#without a doubt this is a shitty shitty shift | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

haztory · 18 days ago

Text

bias.

masterlist | part two

— jack abbot x fellow f!reader; attending/fellow dynamic, age-gap (unspecified but assumption is reader is late 20s and up while jack is mid-40s), heavy plot, slow-burn, angst, character harassment (from an original male character), mentions of grief, mentions of jack's late wife, mentions of racism against staff, sexual content (mild), mentions of death, protective jack abbot, medical inaccuracies, mentions of needles, these two taking care of each other without realizing, ohio slander (srry!)

— word count: 11k

— summary: A week on the floor with Dr. Jack Abbot. Or: The multiple shifts in which Dr. Abbot's bias towards you shows.

SHIFT ONE, Sun-Mon, 4:15 AM:

“Did you tell Reno you were going to shove your foot up his ass?”

You pause your charting at the rolling cart outside of North 12 and look over your shoulder.

Jack stands behind you, arms crossed, with a raised brow and his lips pulled thin. Not sternly— you're familiar with what that looks like, have been on the receiving end of that a few times. This is a tempered concern, one he pushes down lest he get too involved.

“Yep.” You answer, simply. You return to your charting, fingers clacking loudly on the keyboard as the truth buoys in the air.

He huffs a breath, heavy. An attempt to roll out the strife that comes with the burden of being an attending. “You trying to make my Monday shitty?”

“Trying to keep you on your toes, old man.” You return.

He steps in beside you, leaning his good shoulder against the wall as he faces you. He keeps his gaze beyond you, scanning the movements of the ER.

“You wanna tell me why?”

“I don’t think you want to know.”

“I don’t.” He agrees.

“So, why are you asking?”

“Morbid curiosity.” He admits, dryly. Hazel eyes fall to you, swimming with a suppressed amusement that only a poet could accurately describe. “And he wants me to write you up.”

A sigh escaped your mouth, heavy and inconvenienced. You turn to him. “He told Anna Maria to spend less time speaking ‘her language’ and more time speaking ‘ours’ so she could fulfill his orders.”

His lips flick downward, heat infusing with the twitch. “You see it?”

“No. Caught her in the stairwell crying and she told me. Apparently, he’s been picking at her all night. I wouldn’t be surprised if she wasn’t the first one he said this to. So, I told him if I ever see him speaking like that to one of my nurses I’d take him to the parking lot and shove my foot up his ass.”

Jack nods. It’s weighty and slow as he digests your words, but there is otherwise no conflict on his face. The heat from before extinguishing. No shade change, no visible opinion. Resolute, resound, completely normal, when he says, without much effect, “Okay.”

The typical smart quip dry remark remains nowhere to be found.

He steps away from you and walks the short distance to the front desk and settles behind it. You watch him quietly, clueless as he grabs a post-it note from behind the desk and a pen from the cupholder and begins writing something. Completely unable to read the man.

“Okay?” You probe, drawing closer to him.

“I believe you.” He says.

A beat passes, filled with the low hum of the moving ER and the faint sound of his pen scratching on the paper. He puts the pen back into the cup holder then folds the paper up, tucking it into the breast pocket of his scrubs. It’s a simple thing yet the charged silence makes it feel like a great epic.

The fated paper written on account of your words. His face makes no betrayal of its contents. Even in your own obvious glance down to the paper then to his eyes, he makes no movement to provide clarity.

“I’m not apologizing.” You say after a minute.

“I didn’t ask you to.” Jack tilts his head to the side. “Would’ve done the same damn thing.”

Silence stretches, long and heavy as your eyes hold on his.

“I don’t like him.” You explain, as if that could help anything. Jack nods and this time you understand it to be one of agreement.

There’s no doubt of the new transfer’s value as a knowledgeable doctor, just as there is no doubt that PTMC needs another night shift doctor on the rotations. But within those resounding truths comes another of equal importance.

Dr. Maxwell Reno, the new fellow on the floor transferred from Cleveland three months ago, is a dick.

“Neither do I. But I don’t like anybody.” A flicker of understanding sparks in his eyes. “I’d pay good money to see you take him in the parking lot, though.”

A smile finally breaks onto your face. “Give me Friday off and I’ll do it right here.”

“Yeah, and get stuck with paperwork? Try again, city girl.”

“Worth a shot.” You shrug and he shakes his head. Only a slight downturned smile gracing his face..

A steadied quiet fills the space. The ER only slightly awake tonight with the small troubles. A young boy who had fallen off his bunk bed, a teenager on fluids from a stress induced migraine, and some other small plights that have trickled onto the floor. It’s hardly ever like this, the forbidden “quiet”. Usually a storm falls in shortly after but tonight, the quiet has been just that. Quiet.

There’s a slight wariness in everyone, the other shoe dangling from the ceiling that everyone keeps glancing to. Waiting for it to teeter, maybe even thud violently against the floor. And yet, nothing. For once, it’s a nice thing to wade into, because it leads to moments like this. Pleasant exchanges and generous smiles from the man usually averse to those.

“I can tell Anna Maria to come talk to you.” You supply, only to make his life easier.

He shrugs, considering it. “Sure, only if she wants to. But you handled it. Should be fine.”

“You gonna do it?”

“Write you up?” He asks. You nod.

He walks around the front desk, his slow gait bringing him before you. “Do I look like a school principal?”

“Grey hair had me convinced.”

He glares. The edge of your grin cracks wider. “I can’t professionally condone fellow-on-fellow crime—”

“—You have got to stop hanging with Shen—”

“—but you’re my only brawler on the floor and we’re running low on those. So no.”

“Brawler? It was one time!”

“You tackling that 37-year-old meth addict is a fan favorite.”

“Is that why you’re keeping me around?”

“It’s not because of your suturing, I can tell you that.” He leans comfortably against the desk, and for all the quiet murmurs that have gone around about Jack and his hard sarcasm and no-bullshit attitude, he is wildly comfortable in this moment. Eased, despite the constant glancing at the other shoe. Joking, at your expense. As he settles into an easy tease and his body relaxes, you find that you don’t mind him poking at you all that much. Not if it gets him like this.

You raise a brow at the mention. “Didn’t realize you all were thinking about it that much.”

“Every night before bed. Your screams help me sleep.”

You hit his arm playfully. “You’re so morbid.”

“Wait ‘til you see what I use to meditate.”

You feel, then, the tingling sensation of an audience on you. Glancing up, you see the quick scurrying of some nurses pretending to be occupied. The whites of their eyes seen at the very last second, just as they pull their stares away from the quiet moment.

“You should get out of here before the peanut gallery starts accusing you of bias.” There’s a thrum of dismay that pulses through you at the suggestion. The feeling of a good moment ending that you unknowingly try to cling on to. You stampen it out before the possibility of it shows on your face.

“Bias? Of what? I don’t like you that much.” The tone is dry, wholly Jack, and yet his eyes make home to a low burning whim of trouble like it always belonged there. “If anyone says anything, I’ll just take it from the expert and shove my foot up their ass.”

He taps his hand on your desk, a finalizing drum before he departs.

“Hopefully the metal one.” You call after his retreating figure.

“You know it.” He says without looking back.

The sound of your laugh resounds through the halls.

SHIFT TWO, Mon-Tues, 9:17 PM:

Meredith Sakman, a 67-year old woman who fell off her kitchen chair as she was trying to clean her kitchen light, sits before you in the examination room as you suture the superficial laceration sustained to the right side of her head.

Her hands, wrinkled with age and wisdom, fiddle with each other incessantly. Passing from twiddling with her wedding ring to drumming on her thighs as you weave thread through skin.

Sensing her discomfort, you fill the space. “So, Mrs. Sakman—how long have you been married?”

She seems startled out of the fog of her head, ”Oh, uh, 42 years.”

“Wow. Congratulations.” You hum, sincerely. “What’s the secret?”

“I don’t know. All these years and he’s still the person I look for when I walk into a room.”

“Must be an outstanding man.”

“When he wants to be. He’s a little bit of a grouch, but he makes me laugh.” She laughs, and the wistfulness of her voice grounds the room. You smile inadvertently at the details of her love.

“Are you dating anyone?” She asks curiously, just as your forceps tie one end of the suture.

“Uh, no. I am not.” Saying it isn’t a confession of fault. It’s fact.

The priority has always been your career. School first to get you to the good job that can get you to the rest of your life. You weren’t made for much of the troublesome youth, a fortunate detail your parents never took for granted. Smart head on your shoulders that got you the New York residency for three years, that led you to pursue the Pittsburgh EM fellowship—year one of two already knocked off your belt.

Dating—as desirous as it could be on the lonely nights—didn’t fit much into that picture. The type of men that were interested in dating you didn’t fit into that picture.

“Well that’s odd.” Mrs. Sakman heaves, truly stunned by your admission. “You’re a beautiful young woman. And a doctor. They should be rushing to snatch you up.”

“Well, you know. Guys my age tend to find that intimidating and often can’t measure up.” You explain simply and the older woman scoffs.

“You need an older man.” She smiles knowingly. “One who knows a couple of things and can be your match. I’ve had my fair share of them and they were quite the memories.”

You don’t settle too long on her words, no matter how much you agree with them. Have always been told that you needed someone mature, like you.

You move on. “I bet you were a hot gun back in the day.”

“Still am, sweetheart.” She giggles. “You know, my son is single.”

You give her a deadpan stare from above, halting the thread of your needle to meet her gaze.

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You scold and she holds her hands up in defense.

“He’s a very smart man! Has his own accounting firm, very sweet and I’m not saying that because he’s my son. He’s 40 and you’d make a good match. And with that face of yours, you’d give me beautiful grand babies.”

You laugh, tying up the final knot in the suture and setting the forceps on the cart beside you. The excess thread is cut off with your scissors. “Unfortunately, I’m not in the habit of dating anyone related to my patients.”

“Then I’d like to see another doctor, please. So that way I’m not your patient.”

You shake your head with a smile. “You are a trip, Mrs. Sakman.”

The exam room settles into a comfortable silence, filled with the overheard sounds of the life of the ER around you. The small chatter in the curtained room beside you, the hum of machines, the occasional shout or laugh from the nurses desk.

Just as you finish up your dutiful matters to her laceration, slipping the gloves off and directing your attention to her to explain proper suture care—

—she’s calling out to someone over your shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir! Can you be my doctor?”

Turning around, you see Jack is caught mid-stride walking past your room. His face scrunches in concern.

“Everything alright?”

“Mrs. Sakman—“ You begin hastily, mortification burning through you as he steps into the enclosed space.

Mrs. Sakman, in her rosy glory, plows on. Meeting the man with an effervescent grin that gives no cause for caution. “Oh yes, your doctor here is lovely and has taken such good care of me, but I’d like you to be my doctor.”

A brow raises, his eyes flicking to yours for explanation.

You flounder for a moment, your mouth opening and closing repeatedly. The chagrin you feel is red hot and there is little hope that it doesn’t reflect obviously in your face.

“Dr. Abbot—” You sigh, begrudgingly, fingers at your forehead as you try to rub the embarrassment away, “Mrs. Sakman is trying to set me up with her son but as I said, I do not date relatives of my patients.”

“Ah.” He takes the information in stride, nodding his head with latent interest. Cool, calm, and collected while you fluster over the discussion of your dating life.“You trying to take one of my doctors from me, Mrs. Sakman?”

“If you’ll let me.” She smiles

“You don’t have to put your son through that torture. Order me a pastrami deli sandwich and I’ll give her to you for free.” Jack tilts his head to the side, grabbing a pair of gloves from the wall. He pointedly ignores the loud offended gasp you emit.

“Let’s take a look at you.” Sliding the gloves on and stepping up beside the older woman, he begins a gentle survey of the laceration. Fingers slightly touching the wound, turning his head this way and that in review.

“Sutures look good. CT clean?”

“Not even a hairline fracture.” You present, “She’ll be tired, maybe a bit dizzy, but otherwise she’s good. Anticoagulants have been prescribed along with tylenol for the next couple of days. Gonna keep her for another hour for observation before discharge with a wonderful guide on how to clean her sutures.”

“Good.” Jack nods. “Well, unfortunately, Mrs. Sakman, there’s not much more for me to do that your current doctor hasn’t. So you will have to stay in her care.”

“You can’t make an exception for a poor woman?” She sweetens.

“Your flirtations won’t work on me, young lady.” He issues, low and exceptionally playful.

Mrs. Sakman giggles akin to a teenage girl, her face turning rosy as she waves Jack away.

“Besides—” Hie head gestures to you as he speaks to Mrs. Sakman, “—we call this one Rambo behind her back. We give her up, we gotta spend more money on security and that’ll come out of my paycheck.”

Jack takes off his gloves and tosses them into the bin, giving you a long, knowing look. Mirthful and wry, it holds against your dry, scolding one. Waiting for you to make a rebuttal, calculating the moves and ways it would come out of your mouth for him to counter. You anticipate it, depriving him of the reaction that he’s looking for despite the way his eyes dig into yours, searching for it. Looking like he couldn’t stop looking for it, like it would make his whole night if you just caved.

You stick your tongue in your cheek and he watches, fixated—the ghost of amusement casting over his face as he sidesteps you by the curtain’s opening.

Your eyes trail after him, doing so well in withholding until he tilts his head at you. Beckoning. Your lips quirk upward then, and it’s all he needs.

He breaks the prolonged charge with a sweet goodbye to your patient. “Have a good night, Mrs. Sakman.” Then, to you, he innocently says. “Holler if you need me.”

And then he’s gone, leaving from whence he came. The crater of his weighty presence settles in the room.

You turn to Mrs. Sakman, with a shake of your head and an exasperated smile on your face. “And that is why you don’t want Dr. Abbot as your doctor.”

“Is he seeing anyone?” She laughs.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a daughter you want to set up, too.” You admonish.

“No. But you should pursue that one. That look, I’ve seen that before.”

It’s a splash of cold water over the heat that was simmering within you. At the embarrassment, at his teasing. A voiced thought that has no place for existence in this room—in this department, in this moment, in your life.

(A voiced thought that has infiltrated your own a time or two. That has wiggled its titillating fingers into the wayward dream, made a mountain out of a molehill, leaving your chest heaving, your thighs clenching, and the thought of Jack Abbot vivid on your mind.)

You push on, clearing your throat and detouring before your embarrassment escalates to humiliation. “Alright, Mrs. Sakman. I’m going to print out a guide for you that tells you how to take care of your sutures.”

“I’m serious. Rules be damned, life’s too short. And he’s too handsome.” She insists just as you mean to step out of the exam room. You see only sincerity and genuity in her features. “I can see you with someone like him.”

Your mouth opens to find a response only to be met with the drying of your tongue. Words suddenly hard to connect, meaning difficult to find.

Finally, with little resolve and even less polish, you mutter, “Be back soon.”

SHIFT THREE, Tues-Wed, 12:05 AM

“Hey! You think you can take my shift, sunshine?”

Ellis’ voice stops you from your walk from the bathroom and into the break room where she and Hilly gaze curiously back at you. The resident and the nurse are two of your favorites on the night shift, stopping for them is akin to stopping for air.

“Rambo, brawler, sunshine. I’m getting all the nicknames this week.” You lean against the doorframe, peering at the two women who smile easily at you. “When?”

“Next Tuesday.”

“Can’t. I’ll be on vacation.” You tell her with pity.

“Oh shit.” Her voice is light despite the disappointment. A welcome refresh on the night shift. “Where you going?”

“Florida.” The excitement is barely contained in your words. The prospect of a long vacation—away from the noise, away from the stress, away from disinfectant and in the sun—is a long overdue one. That excitement is shattered upon Hilly and Parker’s audible groan of disgust. Your mouth drops in shock as you defend. “I’m visiting my sister!”

