighs, but you keep your eyes down or on Alfred. You can't look at him. You really can't. He takes your jacket from Alfred and holds the arms out for you. "We're relocating you."

"What? Relocating me? What does that mean?" Confusion ebbs its way into your mind.

"Both Alfred and I have concluded that it isn't healthy for you to stay here anymore. You need something new. Something―"

You cut Bruce off. "What the hell do you mean by relocating me?"

Alfred straightened. "There's an apartment Master Wayne has purchased within the city. We thought it might be better for you to be surrounded by people. There might be an opportunity for you to―"

"To what? I don't need to be moved, I'm fine where I am. What about all the cases I've solved in the past? You don't think I'm fit to do it anymore?" You knew they were only trying to help. That this was the only way they knew how after you'd completely shut down. But your anger couldn't be snuffed out. This outburst was new. It wasn't you. "What? Are you trying to get rid of me? Am I too much of a reminder of him? Don't try to run away from your issues again, Bruce."

You didn't want to say this. You didn't want to be so...mean. But dammit, your mouth was moving too fast for you to think. Even when Alfred and Bruce's faces flickered with sympathy and a strange sense of understanding, you didn't stop your insults.

"I don't need to move. I don't need to run away." Your brows knit together in anger.

"Then what do you need?" Bruce dared to ask.

"I..." Your voice caught in your throat. I want Jason, I want his comfort. I want his words, his arms, his love and unconditional understanding.

Bruce's stern features tightened. Instead of the father-figure you'd come to know, he was just a businessman right now. Cold, calculating, demanding. The strength it took you to meet his gaze was all you needed to snatch your coat and toss yourself into his vehicle.

The apartment wasn't shaggy, but it was homey. It felt much warmer than the emptiness you'd been accustomed to back at the estate. The ride here had been riddled with painful silence, you nor Bruce or Alfred daring to speak. A part of you wanted to apologize for your outburst. It wasn't their fault, they were just trying to help. You knew damn well that was the truth.

One bathroom, one bedroom, a generous kitchen, and a balcony three stories up, overlooking the trash-littered street below. Gotham wasn't a beautiful place, but maybe it was just what you needed. To be around people, surrounded by the environment of people just as lost and as broken as you.

The lack of elegance made you appreciate the apartment that much more. Bruce knew you didn't need anymore empty space to fill. And this...this was what you needed.

Still, some wretched part of you couldn't stand the thought of decisions being made for you. You wanted someone to blame, someone to yell at. Something to take out your anger on.

"We'd like to keep in touch." Bruce handed you a transmitter. One of his high-tech ones made just for you. It was an order, not a request. You snatched the transmitter from his calloused hands and stuffed it away.

"How do you know I'm not going to kill myself now that no one is watching me?" You snickered. Your chuckle was humorless. It was a painful truth they hadn't thought of. Or...they had, judging by the tension pulling on their features.

You didn't want to ask how or why.

Don't make this about you, you scolded yourself. Gray emotions swirled within you.

"We'll deliver your things tomorrow morning. Just allow yourself to get settled in." Alfred nodded to the transmitter. "If you need anything―anything at all―don't hesitate to reach out. This will be good for you."

You must have pushed the awkward farewells from your mind, because somehow you ended up on the floor of your new apartment, sobbing at the emptiness. The void of your new home felt like a region in outer space that even an alien wouldn't belong to. Your mixed emotions, the pain running through your chest, it was all a constant reminder of what you lost, of who you were haunted by. Of the person you'd never see again.

The emptiness inside of you was a permanent reminder of the person you had once loved the most, and how he had died thinking you were angry at him.

This is good for me, you reminded yourself.

Tears spilled from your eyes.

This is good for me.

link to the fic on AO3 -> here

#angst #dc fanfic #batfamily #dc x reader #jason todd x reader #dcu #jason todd #red hood #redhood #jason todd angst #red hood x reader #red hood x you #x reader #dick grayson #nightwing #batman #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne #red hood angst

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