“Don’t get eaten by a gator.” Hilly mumbles.

“Or a disney adult.” Parker pokes and you roll your eyes.

“I will be at the beach, thank you very much. A whole week with a piña colada in my hand and a tiny bikini on.”

Parker stands from her seat at the break table and fills up her thermos from a water bottle in the fridge. “If you come back with sun poisoning, I’m gonna laugh.”

“I’m a pro at tanning.” You insist.

She raises a brow. “Even with a tiny bikini on?”

“Especially with a tiny bikini on.” You assert.

She shrugs with a smile. “We’ll see.”

“Talk to Abbot.” You tell her, returning back to the topic, “He might cover it.”

It’s almost comical the way Parker and Hilly’s faces scrunch in unanimous uncertainty.

“Not today.” Ellis says.

“It’s one of those days.” Hilly supplements. You nod in understanding, not entirely faulting the reasoning. Warnings were issued throughout the crew the minute the shift started. Steer clear. Dr. Abbot woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.

Or maybe he didn’t sleep at all.

“Unless you wanna ask him for me?” Ellis counters, curiously.

Your brows furrow. “Why me?”

“Because you would get a much different answer than I would get.”

“No, I wouldn’t.” You insist, off put by the implication that you have any kind of weight to you in respect to Jack. Jack doesn’t lean on anything, for anyone. He doesn’t waver, he doesn’t reconsider. He’s a straight shooter, calling things like he sees it, having answers before the situation even arises.

If anything, your familiarity and comfortability with him makes you more prone to being at the short end of his sticks. Voluntold for things less than appealing—like picking up more shifts, by his steadfast hand.

“He’d say the same thing to me that he would to you.”

Hilly and Parker, in another feat of supernatural alignment, look at one another. A silent discussion translated in the look before they return to you.

“Sure.” Hilly nods.

“Whatever you say.” Ellis supports. Your guffaw is met with Hilly’s boisterous giggles.

That is, until her laughter is unceremoniously shot dead. An arrow to the heart, a quick and frigid silence encompassing the room. A glance at her reveals widened eyes fixated on something over your shoulder.

The man in question stands behind you, lips in a thin line as his gaze bounces between the three of you.

“Are we a hospital or a talk show, now?”

The two women quickly make their excuses, shuffling out of the room in a speed remarkably unlike either of them.

“Nope, on the way out now—”

“—I just remembered I’m so busy—”

Leaving only the two of you to occupy the break room. You half expect him to throw a comment out to you, expelling you back to the trenches of the ER but he doesn’t. He steps into the room with a low mutter. Unintelligible and gruff, resounding of the ire that has become him since the night started.

The smell of his aftershave wafts past you. A cool mist twined with a musk. Inexplicably, him. Resonant of the stoic confidence that emanates off of him. Resounding man.

He’s tense as he approaches the counter, pulling a mug out of the cupboard and flicking on the coffee machine. It’s visible in the way he carries himself. The stance of a soldier back on war grounds, eyes skirting, glancing over his shoulder, listening for something. Not the sound of an incoming ambulance, not the sound of an intern struggling during a procedure. Something almost quiet, imperceptible. Known only to him, familiar to the memories that live in the lines of his face. A call with no name.

A call that will bring back all that he’s lost.

“Ellis needs her shift covered next Tuesday.” You toss the test balloon out, wondering if it’s enough of that kind of day for him to shoot it down with a precise blow dart or if there’s enough gentility in him to at least let it float by.

“Sounds like an Ellis problem.” He mumbles.

“Just throwing it out there. In case you happen to have a solution.”

He looks over his shoulder, his eyes clearly bounce between yours, digging for a moment, before he turns his attention back to the coffee machine.

“I’ll see.”

Floating by, it is.

“Everything good?” You ask his turned figure. Stepping further into the minefield, seeing what lands, which foot you place will step on the mine. “You’ve been working all week.”

He snorts, but there’s no humor to be found. “So have you.”

“Yeah, but I’m off for a week starting Saturday. When are you off?”

”Saturday.”

A quiet hangs in the air, filled with your expectancy. ”…that’s it?”

“And Monday.”

“You need more than that.”

One shoulder raises in a shrug. The smell of ground coffee fills the air as the pot bubbles to toil with the brew. Nothing particularly interesting and yet his attention is fixated. “Not dead yet.”

You hum, suspicious enough. “Rough night?”

“What makes you say that?”

The edge to his tone, that’s identical to the edge in his posture, that’s exactly like the edge in his attitude. Any and all of the above.

“You’re wired, today.”

The observation isn’t groundbreaking. It doesn’t shatter windows, or break the sound barrier. It is a recognized truth that sits in the air with little disruption. He says nothing. Only pours the pot of black coffee into his mug.

He’s not wearing his ring.

The black one that has stayed permanently fixed on his left hand, third finger.

There’s only been a handful of shifts in your year at PTMC that you’ve seen him without it—and they all felt like this. Rough. Tense. Like someone is one misstep away from receiving the glare that maims the career.

It’s not a secret that Dr. Abbot lost his wife to cancer a few years after he was medically discharged from the Army. Just the mythology that lingers in the air like antiseptic. It’s easy to piece together that the days of his rigidity happen to coincide with whether or not his ring is on.

And maybe that’s why you’ve been able to gravitate towards him. Not out of pity, but understanding. Respect. Admiration. Anyone with two eyes can tell that Jack carries himself with a significant weight—a testament to the life he’s lived, all that he has learned and lost. It’s a quiet confidence, an assumed burden that shows in his gait. A shining light that draws the helpless to him.

It’s hard to not be drawn to someone like him.

So, you try. Out of some loose notion of affinity, respect, out of some desire to give back, you push where you know you probably shouldn’t.

“You know…if you ever want to talk— about life, your day, what you ate this morning, something stupid you saw—” Your voice falters, hesitant for a moment before you find your steel commitment and push. “—grief. You can always talk to me. I’m here. At work. Out of work.”

His body goes still. Rigid. And stupidly, you wonder if this was the call he was listening for.

“I won’t pretend to know. But, I can listen. If you want me to. Just ask.”

You don’t think he’ll ever take you up on it. In fact, it’s laughable to think that your attending—the man leagues above you in experience, and knowledge, and wisdom, would willingly stoop down to his fellow’s standing and talk about his feelings. Men like him compartmentalize. It’s what makes him an excellent doctor. The immovable rock under the beating current of the river. The beacon in a rushing trauma room.

But a foolish part of you tries because… well, because you want to.

Because it’s Jack, at the end of the day. Battlin’ Jack with the edge in his eyes and the razor on his tongue. The first one you look for in a busy operating room, the last one you spot as you're packing up for the night.

Hazel eyes turn over his shoulder and find their spot on you with immediate precision. Boring a hole into you. Analyzing, configuring, understanding. He stares at you, in a charged stillness, almost like he were doing all three things at once and coming up empty on whatever he was trying to find.

“…Sure.”

You understand in the hesitancy that there is something hidden that he’s not wanting to share. You try to reason that his answer, as vague as vague comes, is a good thing, if only to save yourself from the disappointment of realizing that your attempt for connection has met a stoned wall. His words ring of finality, his signal to end the conversation.

It’s here where the berth between you two feels so enormous, the difference in your stages of life. Not in the quips of the shifts, not in the jests of your being his junior and your teases of his age. Not when you’re beside him manning a procedure and working in tandem with the makings of a well-oiled machine as though you were always meant to work with him. But here, where you catch Jack in the hush and see glimpses of the man under the doctor is where the reminder is so pointed.

Signed, sealed, and delivered with red tape in your line of sight. Caution, written in his crow’s feet. Tread lightly, in the wrinkle of his smile lines. Warnings you should heed.

And yet, keep pushing, echoes in the beat of your heart.

You nod, a small, resigned smile crossing your face. Leaving well enough alone.

“Okay.” Tapping a hand against the doorway, you begin to take your leave from the room.

“Oh!” You stop yourself, turning back to him only to find that his eyes are still trained on you. “Uh, your patient in fourteen said he was experiencing a burning sensation in his penis when I walked by.”

“He’s in for heartburn from eating a shit ton of takis.” He says, diffident.

“Guess he didn’t lick all the dust off his fingers.” You shrug.

“Sounds like it.”

You take your leave and in the wake of your absence, Jack takes a harrowing breath.

His therapist’s voice lingers in his head.

Doesn’t have to be the whole fleet. Doesn’t have to be announced. Just one is enough. Just a status update is all they need. All you need.

And maybe it's because he knows the sincerity behind your words, the invitation doesn’t feel like a hanging noose like it usually does. The prospect of talking about it—giving the status update—is akin to a standing death sentence for a man like him. Giving the unnamed a name, voicing it into existence, giving it the power to consume.

He’s getting better at it. Giving the small doses in the official setting, where it's him, four beige walls, and a man with a PhD. Taking it outside of there, though, is still the battling challenge.

But—when you say it, when you offer—

He pushes past it, doesn’t try to think too hard about it. Stocks it up on a shelf out of reach. Something to handle later, to forget about when he remembers to toss it out. Or, if the mood catches him just right in the safety of Dr. Mott’s office, he’ll bring it up. Discuss what it means, what he should do about it.

He doesn’t know. Only knows that a door has been left ajar, breadcrumbs of care and comfort leading a trail through and to you. Cracked open by your gentle hand.

Only knows that in the dormant hold of a wounded man and the slow becoming of a new one that he’s pushing himself to, Jack finds himself feeling the faint pang of hunger for something other than self-inflicted guilt and shame.

He eyes the breadcrumbs you left behind. Wondering, deep in the recesses of his conflicted mind, how they would taste.

He chugs his coffee, burns the taste buds on the tip of his tongue. Hopes that it erodes the want right where it began, cripples the potential to even try.

(It doesn’t.)

Thurs-Fri, 11:35 PM:

Jack is two forearms deep in the cracked thoracic cavity of an intubated 46-year old woman performing an EDT when the doors to Trauma One open.

“Dr. Abbot, can I speak to you?” Dr. Reno, communal night shift’s bane of existence and general nuisance, shouts into the operating room.

Jack has no more of an issue with the man than he does with anyone from Ohio—a general sense of pity coupled with a scrutinized squint of the eyes at some unsavory opinions that tend to come from the Buckeyes, particularly when the Steelers are playing—but the general opinion of the team’s feelings are not lost on him.

He’s heard the whispers, seen the way the crowd parts like the Red Sea when the man is around. Jack keeps his head down, for the most part. He’s not Robby. Aside from the general check-in and check-out, he doesn’t want to manage people. Personalities exist, but they don’t matter in the heat of the moment. He leaves them be, pointedly making quirks and general tendencies a side effect of the job. Pointedly makes it not his business.

Until it is.

“Don’t know if you have eyes, Reno, but I’m kind of busy.” Jack responds, quick and cool, before turning his attention to Ellis’s intubation, “Drop the left lung and pump another three CC’s. Pericardium is getting cut.”

“Find me after.” Reno says briskly, the doors shutting loudly.

Something vile and uncouth springs to his mind, annoyance cutting through Jack like a stabbing knife at the summoning. Something inappropriate, unprofessional, mildly threatening on a good day. Its sentiment is met in equal parts with Ellis’ mumble of “dick” which only makes Jack feel slightly better.

Scissors cut through the thin wall of the heart’s membrane and quickly spot the torn ventricle that’s spouting blood profusely.

“Found our geyser.” Plugging the hole shut with his finger into the rupture, he looks over to Walsh. “Ready to stop twiddling your thumbs, Dr. Walsh?”

“About time.” She rebuts, moving in beside him and beginning the suturing of the heart.

Then a moment later, as her forceps pull thread through delicate tissue, she says, “You should handle that.”

He doesn’t need clarification to know what she means. “And you should handle this.”

“I’m doing my job.” She pushes. “Do yours.”

12:05 AM

“I’m concerned about your other fellow.”

If time could be rewound, he’d go back to this morning and let the phone ring into oblivion. Ignore the call asking him to come in tonight and spend the rest of his day watching the Pirates play the Yankees. Would rather watch his team get their asses handed to them than have this conversation—knowing where it’s going, knowing who it's about. The regret of his decisions only grates him further.

Dr. Abbot doesn’t find Dr. Reno. Dr. Reno finds Dr. Abbot—contrary to the directive that interrupted the procedure in South-13.

Just as he’s stepping out of the OR and chucking his bloodied gloves into the trash bin, Maxwell is on him without preamble. That stabbing feeling—the unabated annoyance— creeps up his neck like a fucking burn. So much so that Jack has to roll it out before even looking at the new fellow.

His eyes flick to the man, deeply unimpressed at how dogged the man appears to be. He continues his path towards the workstation. Dr. Reno follows after him, quick on his heels.

“Her charts and prescriptions are suspect.”

“What, is there not enough work, man? You’re reading other doctors’ charting notes?”

“She and I have disagreed too often about standards of care.”

“Then leave it as a disagreement and move on.”

“Just—” Dr. Reno grabs onto Jack’s arm, halting him in place. It earns the man a putrid glare, Jack’s eyes boring into the hand that lingers on his bicep until Dr. Reno takes the hint and quickly removes it. “—look at it, Dr. Abbot. I’m concerned.”

Reno holds out a folder, one that Jack fights the urge to grab and chuck across the ER. There are no niceties when Jack takes it, his ire blatant as he yanks the folder from the man’s hand.

Your name is the first thing he sees on the document. A usual tender, easing thing within him that Jack refuses to draw attention to—the sight of your name below his on the schedule set for the same shift, the pop-up notification of your name in the work group chat whenever you send a text. Something he would continue to dutifully ignore were it not for the fact that the notes labeled as “suspect” are notes you’ve made on a patient dated a week and a half ago.

He scans the timeline, red quickly filling his vision. Steel becomes him the minute his gaze flicks up to Reno, finding the man looking back at him expectantly.

“This is your smoking gun? Really?” Reno nods, emphatically. Jack grits his teeth. “Get back to work, Maxwell.”

“The patient was coughing up blood and complained of chest pain. CT confirmed it was a pulmonary embolism which should’ve resulted in a cardiac catheterization.” Reno insists, bulldozing past the point of professional restraint.

“Not if it wasn’t severe enough.”

“It was enough for the patient to be transferred for admission and OR to take care of it. This is a clear case of delay in proper care.”

“You’re upset that one of our doctors isn’t trigger happy with a knife? That she—” Jack looks to the chart record again, spotting a note that makes him more irritated, “That she correctly prescribed and provided anticoagulants that reduced patient discomfort and clearly instructed the patient to follow up with their PCP the next day.”

“And him being on the schedule for the upstairs OR today?”

“A week and a half after the patient’s visit to the ER. Clearly not admitted through us and yet treated in our hospital. Wonder what that could mean.” Jack bites sarcastically. “Oh yeah, that the patient followed up with their PCP and it was decided to remove the clot.”

“Dr. Abbot—“

“Stop following up on other doctors' charts. Focus on your patients. And don’t bother me with this shit again unless it's serious.” The folder is shoved unceremoniously into Reno’s chest. “Whatever beef you got against her, don’t bring it to my floor.”

It’s when Jack is halfway down the hall that another remark is called out.

“I didn’t realize you were so biased.”

His leg aches in the socket of his prosthetic, a sign of his lowering threshold. The pulse of blood felt worse in the stub more than anywhere else. Turning, his eyes narrow.

“Excuse me?”

”You should’ve written her up. You know you should’ve.” Reno explains as Jack steps—stalks—closer. “It was a threat against another doctor. Management won’t be happy that you’ve overlooked it.”

Abbot stands before him, his chin tilting up just as his jaw clenches. “I didn’t overlook anything. I’m well aware of what happened and I’m choosing to handle it differently.”

“You handled it wrong.”

Jack's eyes narrow. A long steadied exhale is released, like a bull catching sight of the red. “You caught me on a good day. Take a walk, Dr. Reno. If you can’t be a team player and get your shit on straight, then consider this permission to get out of the ER for the night. Your choice.”

“You can’t—“

“Make. Your choice. Before I make it for you.”

12:17 AM

You’re on the back of a motorcycle with the wind in your hair when a phone call interrupts. Opening your eyes is like pulling yourself out of tar, but the caller ID does the hard work of taking you out of the depths of your REM cycle.

“Hello?” You ask, voice groggy and tired.

“Sorry to be calling you so late. I know it’s your day off.” Hilly’s voice sounds on the other end of the phone. “Any chance you can come in and work an 8-hour?”

“Why? What’s going on?” You’re already sitting up in your bed, the decision to head into work practically made.

“Reno had to head out for an emergency. We’re short one.”

“Oh shit.” You mutter. You raise the heel of your palm to rub into your eye. “I didn’t realize I was next on the rotation.”

“You aren’t. Dr. Abbot asked for you.”

If the decision wasn’t made before, it was made now. “I’ll be there in thirty.”

“You’re the best.” Over the line, you hear from a familiar but faint voice in the background, “She coming in?”

“Yes!” Hilly calls, before turning her attention to you. “Dr. Abbot gave a thumbs up, but it was a grateful one. I can tell.”

12:52 PM

“What took you so long?” Jack calls over his shoulder, seemingly already knowing you’ve entered the ER without even glancing backward.

You watch as the back of his head tilts up to the status board, then back down to his notes. You saddle up beside him, placing your bag onto the nurses desk for shoving into a locker later and lean against the workstation.

“Yankees beat Pirates ten to four. I should be out on the town. You’re lucky I’m here at all.” You push back and he tuts, annoyed. Whether at you or the game, you’re unsure, but it brings a smile to your face.

You peer into his notes. If he minds, he makes no visible sign of it.

“I’m delighted, truly. Nothing screams lucky more than watching the unit crash and burn while we wait for you to grace us with your presence.” He retorts, but there’s no venom to his bite.

“You’re smart, Dr. Abbot. You can handle it.”

”Yeah? Then what do we pay you for?”

“PTMC needed the city flair.” You smile widely at him.

“The shitty one?”

“The New York state of mind. The wins and all. You’ll understand when the Pirates finally fix their offense in the outfield.”

“Don’t forget the stellar humility.” He hums, noncommittal. “And leave the Buccos out of this.”

You tilt your head at him. “You don’t like me because I’m humble.”

“Like implies affection.” He replies, easily. “Tolerate is more accurate, city girl.”

“Whatever you say, old man.” You sigh. “I get to leave early tomorrow though, right?”

“Extortion.”

“Tit for tat.”

An announcement rings over the intercom. An inbound GSW, four minutes out. The room turns then, those settling in the front half of the floor preparing in an orchestrated chaos for the arrival. Jack grabs a pair of gloves from the box affixed to the wall, tossing them over to you before grabbing and slipping on his own. Jack finally looks over to you, his eyes doing a quick once over of you before he settles back on your face—readied, but easy.

Seamless and still anticipation constructing your features, determination filtering in through the artful weave of your calmness. You stand sliding gloves onto your hands welcoming the impending disaster like it were an old friend.

If there were nerves to be had on you, he couldn’t find them.

It only compounds the ridiculousness of Reno from earlier. Only furthers Jack’s unwavering lack of doubt when it comes to you. You stand awaiting the incoming trauma like you hadn’t just woken up half an hour ago, like you’ve been standing beside Jack the entire night when it should be Reno, and relief hits him like a truck.

A semi that’s caught him like a deer in the headlights, loosens the strain that’s fixed permanently in the column of his neck, makes the ache in his shoulder pointedly less. One held breath away from feeling.

“Thanks for coming in.” He says, suddenly serious.

Thanks for coming when I asked, he means.

It startles you, the turn. The unexpected stoop into sincerity. Eyes bounce between his, unaware of where it comes from. He stares back, unabashed with the earnest yet otherwise unreadable.

Nonetheless, you take what he gives you.

“Yeah. Of course.” There is equal genuinity in your voice. You nod your head, softly. “Anything you need.”

He nods, once. Then turns to watch the loading bay doors. “Make me proud tonight and I’ll think about Friday.”

“Getting soft on me, Dr. Abbot.” You tease, but it holds no real feet to fire. It’s not ribbing, nor is it a condemnation. Just an observation that sits between you two like a shared secret.

“Yeah, well.” Jack shakes his head, but there’s no concealing the way his lips twitch upward. You both decide to leave well enough alone.

Turning in time with him, you pull on his surgical gown and tie it at the back. He ties your own, his hand lingering on your back when he finishes.

SHIFT FOUR, Friday-Sat, 8:47 AM:

You don’t get to leave early.

You take a sip from the porcelain mug of lukewarm coffee you’ve taken from the breakroom and continue your endless stare into the slow revival of the world.

The dark of the sky begins to dilute with the morning rise, the cold breeze of the spring air a welcomed remedy to your flustered skin. The benches at the park beside the hospital are uncomfortable, pointedly so. The longer you sit, the further the aches in your back that made their wonderful appearance halfway through your shift demand your attention—but this is what you need.

A tether to reality, a removal from the endless spirals of a hurried mind. A way for your feet to finally settle on the firm, stable ground. No running, no long stretches of standing, no burning in the flex of your calves. Just dirty sneakers on the gravel, feeling some semblance of stillness even as life begins to slowly wake up around you. Hands feeling the fading warmth of the drink you hold tightly.

Birds chirp melodically as streaks of orange break up the sky. Your chest starts to feel like it isn’t on the brink of collapse from the erratic beat of your heart. You can finally breathe.

The new day, in. The old one, out.

“It’s not the worst of vices to have, but a sixth cup of coffee is pretty drastic. Even for my standards.”

It’s rather difficult to align your inner chakras when Jack’s voice grows closer to you.

The heavy sigh you exhale conveys exactly how you feel about it. “I’m not in the mood, Jack.”

“First name, huh?” The sound of his voice is another stabbed knife into the pantheon of wounds that decorate you today.

“Off the clock. Formalities be damned.” You return, annoyed.

He steps in beside you, his steadied gait and imposing figure filling your periphery. A vision cladded in black scrubs that you refuse to look at. He makes no further movement, surveying you with a neutral look on his face. Not a new thing from him, and certainly not for the first time it’s happened tonight.

Jack has a staring problem. Always watching, hawk eyes knowing things before they reach his ears. A dutiful sentinel on the floor and the subject of the running joke you have with a few of the nurses about the amount of eyes he has on the back of his head. Lisa and Hilly think there’s at least four, one for each cardinal direction. You’ve got money on the table that there’s eight pairs, minimum.

It’s his job as attending to be tuned in to everything that happens on his shift but it’s uncanny the way he notices everything.

(“Military.” Ellis had said simply, eyes focused on charting.

“X-ray vision.” Shen chirped with a shrug and a sip of his iced coffee. You nodded in agreement.)

It’s not a hunch, or a theory, or a girlish fantasy to say that all eight pairs of Jack’s eyes were on you tonight. He appeared out of thin air when things went sideways on your cases. Seemingly easy patients turning chaotic within the blink of an eye and each time, he was there. Beating Ellis and Shen to the punch, pulling gloves over his hands and giving his assessment in steady confidence and simple authority as he fell into step beside you.

Assisting you with perfect timing the first two times your patients coded, leading the procedures for the next one, and taking over completely on the final one.

With his backpack slung over his shoulder and his hand shoved in the pants of his scrubs, Jack does as he’s done all night long and stares at you. Deeply, intently, unnervingly. His face betraying no tangible thought as he keeps you within his line of sight.

And just as you’ve done all night, you keep your gaze in front of you. Fixated on the park before you.

There’s no telling if he watches out of concern for your wellbeing or others. Determining if you were a complex puzzle needing to be solved or maybe a potential bomb needing to be diffused.

He’s got a morbid connection to the latter. All the more reason for him to stay away.

In standard Jack fashion, he doesn’t.

“That bad, then.” His words are light, almost blasé. It fuels a fire that you were unsuccessfully trying to stampen out.

You scoff. “Yeah. Pretty fucking bad.”

He moves, then. Shrugging his backpack off, he places it beside the bench and sits next to you. Close, too close. Out in the open and away from the confines of sterile white walls and yet you still feel like you’re cornered. Drowning in the nearness of him, in the substantial feel of his presence.

He takes a breath before finally saying, quietly, like a man trying to tame an angered animal, “It wasn’t personal—”

“Felt personal.” You bite back, bitterly.

“You were clouded.”

Finally, your head snaps to him. Disbelief furrows in your brows. “That’s bullshit.”

Your heated and sharpened fury meets his stoic and anchored one, looking at him for the first time since you were pushed aside in trauma three. No betrayal of guilt resides in the lines of his face, only true honesty and sincerity.

It only makes you angrier.

“You undermined me in the middle of a procedure. In front of interns, in front of residents. This isn’t my first time around the block, Jack. It was a resection. I can do those in my sleep and you know that. This was no different.” Your head shakes incredulously, the frustration surging forward with little reservation. And while the anger is there, simmering deep in every crevice of your words, pinching your lips and narrowing your eyes, the hurt bleeds through, try as you might to hold it back.

“You might as well have just told the whole team you think I don’t know what I’m doing. That would’ve been infinitely better than telling me to step aside.”

The corner of Jack’s lips flick downward, a sign you’ve come to understand as his clear disagreement. They purse forward as he thinks for a second. Registering the extent of your words.

He leans his elbows on his knees. Thinking for another moment, until he says, “This isn’t New York.”

Your head pulls back in offense. “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means you’re not alone in a department doing drastic shit by yourself because you have to, anymore. You’re here, we’re a team and in case you forgot, you’re my senior fellow. My responsibility. And I’m not going to let you drown.”

“I-I wasn’t drowning. I had cases, they got resolved and I moved onto the next one—”

“You had four codes today.” He interrupts. “You don’t just move on from that.”

Your breath hitches. It’s the actualization of the heavy weight, the one that’s been sitting on your chest all night. Constricting your breath, keeping your feet moving, and hands fidgeting. Somewhere in between keeping your head down and switching from one patient to the next, it hadn’t registered that he would have tucked the information away as something other than a performance metric.

A stupid notion, one clearly without any semblance of thought, because it’s Jack.

(The Jack you’ve had all week, the one who teases as a means to compliment, who has quietly deferred to you when questions arose during procedures, who has given approving looks from the doorway over the course of the week. Jack that has brought you coffee on random occasions when the lulls have kicked in, in the mug he knows belongs to you, the one you sip at now. Jack who knows you’ve entered a room before a word comes out of your mouth.

Jack, who is both a breath of fresh air and the halting cause of your own when the hazel of his eyes fall on yours from across a hectic room. Concern etched in the irises, a quiet check-in, a quick review of your status, before moving on to the next thing.

Jack, Jack, Jack—whose name fits too well in your mouth, that you’re too keen to speak out loud just because you want to.)

He says the truth simply. Without blame, unlike the raging guilt that courses through you. Without lecture. Words uttered incredibly soft for a man forged from fire and brimstone.

“None of them were easy and none of them were your fault. Just really bad fuckin’ luck that they landed on you. It’s enough to weigh on anyone.”

“My day had nothing to do with that procedure. I’ve been through worse, I can handle it.” You lie, stubbornly.

“It had everything to do with it.” He continues, holding your gaze dutifully. As though he could stare his truth into you—make you physically see his meaning. “I saw that look in your eye. You were gonna hack at that man’s body if it meant a single chance of survival.”

“Because there was a chance, Jack. If you had just let me—“

“Sepsis from secondary peritonitis. The bowel was necrotic. There wasn’t.”

“Then let me find that out! You push Shen, you push Ellis, I’ve seen you push Mohan. I get one bad day and I’m treated with baby gloves? I get kicked off a procedure? I’m a fellow, Jack. I should’ve been allowed to do my job.”

“I push when there is something to learn. He was gone the minute he rolled in through those doors. There was nothing to learn in that.”

“So I get punished for wanting to try?”

“I stepped in because you weren’t doing it for the betterment of the patient, you were doing it for yourself.”

He renders you speechless. Your face falls from tense anger to a shattered hurt. You fall against the backing of the bench with defeat. The throat tightens in that familiar way that it’s been doing all shift. Your eyes start to sting with the swell of tears that you try to swallow down, force away before they threaten to spill.

Still, Jack watches. Assessing, preparing, readying himself for the fall that he’d seen coming from the beginning.

“This isn’t a question about what you can do.” He says quietly, a whisper in the wind. A reassurance uttered in the safe space between you, broken only by your shuddering breaths. “You’ve been off kilter on me since you got that little girl. I get it. No one blames you for that. You went into this one hoping you could get a save after the ones you lost. And if you want to pretend there was a chance, fine. You can sleep knowing that I made the call on this one. That this falls on me. Not you.”

And you’re smart enough to read between those lines.

It was never about competence. It was a staged intervention. Jack’s way to release some of the pressure off of the cooking chamber that has been you all day. To place part of your burden on his shoulders.

Making sure that the four codes you were responsible for tonight didn’t turn to five.

The heat of your bruised ego simmers low, water poured onto the embers and leaving a smoking ash of your tender and fragile heart. Heavy with the stress of today, fraying from the guilt that eats at you. You turn to him, your eyes red-rimmed and burning with unshed tears that only inch forward the minute you meet his gaze.

His focus on you isn’t intimidating. It’s a familiar shroud of comfort, a soft place to land. He listens, watches, waits. Beckoning you into him, wanting you to let go.

“It was just like New York again, Jack. It felt like everyone I touched died.” Your voice breaks at the admission. “I can handle it, you know, when it’s bad. It sucks, but I can put it away and keep going. But today it was—these were simple ones.”

Your breath catches when you feel him move closer to you, his thigh intentionally pressing into yours. Another tether to the ground.

You rub your hands against your face roughly. “Like what— what do you mean I lost an eight-year old to pneumonia? That’s routine, we go through that all the time. I did a year in peds for fuck’s sake. I had her— for a second I had her.”

An incredulous laugh tumbles out of your mouth. Absurdity is hardly a humorous thing and yet, it escapes with the fall of a tear that you quickly wipe away. “Then it was the dad with the DVT who just dropped on me. He was ready to be discharged. I was on him for two hours and nothing.”

“Then the car accident came in and I—I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t shake them from me. It was just one after another. And I tried but��just wasn’t good enough.”

He interrupts quickly, leaning in close to you. His voice fusing with a well-meaning reprimand, “Don’t do that. That doesn’t do anyone any good.”

You sigh, tearfully and look to him. He’s close, close enough in your space where his shoulder is touching yours and you see how the lines on his face deepen with his intentful stare into you. It only capitulates the need to fall.

“I know Reno’s been looking at my charts. And I know he brought it up to you.” You tell him. The careful composition of the man made of stone fractures, then. Surprised, aggrieved, almost furious. “And I guess—I don’t know. When you told me to step aside, it felt like you were believing him a little bit.”

The speed in which he dissuades the thought is comforting. “That wasn’t what that was. That’s not why I took you out.”

“I know.” And you do. But it still felt like it.

Jack shakes his head, drilling truth into you with an emphasis that could hardly be missed. Needing you to understand exactly what he meant. “Whatever Reno thinks about you, fuckin’ forget about it. It doesn’t matter—”

“I don’t care what he thinks. He’s an idiot. And he’s from Ohio.” You scoff. “I care what you think.”

It’s his turn to be rendered silent. Not out of shock or stupor—but at the need to hold back everything that creeps up in that moment. Tiny gospels that bang against the caverns of a hollowed heart, carved empty from the brutal grip of a world that has taken too much. Truths that beg to be let out. The unnamed that claws up the soft tissue of his throat that begs to be given a name, to be heard.

The truth is that you had been thorough all night, fast on your feet, a helping hand where needed. A forceful hurricane blazing through the trauma bay with a proficiency that justified your standing as a fellow. And Jack had an eye on you all night not because you were cracking but because he had to make sure you were still standing. Still breathing. Not as part of his job but because—

He needed to.

And the minute he saw the slight waver, saw the way it was beginning to seep into you, he became a man of two minds. No longer able to compartmentalize. His eyes focused on the patients in front of him, his ears attuned to the sound of your voice on the other side of the room. Listening to the rises and falls like a hymn, reverent in his pious focus.

How his only way to fix all that was wrong for you was to be involved himself—handle it himself. Wedge into the web of you that’s been stretched thin and mend the cracks, bring you back to steady and safe ground.

Bring you back to him.

He doesn’t say any of that. Restrains the flooding thoughts with a wrangled rope and ties it hard enough to cut circulation. Ties the yearning before it makes an ample fool out of everything.

Instead, he goes for the standard. The known truth, the easy one that lives beneath the dry teases and offhand remarks.

“If it matters that much, you knocked it out of the fuckin’ park today. You touched more patients today than anyone else on the floor, gave excellent care in the chaos. You did damn good, today.”

Your nod is empty, tired. Dry of any attempt at human dignity. And it humors you that just a few days ago you were the one offering him comfort.

“How’d you know how many I was on?” You ask after a moment.

“…I was keeping count.”

“Really?”

”You drink more when you’re stressed. Like caffeine will make you focus harder.” He huffs at the surprised look on your face. “Told you. You’re my responsibility.”

“MD, therapist, dietician, and babysitter.” The laugh that comes out of you is wet. You sniffle. “Sucks to be you.”

“Most days, but not today.” You huff out a laugh and his smile slants. He flicks his head to the side. “C’mon. You need to sleep. Florida’s calling your name, God knows why.”

He stands with a grunt, working out a knot in his neck before turning and holding a hand out to you. You take it, allowing him to lift you from the bench with your own pained sigh.

You rub at the ache on your back. “I’ll try but I’m five coffees deep—“

“—six.” He corrects.

“Six.” You repeat, feeling gently warmed at his record keeping. “Don’t think my buzz is going to let me sleep. Try to get some shut eye for me, though.”

“Don’t waste your wish on me. I don’t sleep much.”

“Do—do you wanna get some breakfast, then? I just—” The words come out before you have much cognizance to reel them in. Exhaustion and guilt and all of its disarming siblings pushing the request out. “I’m not ready to go home yet.”

Just as they hit the air, you realize how silly it is. You don’t expect him to take you up on it—too aware of the gap, the existing berth that lives loudly in between you two.

“Yeah. Of course.” He interrupts. Says it as sure as the air he breathes. Says it without hesitation and even less reservation. As if you couldn’t have asked anything more obvious.

“Anything you need.”

And in your colored shock, in the repeat of the words that were once aimed at him, here—that’s when you see it. Or rather, feel it. The charge, the shift, the inkling of something else.

Something beyond your attending. Beyond the stature of the leader who knows everything, who can impart wisdom just as much as he could take it away. Beyond the monolith who pushes you to be better, that draws the lines firmly in the sand of duty and obligation, of giving it your all and knowing when to let it go.

There, in the softness of his hazel eyes settling on yours and the small tilt of the corner of his lips pulling upward, is a man. A gentle one, with something soft wedged in the center of his steel chest that he’s torn down a wall and unlocked just to show you.

Only you.

Something on the precipice of becoming sweet, almost ripe for picking.

Something you don’t know the name to, yet, but can feel deep in parts previously unknown to you that you desperately want to learn more of as the sun rises on the two of you.

SHIFT ONE, Tues-Wed, 6:48 PM

“Look at what the cat dragged in.” Dana’s smile bleeds into her voice as you step onto the floor. “Smelling of coconut and looking sunkissed.”

The familiar smell of sterile sanitizer and disinfectant is a welcome one. The pat of your sneakers on the tile floor is a familiar anthem as you enter the ER.

You hold your hands out and bow to your awaiting crowd, “In the very flesh.”

“Surprised you don’t have a flower in your hair.” She teases, her smile growing warmer as you draw in closer.

"Thought about it but I figured that’d be bragging.”

“Indeed it would.” Dana busies herself with the final details in preparation of handoff. You come up to the desk, leaning your elbows against the surface. A quiet moment before your shift starts. “You get to stay at the beach?”

You hum, pleased. “All week. In the tiniest bikini known to man.”

“Atta girl.” She smiles.

“There’s sunshine.” Ellis calls from down the hall, and you see her approach the workstation looking like she’s already gotten a head start on her rounds. “Welcome back. How’re the nieces?”

“Too stinking cute. I got some photos you’re gonna die for.” You sigh, wistfully. “I missed them.”

“Not gonna leave us for Florida now, are you?”

“Ask me at the end of my shift.”

“Nah, she won’t.” Dana coos, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and giving your arm a loving rub. “Pittsburgh won’t force our sunshine out just yet.”

“Abbot would put a stop to that before it even started.” Ellis jests, and you raise a brow.

“What?” You ask.

Dana ignores you, directing her stare to Ellis. “Maybe even get some people written up.”

“Maybe even put some people in a disciplinary hearing.” Ellis returns.

Your eyes bounce between the two. “Okay, what the hell don’t I know?”

“Nothin’.” Ellis smiles, turning on her heel.

Dana pats your arm, lovingly. “Happy to have you back, sweetie.”

7:47 PM

“Hilly, I’m going to put in an order for an EKG for Mr. Breyer. You mind making sure that he’s bumped up on that one?” You tell the nurse as you both exit the exam room.

“Can do!” She chirps.

“Oh! And—“ She turns on her heel at your call, looking at you curiously. “Did something happen while I was gone?”

Her brows furrow. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something with Abbot.” Understanding floods her face.

“What have you heard?” She asks, voice dipping low.

”Just a comment. Something about a disciplinary hearing.”

”Oh my god, I can’t believe no one’s told you.” She crowds near you, excitement radiating off of her. “Not confirmed, but heavily suspected because Anna Maria heard it from Jesse who heard it from Perlah who saw Dr. Robby and Dr. Abbot talking about it. But— Dr. Abbot got Reno suspended.”

“What?” Shock raises your volume, which Hilly quickly shushes you. You lower your voice in apology, “For what?”

“Harassment. Unprofessional conduct.”

“Against who?” You ask, already suspecting the answer.

“Four people. Three nurses—”

“Three!” You gasp. You had only known about the one incident, heard some things about from the others. But the extent remained only in what you saw in the stairwell with Anna Maria.

“All Latino. They all went to Dr. Abbot. Apparently he was keeping notes on certain racist comments made.” Your mind flickers to the image of the note he tucked into his breast pocket, and its unsurprising then that he would’ve known about it all along.

Eight pairs of eyes always watching.

“And the fourth?” You ask, curiously.

Hilly’s eyes seem to gleam brighter when she says, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. Dr. Abbot raised it up to Dr. Robby who raised it up to Gloria and so on.”

“Harassment against me?” You ask again, unbelieving.

“Yeah. Something about sabotaging your performance. Depending on the source, some say he talked about some of the comments he’s heard Reno say to you or the arguments he would start in the operating rooms. But everyone agrees—”

Hilly pauses for a moment—whether for dramatic effect or to convey the extent of the magnitude of her next. Either way, you remain fixated on her. Waiting, watching for her.

“—they’ve never seen Dr. Abbot angry like that.”

9:51 PM

You don’t get the chance to talk to him—officially.

Only make him out in the background of the hectic shift, see him at the bedside of an incoming trauma before rushing into an OR, stepping in beside him and slipping the gown on to assist.

There’s the sly comment about your absence—Hope you didn’t forget how to do your job, city girl.

One you meet in equal time—Watch and learn, old man.

Sly smiles exchanged, the meeting of tender glances, the return of the familiar. Into the feeling.

He catches you at the rolling cart outside of North 12 again. A moment finally spared in the frenzy of the night that he willingly decides to lean into. He puts his good shoulder against the wall, surveying you with a steadied eye.

“How you feeling?” He asks, but you can make in the tone that something belies the words. A veiled test, the subtle making of your person upon return to work. A gauge of what you’ve heard.

You meet his test balloon with an easy smile. Happy, content.

“Good.” You say to him, true and meaningful, “How are you?”

He watches for a moment before nodding, satisfied. “Good.”

There’s not much to say about what may or may not have happened while you were gone. At least nothing you trust to not lay waste to the goodness of the moment. There’s nothing to explain or be explained.

You know why he did it. He knows you know why he did it. You both decide to leave well enough alone. Trusting each other like second nature.

A beat passes. “D’you relax? Take photos?”

You nod, emphatically. “Yeah. I gotta show you the ones I got from this alligator farm we took my nieces to. You’d get a kick out of it.”

“So long as you skip over the bikini ones.” A smile etches on his face. Loose and light, the same familiar song and dance.

“C’mon. You don’t even want to take a peek?”

“Not unless you want to keep me up at night.” He raises a brow. “You can keep your Florida sunburns to yourself.”

“Well, just picture my screams, then. That always puts you to bed, right?”

“Not this time, it won’t.”

You take it to mean that the image of your body will scar your attending, which forces a scoff out of your mouth. Rolling your head to him, you intend to make faux hurt known. But, in meeting his gaze, you see something else entirely.

A toiling knowing that runs the quip on your tongue dry. It’s that something from before, tainted with a depth that you haven’t seen from him.

The air heats slowly, flint to stone igniting the mutuality of piqued interest.

For a second you realize that maybe, the heavy gap that you’ve always figured lies between you two wasn’t so hefty from the extent of the said differences in life and experiences—but heavy for another reason altogether. For all the things left unsaid.

It brings an image to your mind—one that has entered into the realm of consciousness on nights where alcohol has made you too loose and latent desires infiltrate the privacy of sleep.

An image of you and him.

Rough, calloused hands running over flustered skin. Tugging shirts off, stripping pants down, pulling panties to the side to take a peek. The heat of his breath fanning over the side of your neck, the pads of his fingers swiping through the wet. Circling, playing, a tease whispered in a husky tone just before he—

Your breath shudders.

“Welcome back.” Jack says lowly, turning on his heel and trekking down the hall.

a/n: of course it would be a a traumatized forty-nine year old man that would break my eight month hiatus. my first dip into this man, and i want more

let me know your thoughts!

#jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #the pitt x reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot #jack abbot x female reader #the pitt fanfic #idk man he just means so much to me #also we are widower!jack stans in this house #nothing but respect for his grief and trauma #and you bet reader has respect for it to #also srry about the ohio slander

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somnoir · 5 months ago

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Gotham's newest Crime Lord - Part 1

Prompt: Dan kills the joker and unintentionally becomes a crime lord

Dan didn't mean to become a Crime Lord. It wasn't his fault that the Joker was fragile and easily killable with one punch to the head. He didn't know that the seemingly immortal clown was easily killed once the impact practically snapped his neck. So yes, Dan didn't mean for this shit to happen. Not when all he wanted to do was go to college, make sure Danny and Elle weren't attracting trouble back in Gotham academy.

It wasn't his fault that the crazy bastard thought it was a good idea to nab his siblings and try to use them for ransom. It's not his fault that his first instinct was to introduce his first to that pennywise knock-off. It'd not his fault that this city was haunted by vengeful ghosts that wanted to tear that motherfucker to shreds.

They were supposed to lay low after the mess with their parents and their name changes.

But nooooo!

They had to have an absolute hatred for clowns and now he's somehow made himself a crime lord. Why the fuck were the Joker's goons so fucking stupid?! They either tried to kill Dan for killing their boss or they tried to fall under him and make him their new leader. It was like a fucking cult in his eyes. Seriously, what the absolute fuck was going on with this shitty city?

It's not like he could call Jazz and say "Hi sis! I killed a crazy clown and I'm now the boss of his weird goons. I also might end up on the local vigilante's hitlist."

Yeah, no. He's not doing that.

But this might not be so bad... Not really. Being their boss could be treated as a source of income if he utilized the Joker's shit properly. I mean, he couldn't always rely on the fruitloops money, not when Vlad could turn traitor and use the money against them. He needed to find a way to support his siblings, one way or another.

And Clockwork did say to get a hobby. If not mass genocide then he could resort to carefully planned crime. Yes. This could work. He'll make it fucking work for the sake of his siblings.

Besides, if he was a crime lord—in motherfucking Gotham—he doubts that the GIW will even try to fuck around in a city where a ghost controlled some part of the criminal underworld.

Oh... Oh, he was gonna fucking do this.

(Clockwork watched as his most troublesome child shifts from world ender to crime lord. At least it was an upgrade from mass genocide.)

Nightwing didn't particularly know what to make of this mess. There were rumors of a new crime lord, of a new rogue.

One day, Joker's body was dropped into the harbor and found by the workers, all confused and scared as to why the Clown Prince of crime was dead in the water. It was humiliating in the Joker's standards, to be discarded like trash into the sea rather than have his body displayed for everyone to gawk at. The clown would have adored being glorified but whoever the hell killed him knew this and fucked the guy up bad.

His head snapped and his corpse tossed out like leftovers.

Jason had laughed, outright celebrated and Crime Alley was as festive as it ever was with the Red Hood blasting music through the streets and partying like there was no tomorrow. All of Gotham was celebrating, parading through the streets with pinatas that looked like the Joker. Harley would drop down from whatever roof she was on and swing her bat at the pinata, spilling red candy as everyone cheered and laughed. It was morbidly glorious.

But the festivities didn't erase the fact that someone had killed the Joker and knew what to do to disrespect him in the worst ways possible. It wasn't long until Joker's old lackeys were rallying to someone—a new boss. It wasn't odd for goons without bosses to move on to find different jobs, but for all of Joker's old minions to work for the same person? This was definitely the guy who killed the Joker.

No name, no appearance, nothing. Just quiet activity with organising his new goons to do strange errands. Stuff that didn't point them in the direction of criminal activity.

"You got anything?" Dick murmurs as Tim slouches over the batcomputer, watching as his younger brother sneered at the screen.

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing." He snaps, "All footage of this new rogue is immediately corrupted."

Babs hums, "And it's not like it's altered after it's been taken. The distortion happens live. They either have some tech on them or they're a meta who can avoid cameras." She adds, taking a leisure sip of the tea Alfred kindly offered them. "Whoever this is doesn't leave a trace aside from this shitty footage."

Tim groans, "I officially hate this guy!" He almost tosses his mug out of anger, shaking his head.

"Does Jason have any info on this one?"

And like the fucking menace he was, Jason pops up without another word. "He goes by Wraith." No one was startled, just sparing him a glance before nodding.

"That's it?"

"The goonions adore him." Jason shrugs, "Guy's been quick. Dealing with shit like Black Mask and other trafficking operations. Some of the kids he's saved wear clothes that have this specific symbol on them. It's a good tactic mind you. Tells people to fuck off and don't come anywhere near the kid or else he'll sic whatever bullshit he has in someone."

Dick narrowed his eyes, "Is it effective?"

"Hell yeah! One of the kids got kidnapped just last week. I went to save the poor thing but he walked out of that warehouse while the kidnappers were bleeding and sobbing." Jason once again grins, "Little Tommy threatened me if I try to arrest Wraith."

"So more anti-heri than villain. Good enough, at least." Dick sighed, shaking his head as he narrowed his eyes on the screen. More distorted footage.

"Thanks for the info, little wing."

"Just updatin' you guys. Heard some rumors that Harley's on the hunt for Wraith to thank him."

Great...

It's been a solid two months since the death of the Joker. Batman and the rest of his birds were increasingly wary of the Wraith and his two new associates that went by Phantom and Specter. No footage on the three could ever be recovered, making them all assume this was the work of a meta.

Most of them weren't sure if this guy was a threat or not. Red Hood, on the other hand, had a fairly positive opinion on the guy who's been hanging traffickers by their legs and immediately staking their claim on the kid to keep them safe.

The new crime lord was slowly dismantling the criminal underworld and building it back up to their design.

"FUCKING HELL!" Dick glared at the screen again, "That's Wraith's doing, isn't it? No way did the Riddler blow up that building."

"Wraith's only been dealing with traffickers so far. Why would he do this?" Steph murmurs, staring at the recording of a building that had suddenly went off. Numerous were dead, some barely survived.

"That's the motherfucker's symbol." Dick pointed to the glowing green symbol that looked liked a fire with some obscure letter they couldn't really make out. (Was it a D or a P?)

"Okay... Why would Wraith blow up a building and kill everyone?" Jason immediately asked, seeming to be defensive of the man. "He doesn't just kill people, Dick."

"Even so..." Bruce grunts, clearly displeased with the bloodshed. All that death...

"We're going after him." Bruce announced, "I'm not putting of the Wraith investigation anymore."

Dan stared at the pictures of the bodies, pudding out smoke without a cigarette in sight. His new minions—they preferred the term goons—were clearly apprehensive and continued to observe their new boss's expressions. This explosion had been his first act of pure and utter violence, a massacre of sorts.

He glances at Danny who melted out of the shadows, startling his goons.

"Can't say I'm not upset but I get why you did that shit." He begrudgingly admits, sitting across Dan. Phantom was a reluctant associate to his new organization of crime—ish.

"They weren't just trafficking kids, squirt. Pimping them, killing them and selling their organs, hosting matches and making meta kids fight to the fucking death." Dan clicked his tongue, "No redemption in that, Phantom."

"I get it, alright!" Danny snapped, "But the you've gotten the direct attention of the Bats now. They're gonna come for us, Wraith."

"Boss?" One of the goons—Dan remembers him as Jeremy Nelson. One guy just trying to support himself and his kid, trying to keep his sweet little daughter in school with as much money as he could get. Dan remembers giving the man a raise and a jacket with their family's symbol stitched into it—one for little Marigold.

"I'll deal with it. For now, you guys spread the word on that shit. I don't want anyone thinking I killed a bunch of kids." Dan growled, "My reputation can burn for all care, but like hell am I letting people think I hurt kids."

With Jeremy leading the other goons, he nodded and hurried out of the office to spread a word. The former Joker goons had taken a liking to their new boss, preferring his ways rather than their dead one.

"Jazz won't like this, y'know." Danny sighs, "I'm not gonna tell her. Never. But she'll find out, one way or another."

Dan frowns, "You think I don't know? It's Jazz, Danny."

"Yeah, yeah. I just didn't expect you to be like this. Crime Lord and everything."

Dan snorts, "I was the world ender, brat. This is mild compared to what I've done."

"Yeah, sure."

He shook his head, "You've got your own problems, brat. The Observants are still fussin' about you being king, your majesty."

An identical scowl looks back at Dan, and he's reminded that this kid is him. An alternate version of himself and yet they were brothers now. "I know. You killing the Joker fucked some stuff up. Apparently, the motherfucker was cursed to hell."

"Meaning?"

"He's got a lifetime of people in his shadow. Vengefu souls that want him dead." Danny huffs, "Had to deal with the paperwork cause everyone's wantin' a taste of him. I'm workin' on letting Walker release him so his victims can execute his soul."

"Cruel, little king."

"I'll give you his file. Bastard deserves to have his soul destroyed." Danny viciously grins. And once again, best reminded that this twerp is him. They were one and the same, different as well.

"Alright, alright. Fuck off now. We've still got some bats and birds to deal with." Dan immediately showed him away, noting Danny's eye roll.

"Better prepare a birdcage then."

Part 2 | Masterlist

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fvsm4x · 8 months ago

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𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 - „I don‘t deserve someone like you“

—In an arranged marriage to the powerful sorcerer Gojo Satoru, you, a blind young woman from a noble family, quickly realize the harsh realities of your new life.

.contains blind fem. reader x gojo satoru, gojo is shitty, angsty, hurt no comfort, curse au, cheating, mistress, toxity, wc. 6.1k

The scent of jasmine filled the grand hall, its soft, almost cloying sweetness failing to mask the tension that lingered in the air. The wedding was beautiful, by all accounts—ornate chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting soft, golden light across the room. Tall vases overflowed with white lilies and roses, draped with vines that twined delicately around their stems. Everything was pristine, perfect, a vision of elegance and status befitting the union of two powerful families.

But beneath the surface, it all felt wrong.

The whispers of the guests were hushed, though not out of reverence or respect for the sacredness of the ceremony. They whispered because of you. They stared, eyes flickering between curiosity and pity, hidden behind false smiles and hollow words of congratulations. They pretended to celebrate, but you could hear it—the murmurs beneath their breath, the way their voices dipped just low enough that they thought you wouldn’t notice.

But you always noticed.

You stood still, hands folded in front of you, your posture impeccable as you’d been trained, listening as they spoke about the bride. The blind girl. The one without cursed techniques. The one Gojo Satoru—the Gojo Satoru—was marrying.

The ceremony had been just as silent, just as stifling, the weight of a hundred eyes pressing into you like needles. You had felt their gazes on your back as you walked down the aisle, guided by your father’s hand. Each step had felt heavier than the last, each footfall an echo in the vast room, but you held your head high, your expression calm and serene, as you had practiced countless times. The world around you was dark, as it always had been, but your senses were sharp, attuned to every shift in the atmosphere, every murmur, every movement.

No one questioned the marriage aloud, but everyone doubted it in private. The Gojo clan needed an heir, and you—born into a noble sorcerer family, though cursed with blindness and lacking any ability to fight—were chosen for the role. Not because of your power, not because of love, but because your bloodline was old and respected. Your family’s name still held weight in the jujutsu world, even if you did not. And Gojo… well, he was too important, too powerful, for anyone to refuse his family’s demands.

You could feel the tension in the room from the moment you entered. It rippled through the air like a current, crackling just beneath the surface of polite conversation. Your family had assured you this was the best course for both you and them. It was your duty, they’d said, to carry on the family’s legacy, even if you couldn’t do it the way your ancestors had. You would be a wife, a vessel for a future heir. That was your purpose now. You weren’t here to fight curses or stand beside him as an equal. You were here to bear the weight of an alliance and ensure the bloodlines remained pure and strong.

And he?

Gojo Satoru, the man you were now married to, had been as distant as the stars. Even during the brief ceremony, his presence felt like a cold wind brushing past your skin. He hadn’t said much—his voice, when he spoke the vows, had been flat and indifferent, devoid of the charm and magnetism that he was known for. His hand had touched yours only for the briefest moment, cool and detached, as though the act of taking your hand was more of an inconvenience than a gesture of unity.

There had been no tenderness, no sense of connection. It was as though he were performing an obligation, fulfilling a requirement, nothing more.

And now, as the ceremony gave way to the reception, he was nowhere to be found.

You stood alone in the grand hall, surrounded by the murmuring crowd, your fingers grazing the soft fabric of your wedding gown as you shifted your weight. The gown was heavy, draped in layers of delicate silk and lace that clung to your skin, a reminder of the weight of the expectations placed upon you. You could hear the soft rustle of the fabric as you moved, the sound barely audible over the hum of conversation and the gentle notes of the ceremonial band playing in the background.

The guests were mingling, their voices a blur of idle chatter and veiled judgment, and you were left to endure it all in silence.

"Such a shame," someone whispered, though you couldn’t tell who. Their voice was soft, yet the pity in it was sharp enough to cut. "A blind girl, no cursed energy…"

"Can she even fulfill her duties?" another voice added, the words tinged with disbelief. "Gojo must be furious."

Your heart tightened, but you kept your face composed, as you had been taught. You didn’t react. You didn’t turn toward the voices or acknowledge them in any way. You had long since learned that reacting only gave them power. So you stood still, hands clasped in front of you, listening as they judged you without hesitation.

“She must be so nervous,” a woman murmured to her companion, her tone laced with false sympathy. "I can’t imagine being so helpless."

Helpless.

You had heard that word so many times in your life. It clung to you like a second skin, a label that you could never quite shed, no matter how hard you tried. They saw your blindness and your lack of cursed energy, and they assumed that was all there was to you. A burden. An empty vessel.

It wasn’t just the guests who thought that. You could feel it in the way Gojo had treated you during the ceremony. His absence now was only confirmation of what you already knew—he didn’t care. To him, this marriage was just another arrangement, another responsibility to check off his list. You had been chosen for your lineage, not for yourself.

He wasn’t going to try, and neither were you.

It was only after what felt like an eternity of standing alone, the weight of the room pressing down on you, that you felt a shift. The atmosphere changed, a ripple of movement through the crowd, followed by the distinct sensation of someone approaching.

You knew who it was before he even spoke.

"Looking for me?"

His voice was smooth, casual, tinged with amusement that felt out of place in the solemnity of the occasion. It was the same voice he had used during the ceremony—bored, distant, with just a hint of arrogance. You had heard Gojo Satoru speak before, though never to you, and his voice was always laced with that same careless charm, as though everything and everyone around him were beneath him.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t turn toward him immediately, taking a moment to compose yourself, to control the surge of frustration that rose within you. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet, calm.

"Where have you been?"

The question was simple, but it carried more weight than the words alone. Where had he been? On this day of all days, the day that was meant to unite you, however meaningless that union might be. You hadn’t expected warmth from him, but a part of you—buried deep—had hoped for something more than indifference.

"Busy," he replied, as though the question itself were a joke. He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t press him for details. He wouldn’t have given them, anyway. His voice was closer than expected, and you felt a subtle shift in the air as he moved closer. "This whole thing is exhausting. Don’t you agree?"

His words dripped with nonchalance, as though the day had been an inconvenience to him. Perhaps it had been. Perhaps the thought of being tied to someone like you—someone who couldn’t see, someone who couldn’t fight—was more than just a burden to him.

You remained still, though your fingers tightened slightly around the delicate fabric of your gown. "I suppose it is," you replied softly, your voice carefully neutral. "But it’s necessary."

Gojo laughed, the sound low and mocking, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on you, as though he were studying you, amused by your response.

"Necessary?" he echoed, his tone mocking. "I guess that’s one way to put it."

There was a pause, and you could feel the tension between you thickening, the space between you filled with unspoken words. You wanted to say something—something sharp, something that would cut through his arrogance—but you held your tongue. You had learned long ago that sharp words would do nothing here. Not with him.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice lowering as he leaned in slightly, “did you think this would be anything more than an arrangement?”

Your heart skipped a beat, but you didn’t let your expression falter. “I didn’t expect anything more than what was promised,” you answered carefully.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because that’s all it is. An arrangement. Nothing more.”

You could feel the cruel smirk tugging at his lips, even if you couldn’t see it. You didn’t need to see it. You could hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he stood too close, invading your space as if to remind you just how small, how insignificant, you were in comparison to him.

The room around you felt colder, even though the temperature had not changed.

“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping back as though to release you from his presence, “this’ll go much easier if you remember that.”

As Gojo disappeared back into the crowd, the warmth of his presence faded just as quickly as it had come, leaving behind an emptiness that settled deep in your chest. You kept your face composed, your expression serene, as you had been taught. The noise of the reception swirled around you, a cacophony of clinking glasses and laughter, but none of it reached you. It felt distant, muted—like you were standing in a world that wasn’t meant for you, a world that you could never fully inhabit.

You didn’t need to see to know what was happening around you. The guests would be watching him now, the great Gojo Satoru, as he moved effortlessly through the crowd, exchanging smiles and pleasantries with his admirers. They’d hang on his every word, laugh at his every joke, their attention glued to him like moths drawn to a flame. He was the star of this union, after all—the one everyone came to see. Not you.

You were nothing more than the shadow in his light.

A part of you wanted to slip away, to retreat into the safety of solitude where the weight of the expectations and the judgment wouldn’t suffocate you. But you knew better. Your place was here, standing still, enduring. You had learned long ago that this was your role in the world of sorcerers—a silent participant, always on the periphery, always observing but never truly part of the action.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

The voice was soft, tentative—your mother’s. You hadn’t heard her approach, but the gentle touch of her hand on your arm was familiar, grounding. She was the one who had guided you through this life of duty, the one who had taught you how to survive in a world that had never been kind to those like you.

“I’m fine,” you said, your voice steady. The lie slipped easily from your lips. It was a lie you had told so many times before that it felt almost like the truth now.

Your mother’s grip tightened slightly, her thumb brushing your arm in a subtle gesture of comfort. “He… he will come around,” she murmured, though even she didn’t sound convinced.

You resisted the urge to laugh at her words. Come around? Gojo Satoru? You had known, even before the wedding, that he wasn’t the type of man who could be swayed by something as simple as a bond of marriage. He was above all of that—above you. He was the strongest sorcerer alive, the most powerful, untouchable. And you? You were nothing more than the bride chosen for him because of your family’s name. A bride he could ignore without consequence.

“There’s no need for him to come around,” you replied softly. “This marriage is what it is.”

Your mother hesitated, as if searching for the right words. “You will find your place,” she said finally, though her voice wavered with uncertainty. “It may take time, but—”

“I know my place,” you interrupted, your tone sharper than you intended. You could feel her flinch, her hand withdrawing slightly, and a pang of guilt shot through you. She didn’t deserve your frustration. She had done what she thought was best for you, even if this life felt like a cage. “I’m sorry,” you added quietly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I understand,” your mother said gently, though you could hear the strain in her voice. “I know this isn’t easy. But… you must remember your duty. This is about more than just you or Satoru. It’s about the future of our family.”

Her words, though well-meaning, did little to comfort you. You had heard them countless times before—spoken by your father, by your uncles, by the elders who had decided your fate long before you had any say in it. Your family needed this marriage. It was a strategic alliance, a way to secure your family’s position in the jujutsu world, to ensure that their legacy would continue through the next generation. You were simply the vessel through which that legacy would be carried.

But what about you? What did you want?

Not that it mattered. In this world, your wants were irrelevant.

“I know,” you whispered, though the words felt heavy on your tongue. “I understand my duty.”

Your mother didn’t reply, but you could sense her reluctance, her uncertainty. Perhaps a part of her regretted the role she had played in this arrangement. Or perhaps she simply didn’t know how to help you, how to guide you through something she had never experienced herself.

After a moment, she squeezed your arm again, then quietly slipped away, leaving you alone once more in the sea of murmuring voices and clinking glasses.

The journey back to the Gojo estate was quiet and uncomfortable, much like the rest of the day had been. You had ridden alone, save for the driver and a house staff member assigned to assist you, a man whose presence was unobtrusive and respectful, though it did little to ease the weight in your chest. The noise of the reception was a distant memory now, replaced by the soft hum of the car engine and the occasional rattle of the road beneath the wheels.

When the car finally came to a halt, you felt the subtle shift in the air, the familiar scent of the estate reaching you through the open window. The door beside you opened with a soft creak, and you turned your head slightly, listening as the staff member stepped out and came to your side.

"Lady Gojo," he said quietly, his voice steady, "we’ve arrived. May I assist you?"

You nodded, grateful for his presence even if the formality of it felt strange. His hand found yours with a practiced gentleness, and you allowed him to guide you from the car, your feet sinking slightly into the gravel as you stepped onto the driveway. The estate was large, its grounds sprawling and ornate, though you had never seen it with your own eyes. You had been given descriptions, of course—told about the lush gardens, the grand architecture, the beautiful traditional touches that made the Gojo residence a place of prestige. But to you, it was simply a place. Another cage, perhaps larger and more opulent than the last, but a cage nonetheless.

The man guided you carefully, his pace slow and deliberate as you walked toward the main entrance. The stone path beneath your feet was smooth, the cool night air brushing against your skin as you moved. You focused on the sounds around you—the distant chirp of crickets, the rustle of leaves in the breeze, the soft shuffle of your guide’s footsteps. It was a comfort in a way, grounding you in the present, keeping you from drifting too far into the overwhelming thoughts that threatened to consume you.

As you reached the doors to the estate, another figure emerged from inside—a woman, her footsteps lighter and quicker than the man’s. You could tell by the soft rustling of fabric and the light scent of jasmine that she was one of the house staff, perhaps the one assigned to assist you personally. She approached with the same quiet respect, her presence calm and unobtrusive.

"Lady Gojo," she greeted softly, her voice smooth and measured. "I am here to assist you with getting settled. Shall I help you to your chambers?"

"Yes," you replied quietly, your voice steady despite the turmoil within. "Thank you."

The man who had guided you this far bowed his head slightly, murmured a polite farewell, and took his leave. The woman stepped forward then, her hand resting lightly on your arm as she gently guided you through the grand entrance of the estate. The cool air inside the building was a sharp contrast to the warmth of the evening outside, the scent of incense and wood filling your senses as you walked.

You could hear the faint echo of your footsteps in the vast, empty halls, the sound a reminder of the sheer size of this place. It felt too big, too impersonal. The kind of space where someone could get lost—physically and emotionally.

As the woman led you through the winding corridors, she remained quiet, her touch firm but never forceful. She was practiced, you could tell, in the way she moved with you, guiding without pushing, always attentive to your pace. There was a quiet understanding in her actions, as though she knew that this day had been overwhelming, that words weren’t necessary right now.

When you finally reached the doors to your chambers, she opened them quietly and stepped inside with you. The room was cold, untouched, the air still and heavy. The silence hung between you both as she guided you toward the center of the room, stopping near the bed.

"Shall I help you with your gown, Lady Gojo?" the woman asked gently, her voice soft but professional.

"Yes, please," you answered, though a part of you hesitated. It felt strange, being undressed by another, but the gown was heavy, its intricate layers difficult to manage on your own, especially after such a long day. The weight of it felt unbearable now, pressing down on your shoulders, a physical reminder of everything this day had been.

The woman moved with care, her fingers deft as she began to undo the delicate clasps and ties of your wedding dress. You stood still, letting her work, the fabric of the gown slowly loosening and falling away from your body as she removed it piece by piece. The cool air brushed against your skin as each layer was peeled back, the heaviness gradually lifting, though the emotional weight remained.

Once the gown was fully removed, she folded it with precision, setting it aside on a nearby chair. You felt lighter, freer in a way, though the emptiness of the room and the absence of the man who was supposed to share it with you left a coldness in your chest.

"Would you like me to prepare anything else for you tonight, my lady?" the woman asked, her voice still calm and measured.

"No," you replied softly, shaking your head. "That will be all. Thank you."

With a quiet bow, she left the room, the soft click of the door closing behind her the only sound that remained. And then, you were alone.

Alone.

The word echoed in your mind, filling the empty space around you. You stood there for a long moment, the coldness of the room seeping into your skin, the emptiness of the house pressing down on you. This was your life now—a life of silence, of isolation. A life in which you were nothing more than a vessel for a future heir.

You hadn’t expected Gojo to be here, but even so, his absence stung in a way you hadn’t anticipated. He hadn’t cared enough to even pretend. This marriage, this life—it meant nothing to him. And to everyone else, you were just the blind girl. The one without cursed techniques. The one chosen not for her strength or power, but for her bloodline. A tool.

With a heavy sigh, you walked slowly to the bed, the soft rustle of the sheets the only sound in the quiet room. You crawled into bed, the cold fabric wrapping around you like a suffocating embrace. You stared into the darkness, your mind racing with thoughts you couldn’t quiet. Would it always be like this? Would this be your life—empty, cold, and filled with the constant reminder of your insignificance?

The cold sheets didn’t provide any comfort, nor did the quiet. The weight of the day pressed down on you, and despite your exhaustion, sleep didn’t come easily. Instead, you lay there, your thoughts swirling around in your mind, the reality of your new life sinking in.

The morning light filtered through the room’s large windows, though its warmth did nothing to chase away the cold that lingered in the air. You had hardly slept, the weight of the previous night pressing heavily on your chest. The events played over and over in your mind—the whispers, the ceremony, the emptiness. And now, waking up in this unfamiliar place, it was hard to shake the sense of displacement, of being trapped in a life that was not your own.

You sat up slowly, your body stiff from the restless night. The thin fabric of your nightgown offered little comfort against the morning chill, and for a moment, you remained still, unsure of what to do next. There was no routine here, no familiar rhythm to fall into. You had always known what your life would be—quiet, measured, controlled by duty—but now it felt as though the ground had been pulled out from under you, leaving you floating in a strange, empty space.

A knock at the door interrupted your thoughts, soft but insistent.

"Lady Gojo," came the familiar voice of the woman who had helped you the night before. "I’ve brought you tea. May I enter?"

"Yes," you replied, your voice quiet.

The door opened, and you heard her footsteps as she approached, the soft clinking of a tray as she set it down on the small table beside your bed.

"I’ve also brought a change of clothes," she continued, her tone respectful. "If you’d like, I can help you dress for the day."

You nodded, though the thought of dressing for the day felt strange. What was there to do? What purpose did this day hold for you? You didn’t belong in this world of sorcerers and cursed techniques, of power and prestige. You were just the blind girl, chosen to be Gojo’s wife for reasons that had nothing to do with who you were and everything to do with what your family name represented.

The woman helped you out of bed, her hands gentle as she guided you toward the wardrobe, where she had laid out a simple, elegant kimono. You could feel the delicate silk between your fingers as she draped it over your shoulders, her hands moving with practiced ease as she tied the obi around your waist.

"Do you know what your plans are for today, my lady?" she asked quietly, though there was no judgment in her voice, only politeness.

"I don’t," you admitted, the words feeling heavy. "I��m not sure what I’m supposed to do."

The woman paused for a moment, her hands resting lightly on your shoulders as she adjusted the fabric. "You may not have cursed techniques like the others, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing for you here. The Gojo estate is large, and there are many things to explore if you’d like. The gardens are beautiful, and the library is filled with books from all over the world. You don’t have to…"

Her voice trailed off as though she had realized she was speaking out of turn, but the kindness in her tone remained.

"I don’t have to what?" you asked softly, curious about what she had left unsaid.

"You don’t have to wait around," she finished, her voice gentler now. "You don’t have to wait for someone to tell you what to do. You’re Lady Gojo now, and this is your home too."

The words settled into you, though they felt foreign, like a suit of armor that didn’t quite fit. Could this place ever really be your home? Could you find your own way here, among people who saw you as nothing more than a blind girl married to a man who didn’t care about you?

When the woman finished dressing you, she stepped back, her hands folding neatly in front of her. "Is there anything else I can do for you this morning?"

"No," you replied, your voice soft. "Thank you."

She bowed slightly and left the room, leaving you standing there, dressed but feeling no more ready for the day than you had before.

The silence that filled the room after her departure was thick and suffocating. You could feel the weight of the emptiness pressing down on you, the quietness of the house a stark contrast to the chaotic noise that had filled your mind since the wedding. A part of you wanted to crawl back into bed, to hide under the covers and pretend that none of this was real. But the woman’s words lingered.

You don’t have to wait around.

You had spent your entire life waiting. Waiting for your cursed techniques to appear. Waiting for your family to tell you what your role would be. Waiting for this marriage to happen, knowing it was never really a choice. But now, as much as you felt out of place, there was a flicker of something inside you that wondered if she was right. Maybe there was more to this life than just waiting.

With slow, deliberate movements, you made your way to the door. Your hand found the handle, and you stepped out into the hallway, the quiet of the estate enveloping you. The corridors were long, and though you couldn’t see them, you could feel the vastness of the space around you—the echo of your footsteps against the smooth floors, the subtle shift in the air as you walked.

You didn’t know where you were going, but for the first time since you arrived, it didn’t matter. You just needed to move, to take a step forward, no matter how uncertain.

As you neared a door, the sounds from within grew unmistakable—soft murmurs, the rustle of fabric, and then a quiet, intimate sigh. The knot in your stomach tightened. You already knew what you would find if you dared to push the door open, and yet your feet carried you closer, your heart thundering in your chest as your hand instinctively brushed against the doorframe.

Inside, Gojo’s voice was low, playful, teasing in a way you had never heard from him before. It sent a shiver down your spine—not from the words themselves, but from the realization that this was a side of him he had reserved for someone else.

Through the small gap in the door, you heard her—a soft giggle, followed by a breathy gasp as Gojo’s voice dropped lower, too quiet for you to make out the words. The tone was unmistakable though, thick with seduction, as if he was savoring every moment of this forbidden encounter.

You stepped closer, the barely-there creak of the floor beneath you drowned out by the sounds inside the room. There was no mistaking what was happening now. Her quiet moan was unmistakable, and the soft, wet sound that followed made your breath catch in your throat. Your mind painted a picture you didn’t want to see—Gojo leaning in, his lips pressing against hers with a hunger that had never been directed toward you.

The dull thud of your heart in your ears drowned out almost everything else, but you couldn’t tear yourself away. You shouldn’t have been standing there, listening to your husband making out with another woman, but the pull of the moment kept you frozen in place.

A light gasp escaped her, followed by Gojo’s chuckle, and then you heard him kiss her again—longer this time, deeper. The sound of their lips parting, the soft exhale of pleasure from the woman, filled the room. It was like a physical blow, striking you with a force you hadn’t expected.

It was the kind of kiss you would never have. The kind of affection you would never receive from him.

You had always known it, deep down. Gojo had never promised you anything beyond the formalities of marriage, and you had accepted that, hadn’t you? But standing here, listening to him give someone else the affection you would never know, the truth of it stung in a way you hadn’t prepared for.

You pressed your palm against the cool wood of the doorframe, forcing yourself to breathe through the growing lump in your throat. The walls seemed to close in around you, the air too thick, too heavy. Your body screamed at you to turn away, to walk back to the safety of your solitude, but your feet felt anchored to the spot.

You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deeply this hurt, how thoroughly he had already broken the fragile illusion you had tried to build around this marriage. But as you stood there, every tender sound that came from inside the room seemed to chip away at whatever resolve you had left.

Finally, with a deep, shuddering breath, you pulled yourself away from the door. Your movements were slow, deliberate, as if each step was a battle against the weight of your own heart. You wouldn’t stay to hear the rest. You wouldn’t allow yourself to witness any more of Gojo’s betrayal.

Because that’s what this was, wasn’t it? A betrayal.

It didn’t matter that this marriage had never been built on love, that it had been nothing more than a transaction between two powerful families. You had still given yourself to him, even if only in the way you had been told to, and now, he was giving parts of himself—parts you would never have—to someone else.

As you made your way back down the hall, you forced yourself to hold your head high, your face impassive, though inside, the ache that had started when you overheard their conversation had turned into a deep, gnawing hurt.

You wouldn’t confront him.

But even here, in the peacefulness of the garden, you couldn’t escape the nagging thought in the back of your mind—the knowledge that no matter how far you ran, you would always be trapped in a life that wasn’t yours.

And you weren’t sure if you could ever find a way out.

As you wandered through the garden, the air heavy with the scent of flowers, you couldn’t shake the hollow ache in your chest. The calmness of the space did little to ease the knot that had formed in your stomach, the knowledge of Gojo’s casual betrayal lingering in your mind like a bitter aftertaste. You tried to ignore it, to focus on the sensation of the soft breeze against your skin, but the conversation you had overheard replayed in your head.

And then, as if summoned by your thoughts, you heard his voice.

“Ah, there you are.”

The sound of Gojo’s voice cut through the stillness of the garden, light and casual, as if he hadn’t just been somewhere else, entertaining another woman. You stiffened, your back straightening instinctively, but you didn’t turn toward him. You didn’t need to see him to know that the easy smile was probably plastered across his face, his usual carefree attitude masking whatever true thoughts lay behind those bright blue eyes.

Footsteps crunched on the gravel path, growing closer until you could feel his presence beside you. He stopped, his hands probably in his pockets, his head likely tilted with that insufferable smirk still playing on his lips. The scent of his cologne, sharp and faintly sweet, filled the air around you, overwhelming the natural smell of the flowers.

“What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of casual curiosity. “I figured you’d still be sleeping off yesterday.”

You said nothing for a moment, your hands tightening slightly at your sides as you tried to maintain your composure. The silence stretched between you, and you could feel his gaze on you, even if you couldn’t see it. Finally, you spoke, your voice quiet but steady.

“Just walking,” you replied, your tone cool. “Isn’t that what people do in their own home?”

There was a beat of silence, and you could almost hear the grin spreading wider across his face.

“Right, right,” he said, amusement dancing in his voice. “Our home.”

The way he said the word “our” felt like a mockery, as if the very idea of this being your shared space was some kind of joke. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the wave of frustration that threatened to rise. This was your life now, tied to a man who didn’t care, bound by a duty you hadn’t asked for.

“You’re up early,” you continued, your voice steady but cold. “I thought you’d be… occupied.”

Gojo let out a soft chuckle, the sound low and almost teasing. “Ah, you heard that, huh?”

There was no apology in his tone, no trace of guilt. If anything, he sounded amused, as if the idea of you hearing him with another woman was nothing more than an inconvenience, a slight miscalculation on his part. You clenched your fists, your nails digging into your palms as you struggled to keep your composure.

“What does it matter?” he continued, his voice light and airy, as if this were all some kind of game. “You know what this is. You knew what this would be.”

His words hit you like a slap to the face, and for a moment, the air seemed to still around you. Of course, you had known. This marriage wasn’t built on love or trust; it was an arrangement, a union forged out of necessity and obligation. But hearing him say it so bluntly, with such casual disregard for your feelings, made the reality of it all the more painful.

You turned your head slightly in his direction, though your eyes remained unfocused, your gaze fixed somewhere in the distance.

“I know what this is,” you said softly, your voice carrying a quiet strength. “But that doesn’t mean it has to be so cruel.”

Gojo’s laughter rang out, sharp and biting, and you could feel the shift in his demeanor, his charm slipping just slightly to reveal the edge beneath.

“Cruel?” he echoed, the word rolling off his tongue like a taunt. “This is reality. You’re the one who agreed to this. You knew exactly what you were getting into. You can’t act surprised now.”

Your chest tightened, the frustration and hurt bubbling just beneath the surface. But you refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break, of knowing just how deeply his words had cut. Instead, you drew in a steady breath, your voice calm despite the storm raging inside you.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said quietly, the truth hanging between you like a heavy weight. “Neither of us did.”

For a moment, there was silence. You could feel his eyes on you, studying you, perhaps weighing the truth in your words. And then, with a soft exhale, Gojo’s tone shifted again, the sharpness receding as his usual nonchalant air returned.

“Yeah, well,” he said, his voice softer now but still distant, “that’s the way the world works, isn’t it?”

You didn’t respond, the quiet settling between you like a heavy fog. This was the man you had married—Gojo Satoru, the most powerful sorcerer alive, a man who wielded immense strength and influence but saw the world through a lens of detachment and indifference. He lived in a reality where emotions were weaknesses and connections were expendable. And now, you were a part of that world, tethered to him by duty and expectation.

But even as you stood there, feeling the weight of his presence beside you, a small flicker of resolve burned within you. You couldn’t change him, and you couldn’t change the circumstances that had brought you here. But maybe, just maybe, you could carve out something for yourself within this life. Something that wasn’t defined by him or by the expectations of others.

“I’ll leave you to your walk,” Gojo said suddenly, breaking the silence. “I’ve got things to do.”

And with that, he turned and walked away, his footsteps fading into the distance as he left you standing alone in the garden. The emptiness he left behind was palpable, but you stood there for a long moment, the cool breeze brushing against your skin.

This was your life now—a life filled with silence and distance, with a husband who saw you as nothing more than a convenience, a vessel for an heir.

1K notes · View notes

kitkatscabinet · 24 days ago

Text

NO THING DEFINES A MAN LIKE LOVE THAT MAKES HIM SOFT

requested by anon

summary: Jason's always been undeniably soft for you, his friends and family take every opportunity to tease him for it.

pairing: jason todd x wondergirl! reader

word count: 2.5k

You throw open the door to Jason's apartment, wincing when the wood slams against the wall with a bang.

Roy doesn't even look up when he greets you, too enthralled with whatever violent video game he's playing today. Jason, however, perks up at your arrival, putting his book down as he turns to look at you. He can't help it, the way he responds automatically at your presence, his face splitting into a bright smile at the sight of you.

You're too tired to walk around the couch, so you sit on the back of the couch, flipping yourself backwards inelegantly. You sink into the shitty couch beside Jason, draping yourself across his lap with a groan.

You've always been so free with your physical affection, but it still makes Jason's heart leap to his throat; butterflies erupt in his stomach like a child with their first crush.

He stiffens for a second, hands hovering awkwardly midair like he’s not sure where to put them with Roy suddenly watching so intently. On your waist? Your legs? Just hovering there like an idiot?

You shift, cuddling closer, totally oblivious to the dilemma you're causing.

Roy smirks at him from across the room, wriggling his brows suggestively. Jason flips him the bird, glaring harshly, before quickly retracting his hand when you turn to stare up at him. He has to fight back the urge to squirm under the weight of your adoring gaze.

You reach up, tugging at his little white curl playfully, before you turn back around and nestle into Jason’s stomach, content to steal all his body heat without a second thought.

Jason, poor Jason, just slowly rests his hand on your back like he’s afraid you’ll suddenly disappear if he moves even an inch. You let out a happy little hum, nuzzling further into him as your muscular arms encircle his waist.

Trapped as he is, Jason is powerless to stop Roy as his friend whips out his phone and takes an incriminating photo. "Group chat’s gonna love this," he murmurs gleefully.

Jason glares at him with the intensity of a thousand burning suns. "You’re dead to me." He whispers, careful not to wake you.

"Don't worry, I'll send it to you too." Jason refuses to verbalise how much he actually wants that.

You're out like a light, bruises decorating your skin and hair dishevelled from a long day of sparring, and yet you're still as beautiful as ever. He watches you sleep with no small amount of reverence, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth unbidden.

He still remembers the first time you met, with startling clarity. His memories of you are some of the only things untainted by the Lazarus Pit and his subsequent time in the League.

It was during his early days as Robin, when he was still rough around the edges and angry at the world, trying so desperately to prove himself.

Dick had been even more giddy than usual, promising Jason he had "a super duper exciting surprise that he'd absolutely love!" as he lured him down to the Batcave.

"I doubt it." He'd grumped, only to nearly instantly eat his words at the sight of Wonder Woman, the greatest hero ever. Not just Wonder Woman, but you, bright, breathtaking you.

You were a force of nature, all wild hair and sharper wit, smiling like the world hadn't yet taught you to be wary. You offer him your hand eagerly, and Jason takes it, his eyes trailing up and up and up.

"...You’re so tall." He inwardly cringes at his lack of eloquence, too tongue-tied at the literal demi-goddess towering over him.

"Is that a problem?" you asked curiously, arms folding across your chest as you looked him up and down. "Should I shrink myself to spare your ego, Robin?" Diana had warned you that men tended to feel emasculated when women were taller than they were, but you'd yet to experience that.

"No!" Jason practically shouts, as if the mere idea offended him.

Dick made a choking noise and immediately began texting someone, not that Jason noticed, entranced with you as he was.

(Jason would later learn this was the exact moment a group chat called 'Jason + Wondergirl = ENDGAME' was born.)

You'd then proceed to flatten him into the dirt for the next thirty minutes as you sparred, and Jason fell just a little bit in love.

You'd picked him up off the floor with ease, smiling dopily despite his busted lip, and he'd asked if you were ready to get serious. You'd laughed, full-bodied and delighted, and Jason had known then that he was doomed.

You became his person so effortlessly, it was almost embarrassing. You'd squeeze yourself into the spaces he left open, the cracks he didn’t realise were there, until he couldn’t imagine a world where you weren't right beside him.

You were his best friend, his confidante, his favourite person in the entire world.

Even when you argued, which was rare, because you always listened to him. When his anger got the better of him and he lashed out, you were understanding, refusing to let him push you away.

Even when he'd died and then come back different, wrong, you'd never once judged him or hated him. Bruce had been outraged at what Jason had become, but you'd offered nothing but kindness and understanding.

You never hated him or begrudged him for becoming a killer, nor did you attempt to stop him, simply happy to have him back by your side.

His brothers teased him relentlessly, but Jason couldn't prevent the smile that covered his face when you entered the room, even if he tried. Roy constantly comments on how his body releases the tension it always seems to hold whenever you're around. Even Bruce had become relentless in his not-so-subtle, offhand comments about the two of you, with Jason actually shooting at him when his old man brought up grandchildren.

Jason sighed softly, dragging a hand through his hair as he tried to push away those thoughts. Of you and him, together.

You shift slightly, face scrunching in your sleep, and he immediately softens even more, reaching out to brush a piece of hair from your forehead with infinite gentleness reserved solely for you.

His phone vibrates, but he stalwartly ignores it, even when Roy starts to gesture at him aggressively. It's not until he fears the constant vibrations will wake you that he snatches his phone up with a glare, only to find he's been added to a chat that he definitely wasn't part of before.

Arse-nal: LOOK AT HIM!! LOOK HOW SOFT HE IS!!!

Attached was the photo, an annoyingly well-taken photo, of you, fast asleep in his lap, using him as your personal pillow. But even worse is the clear adoration in his gaze as he stares down at you.

LoverBoy: fuck all of you. i hope you step on a pile of legos

Eldest Daughter Syndrome (Dick): VINDICATION!!!! Look at that face! I knew it. I’ve been telling you all, he's been obsessed with her for years. You think he’s tough? This dude’s a marshmallow when it comes to her.

Arse-nal: BRO IS WHIPPED. Now there's no refuting that he's literally softer than cotton candy.

Fastest Dumbass Alive (Wally): OH MY GOD IT'S HAPPENING! STATIONS EVERYONE!!! REMAIN CALM!!

Stalker (Tim): Didn't know you could smile. Ur glowing. This feels illegal.

BeastieBoy: That's that Amazon magic babyyyyy. His skin? CLEAR, crops? Watered, depression? Cured.

Demolition Barbie (Cassie): Why do i wanna cry? He's so in love its a little disgusting.

Ebony Dark’ness (Raven): What would the criminals say if they could see you now? The Big Bad Red Hood, secretly a wife guy, the world must be ending.

Lover Boy: Delete that shit before i delete you.

Arse-nal: No can do brother. The people deserve to see it. Maybe this will help you finally man up and express your feelings.

Fastest Dumbass Alive: RIGHT? LIKE, LETS NOT PRETEND THIS HASNT BEEN YEARS IN THE MAKING. U 2 R SICKENINGLY SWEET

LoverBoy: You are weirdly intense about this. I feel mildly unsafe.

Fastest Dumbass Alive: SOME OF US HAVE BEEN INVESTED SINCE SEASON ONE, JASON. DONT DISRESPECT MY EMOTIONAL JOURNEY

Eldest daughter syndrome: I'm literally tearing up. y'all don't understand; Wally was there when Jason first awkwardly complimented her combat skills after she kicked his ass.

Arse-nal: Thats basically a proposal in Jason language.

Stalker: There are Oscar-nominated films with less buildup than this relationship. Waiting on that Netflix deal fr.

LoverBoy: I hate all of you. Deeply. Profoundly.

Queen Supreme (Donna): You love her though ;)

Fastest Dumbass Alive: YEAH, HOWS THAT FOR CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT. SO PROUD OF YOU <3

Jason wanted to scream, or throttle Roy, probably both, neither of which were options he had available as you were still sprawled across his lap.

Roy, sensing his luck was about to run out as Jason searched for something to throw, made a quick tactical retreat. (Not before snapping a bunch more photos, though.)

His thoughts of vengeance are abruptly derailed when you sigh happily, trying to push yourself closer against him in your sleep.

His neck will murder him tomorrow for sure, but Jason would rather die than wake you now. So he lets you spend the night like that, succumbing to sleep himself as he allows his imagination to run just a little wild.

Despite the furious ache in his body the next day, Jason had no regrets, not when it was the best sleep he'd had in years. He was on cloud 9 that day; nothing could bring him down.

Nothing until his phone started buzzing incessantly again.

Stalker: GUYS GUYS GUYS I MADE T-SHIRTS

Attached: a pic of a black t-shirt with the photo of Jason with you sleeping on his lap, printed below in giant bold letters is: "LOVER BOY"

Fastest Dumbass Alive: I AM ACTUALLY CRYING PUT ME DOWN FOR TEN I��M GIVING THEM OUT LIKE PARTY FAVOURS Beastie Boy: It hasn’t even been a day! The devil works hard, but Tim Drake works harder!!

Arse-nal: �� TIMOTHY. YOU BEAUTIFUL BOY I NEED A HOODIE TOO.

Eldest Daughter Syndrome: I’m buying in bulk. I’m handing them out at the next League meeting.

Demolition Barbie: THIS IS THE GREATEST MOMENT OF MY LIFE. I WANT A TANK TOP VERSION.

Ebony Dark’ness: You are all unsupervised children. …but also I’ll take two.

Queen Supreme: We need matching hats. No one gets left behind.

Stalker: DON’T WORRY. Hats. Hoodies. Totes. Phone cases. I’m building an empire off Jason's misery.

LoverBoy: I SWEAR TO GOD. IF I SEE ONE PERSON WEARING THAT SHIRT, YOU’RE ALL DEAD.

Fastest Dumbass Alive: 👕👕👕👕

Eldest Daughter Syndrome: Hey Jay, what size are you? Just wanna make sure your own shirt fits well.

Arse-nal: NO ONE TELL HER. I WANNA SEE HIS FACE WHEN SHE SEES THEM IN THE WILD.

Ebony Dark’ness: This is the happiest I’ve seen all of you. Concerning.

Stalker: THE POWER OF LOVE, BABY. AND PETTY SIBLING BULLYING. BEAUTIFUL.

LoverBoy: i hope all your phones die at 1% when you're lost and need gps. i hope every chair you sit on has one short leg. i hope your toast falls butter side down. i hope you step on water in socks. i hate you. i hate you all so much. sleep with both eyes open.

Queen Supreme: We should get banners printed and roll them out at their wedding.

LoverBoy: I am begging you to touch grass. I am BEGGING you to seek help.

Stalker: too late bro. Train’s already left the station. By that I mean I’ve already sent the photo out to every hero number i have, I’m already getting requests.

Fastest Dumbass Alive: hope ur ready to be the face of love, king <3

Jason clenches his teeth so hard he swears he hears a cracking noise. Oh god, he needed to find you, needed to explain before one of the idiots got to you first.

Unfortunately for him, Stephanie gets to you first, bursting into your room at the Titans tower, dressed in the prototype of the shirt.™

"Stephanie, what. is. that." You blink, focused on the garish neon pink text beneath the picture on her shirt.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" She beams, wiping a fake tear from the corner of her eye. Steph had been prepared for embarrassment, what she hadn't been prepared for, was to see the glee on your face.

"Where did you get it. I want one." You demand, taking Steph by surprise.

Your gaze is so intense, and she ends up just stripping it off to give to you for fear that you'd take it by force. She's a lot shorter and slimmer than you, but luckily the shirt had been oversized on Steph already.

You're admiring it in the mirror, it really is a cute picture of the two of you, when Jason suddenly slides into your room, out of breath. "I need to... talk... to you." He trails off in horror, witnessing you wearing the abomination Tim had created to embarrass him.

"Baby, we're so cute!" You chirp, proudly showing off your new article of clothing.

"Baby?" Steph squeals in delight, typing something furiously on her phone as Jason just sighs.

"You're cute," he corrects, grabbing one of your hands and placing a kiss on the back of your palm.

Stephanie sputters, pointing an accusing finger at Jason, who's doing his damndest to ignore her existence.

You pull him closer, tugging him against your chest as you lean down to kiss him. You know Jason prefers to keep your relationship private, but you're pretty sure the cat is well and truly out of the bag now, and you really want to kiss your absolutely adorable boyfriend.

Jason, who is always powerless against your kisses, melts into you, barely noticing Stephanie's outraged squawking.

You're quick to shove the blonde out the door, locking it before she can barge her way back in, never once pulling away from Jason.

Though you've been together romantically for a while now, he's still unused to your touch, to how gently you cradle him with calloused, war-torn hands.

"You know they're going to be even more insufferable once Steph blabs right?"

"Hmm, don't care, just wanna show everyone how much I love you." The sincerity in your words nearly stops his heart, but not as much as it pounds against his chest when you pick him up, pinning him to your bed.

"But let's not think about them any longer, yeah?" He nods, anything you wanted, he'd give it to you.

#x reader #dc x reader #jason todd x reader #female reader #jason todd #jason todd x fem reader #dc

551 notes · View notes

psformybss · 27 days ago

Text

if it wasn’t real, why did it hurt?

part 2

rafe cameron x female!reader

warnings: 18+ MDNI, sexual content, emotional manipulation, casual hookup, unrequited feelings, emotional detachment, miscommunication, self-doubt, toxic behavior, situationship

════════════════

You met Rafe Cameron at a frat party you hadn’t even planned on going to.

Your roommate had practically dragged you there. “Just for an hour,” she insisted, tugging at your wrist as you stood in front of your closet in an oversized hoodie and cotton shorts. “You’ve been cooped up all week. You need to go out, drink a little, maybe make out with someone hot and emotionally unavailable.”

You’d laughed, tossing a pillow at her. “You really know how to sell it.”

But somehow, thirty minutes later, you were standing shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers in a house that smelled like beer, weed, and someone’s shitty attempt at cologne. Bass pounded through the floor, sticky heat rising with the press of bodies. You immediately regretted it.

Until you saw him.

He was leaned against the kitchen counter like it was second nature—head tilted, backwards cap, lazy smirk. T-shirt hugging lean muscle. Tan forearms crossed, one hand holding a red solo cup like it wasn’t worth the effort. He looked like trouble in all the ways you weren’t supposed to want.

And he was already watching you.

Your eyes met.

He didn’t look away.

Neither did you.

You drifted toward the kitchen more out of instinct than intention, holding your half-empty White Claw like a shield. You didn’t even get a step in before he nodded toward it.

“That yours?”

You raised a brow. “Why? You worried I’m gonna roofie you?”

He laughed, and it was warm, low, like a secret. “Just checking you’re not stealing mine.”

You tilted your can toward him. “If it was yours, I’m judging your taste.”

“That’s bold,” he said, eyes flicking over you—playful, assessing. “Mango slander this early?”

“I’m just saying,” you replied, shrugging, “if I’m gonna drink something embarrassing, I’m gonna own it.”

His smirk grew. “I’m Rafe.”

He held out his hand like he already knew you’d take it. You did.

When you gave him your name, he said it like he was trying it out. Like he liked how it felt in his mouth.

The conversation was easy—teasing, then flirtatious. You stood too close in a way that wasn’t accidental, trading barbs and stolen glances until the crowd closed in and the air got too tight.

“Come on,” he said, nodding toward the door.

You didn’t ask where he meant. You just followed.

Outside, the cool air wrapped around your legs like a relief you didn’t realize you needed. The house was buzzing behind you, laughter and music spilling from the porch lights, but out here, everything felt still.

You sat on the steps beside him, knees brushing. He looked over, eyes lingering on your mouth.

“You’re not like the girls in there,” he said.

You huffed a laugh. “Because I insulted your drink choice?”

“No,” he said, his voice dipping, “because you’re not trying.”

You turned toward him. “And that’s… good?”

He didn’t answer. Just leaned in a little, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

The moment hung heavy, thick with tension.

You swallowed.

“Is this where you kiss me?” you asked.

His mouth tilted up. “Only if you want me to.”

You didn’t answer.

You just closed the space.

He kissed you slow at first, like he wanted to savor it—like he wasn’t sure he’d get another chance. His lips were soft, confident, coaxing yours open with ease. One hand found your cheek, then slid into your hair, and you tilted your head, sighing into his mouth as the pressure deepened.

He tasted like whiskey and warmth, and when he licked into your mouth, something low in your stomach curled tight.

You shifted closer without thinking, your thighs brushing, his fingers tightening in your hair. The kiss turned hotter, hungrier—his tongue teasing, your breaths getting shorter, your hands gripping the front of his shirt like you needed something to hold onto.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

“I want more of this,” he murmured. “Somewhere not on a frat porch.”

Your pulse jumped.

“Yeah?”

He nodded, eyes locked on yours.

“My place’s not far. You wanna come with me?”

Your heart thudded.

But you were already nodding.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He grinned, stood, and reached for your hand again.

You barely made it through the front door before he was kissing you again.

It was darker in his house, quieter. The only light came from a lamp left on in the corner of the living room, casting soft gold over his jaw as he reached for you—palms sliding over your waist, your back, pressing you into him like he’d been waiting all night to do it properly.

You kissed him back like you felt the same. Like it had been building from the moment your eyes met across that kitchen.

His hands were firm. Greedy. He walked you backward until your knees hit the edge of the couch, and then you were sinking down together, your body straddling his thighs, his mouth moving along your throat.

“You drive me fucking crazy,” he muttered against your skin, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver. “You don’t even try.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Didn’t need to.

Because then he was kissing you again—deep, slow, dirty. One hand tangled in your hair, the other slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, fingers dragging along bare skin until you gasped into his mouth.

Clothes came off in pieces, fast and impatient. His shirt. Your shorts. The stretch of skin against skin.

He gripped your hips and pulled you against him, letting you feel exactly how much he wanted you.

You made a sound in your throat—half groan, half challenge.

“You gonna be good for me?” he murmured, eyes burning.

“You gonna earn it?”

That earned you a growl.

He flipped you onto your back with too much ease, dragging his mouth down your body like he already knew every inch. You arched beneath him, fingers fisting in the cushions as he kissed and bit his way down your stomach, teasing you until you were panting his name like it was the only thing you knew.

And when he finally gave you what you wanted—what you needed—it was all heat and pressure and slow, torturous rhythm. He didn’t rush. He watched, holding your gaze while he fucked you like he wanted to memorize every sound you made.

You came with your nails in his shoulders and your legs locked around him, gasping his name like a promise you didn’t mean to make.

He kissed you softer afterward, slower, like something changed and he wasn’t quite ready to let you go.

You stayed the night. Fell asleep on his chest with the TV flickering in the background, his heartbeat steady against your ear.

In the morning, you found your shirt halfway under the couch and your underwear tangled in a throw blanket.

Rafe was already up, stretching in a pair of sweats and yawning like he hadn’t wrecked you six hours ago.

You pulled your shirt over your head and sat on the edge of the couch to put your shoes back on.

He stood there for a beat, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You leaving?” he asked.

You nodded. “Didn’t want to be that girl.”

He smirked. “What girl?”

“The one who lingers.”

He stepped closer.

“You could linger a little,” he said, quieter.

You looked up.

He rubbed a thumb over the hinge of his jaw, like he was debating something. Then:

“Give me your number.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I wanna see you again,” he said simply. “Not just at some party. You good with that?”

Your stomach flipped.

But your voice was steady when you said, “Yeah. I’m good with that.”

You handed him your phone.

And he smiled like it was the start of something neither of you could name yet.

The first text came hours later:

Rafe (9:47 AM): made it home okay?

You were curled up in your bed, still wrapped in the warmth of his scent, wondering if he’d just forget about everything like it never happened.

You (9;50 AM): yeah

Rafe (9:52 AM): wish you would have stayed longer

Rafe (9:53 AM): my bed still smells like you.

Your stomach fluttered as you stared at the message longer than you meant to.

You (9:55 AM): maybe you should’ve asked me to stay

Rafe (9:57 AM): didn’t think i had to

You felt something shift in that simple text. That was the beginning.

The next few days felt like waiting.

You weren’t texting constantly, but it was enough—small bursts of conversation between classes, little exchanges that felt like inside jokes, your connection growing in the spaces between.

Rafe (2:01 PM): girl in my chem class has your exact laugh. freaked me out.

You (2:04 PM): she better not be stealing it. trademark pending.

Rafe (2:06 PM): not even close. yours hits harder.

That Friday night, the text came late.

Rafe (12:13 AM): you up?

The second you read it, your phone buzzed again.

Rafe (12:14 AM): come outside.

You hadn’t even heard his Jeep pull up, but your heart was already racing as you grabbed a hoodie and stepped outside. The cool night air hit you, and the second you slid into the passenger seat, Rafe was already leaning across the console, pressing his lips to yours. Slow, like a hello he couldn’t say aloud.

“You taste like candy,” he murmured, his breath warm against your lips.

“And you taste like bad decisions.”

He grinned, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Funny. Thought you liked those.”

He drove aimlessly for a while, one hand on the wheel and the other skimming the hem of your shorts. His touch was light, almost casual, but everything between you felt loaded—like every brush of his fingers against your skin was an unspoken promise.

Eventually, he parked near the lookout, a quiet spot high above the water. Stars scattered across the night sky, and the lights of the city blinked in the distance. You both climbed into the backseat, a movement that felt like second nature now.

At first, neither of you spoke. You just lay side by side, shoulders brushing, talking about random things—classes, hometowns, the strange scar above his eyebrow from a dare in high school.

“Bet you looked hot with blood dripping down your face,” you teased.

He turned toward you, a grin playing on his lips. “Bet you would’ve kissed me anyway.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you leaned in and kissed him first.

That’s when it shifted.

He pulled you onto his lap, his hands slipping under your hoodie and dragging it off over your head. Your bra followed quickly, and his lips traced down your chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. You gasped his name, the dark around you only making everything feel more intense.

You rocked your hips against him, the pressure of him building between you. He groaned low, grabbing your hips and pulling you harder against him.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he muttered, his breath a mix of heat and hunger.

Everything felt electric—him, the way his body moved against yours, the way he whispered your name as he slid inside you, slow and deep. The connection between you both was raw, relentless.

You came, the release dizzying, like you were unraveling in his arms.

He held you after, skin slick and warm, both of you breathing in the quiet.

It became a routine after that.

Not every night, but often enough.

Late texts. Quiet pick-ups. Kisses in parked cars and whispered words that carried weight. Sometimes he kissed you like he was starving. Sometimes he kissed you like you were fragile.

You never asked what it meant.

You didn’t want to break the spell.

But there was something there. A pull you couldn’t ignore.

And you were starting to hope it was something real.

You started seeing each other in the daylight.

It wasn’t planned. It just happened.

The first time, he texted you on a Sunday morning.

Rafe (10:27 AM): what’re you doing

You (10:29 AM): regretting tequila and trying to convince myself to do laundry

Rafe (10:30 AM): come get breakfast with me instead

You hesitated. Because this wasn’t a backseat or a party or the quiet space between midnight and dawn.

This was eggs and coffee and sunlight.

But you said yes anyway.

You met at a hole-in-the-wall diner just off campus, both of you in hoodies and bed hair. He held the door open, teased you for your order, stole a bite of your pancakes. And when he paid for both of you, he didn’t make a thing of it. He just did it.

Afterward, he walked you to your car. You didn’t kiss. He just looked at you for a long second, like he wanted to.

Another time, he asked if you wanted to go for a drive. No reason. No party. Just the two of you, windows down, music loud, his hand occasionally drifting over to rest on your thigh like it belonged there.

You drove all the way to the beach and walked barefoot in the sand, shoes hanging from your fingers. You talked about stupid things—your first concerts, his worst haircut, the time you accidentally broke your mom’s favorite vase and blamed it on the cat.

He laughed, easy and open, and you found yourself watching the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

When you sat on the hood of his Jeep to watch the water, his arm slipped around your waist like it had always been there.

He didn’t try anything.

He just held you.

And you let him.

Then came the Wednesday night you didn’t expect.

You’d just gotten out of a late class and were halfway through changing into pajamas when your phone buzzed.

Rafe (9:18 PM): outside

You didn’t even question it. You threw on jeans and met him at the curb, breath catching when you saw him leaning against the side of his car, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pushed up.

“Didn’t expect to see you tonight,” you said.

He shrugged. “Didn’t feel like going home.”

You ended up at his place—again. But it wasn’t like the other nights.

He didn’t drag you onto the couch the second you walked in. He handed you a soda, let you pick the movie, and pulled you into his lap like it was instinct. His fingers stayed tangled with yours as the movie played, thumb brushing idle circles into your palm.

You fell asleep like that.

And woke up still curled against his chest.

The next morning, he made you coffee.

Badly.

It was too strong and slightly bitter, but you drank it anyway while he stood there shirtless, pretending he knew how to use the French press.

“You always make it this bad?” you asked, eyeing the mug.

He grinned. “Only for girls I like.”

You looked up, heart skipping.

He didn’t correct himself.

Rafe (1:26 PM): you left your hoodie

You (1:27 PM): guess that means you’ll have to see me again

Rafe (1:28 PM): yeah

Rafe (1:28 PM): think i want to

The lines blurred slowly.

Not with labels. Not with big talks or definitions.

But in the way he started walking you to your car after class. The way he’d call instead of text just to hear your voice. The way he’d ask if you’d eaten, if you were okay, if you wanted to come over just to sleep.

It wasn’t just lust anymore.

Not when his hand found yours under the table at brunch with your friends.

Not when he started remembering how you liked your coffee, how you took your notes, how you always tugged your sleeves over your hands when you were nervous.

Not when he looked at you like that.

Like you were becoming the thing he didn’t know how to stop wanting.

Until he started pulling away.

Slow at first. Subtle.

You blamed it on life—midterms, late nights, whatever excuse made it easier to ignore the shift.

Rafe (2:44 PM): can’t hang today, got shit to do

You (2:46 PM): all good. another time?

He didn’t respond.

That wasn’t new. Sometimes he got distracted. But this time, he didn’t make it up to you the next day.

Or the day after.

The texts changed first.

They used to feel like something—like a conversation, a heartbeat. Now, they came in short bursts. Delayed replies. One-word answers that didn’t ask for more.

You (9:12 AM): hope your exam went okay

Rafe (11:51 AM): yeah

You (11:52 AM): cool. proud of you

Rafe (12:00 PM): thanks

And that was it.

No late-night “you up?” texts. No random “wanna drive?” No stupid jokes in the middle of the day that made you grin in the back of class.

Just silence.

You still saw him around.

Passing glances on campus. A quick nod at a party. He looked the same—same backward cap, same lazy smirk—but he didn’t look at you the same.

He didn’t stop and talk.

Didn’t reach for your hand.

Didn’t say your name like it meant something anymore.

You told yourself not to care. That you weren’t together. That this was always casual.

But the pit in your stomach didn’t care about logic.

It just knew he was gone.

Your hoodie was still at his place.

You almost texted him for it.

But what would be the point?

You knew what that silence meant.

You told yourself not to care.

But every time your phone buzzed, your chest still tightened.

And every time it wasn’t him, it eased.

A little.

Until one day, it didn’t tighten at all.

Your roommate found you staring at your phone one night and asked, “Have you heard from Rafe?”

You shook your head. “Not in a while.”

She gave you that look.

The one that says I’m sorry without the words.

And you hated it.

Because you let yourself hope.

You let yourself feel something real.

And he just… didn’t.

Then, two weeks later, your phone lit up.

Rafe (12:03 AM): wyd

You stared at it for a long time.

Not because you were excited.

But because you finally didn’t feel anything at all.

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to.

Because you weren’t waiting anymore.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻ ⸻

an: i fear i blacked out once i started writing this and based it a little too much on my life rn

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4unnyr0se · 1 year ago

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❥ being satoru gojo's sugar baby

warnings: rich asf gojo, reader is a bitch in the first part, fem! reader, lingerie, riding, cunnilingus, doggystyle, breeding, mentions of pregnancy, gojo hates stupid people, not proofread, reader gets so spoiled, spanking, asphyxiation

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 1.6k

Being Satoru fucking Gojo wasn’t easy. Being handsome, rich, and popular with the ladies? Talk about a workout. He had so much money he didn’t know what to do with it all. It’s only the result of being fucking brilliant at business practices, always knowing when to strike a perfect deal. And that bore the fruit of luxury cars, Italian jackets, and beautiful women aplenty. Gojo liked fucking the pretty girls he met in the clubs, sure. They were good for a decent cock-sucking, their expensive lipstick always forming a nice little ring around his dick. Poor things, it was probably the only nice lipstick they owned. Gojo felt bad for them in a way, they would never know what it was like to be spoiled by a man such as himself. They were so fucking fake, expecting to be spoiled just for having a decent pussy to fuck. Don’t get him wrong, Gojo liked fucking the college girls he met in the clubs, but he wanted something that was real. He wanted a good girl to spend his infinite cashflow on, not a whore who didn’t know what a fucking tax bracket was.

He met you at his usual club, not recognizing your face from behind the bar. Hm, you must have been new there, Gojo would never ignore a pretty face like that, even though you were so grumpy looking. Did you hate your job like he hated bimbos? Gojo wasted no time in sitting himself down in your section of the bar counter, ordering a shot of the most expensive vodka the club offered. You called him an asshole and Gojo could have proposed right then and there.

Gojo attended the club every night, sitting at the exact same spot and ordering a different, expensive drink each time. He noticed how you softly smiled when he told the local club bimbos to piss off, no doubt enjoying him shooing away drunken, stupid girls. Eventually you finally caved and gave him your number, resulting in him giving you a kiss on the back of your hand like a prince would.

Every day he would call you, text you, ask about your day. Did anyone give you trouble at the club? If it was a shitty coworker of yours, Gojo would have them fired. It didn’t matter if he didn’t own the club, he was half of the club’s monthly revenue. Gojo could do whatever the hell he wanted, he was practically paying everyone's salaries. His texts brightened your day, along with his visits to the club when you worked long evening shifts. He had stopped ordering drinks altogether, just slipping you a healthy $300 every hour or two. You had refused at first, but Gojo had this really annoying habit of being able to convince anyone of anything. It got to a point where you just held out your hand for the money at the start of every hour, which made his cock throb with desire. You were growing accustom to being spoiled and he fucking loved that. You were spoiled without being stupid, that was so fucking sexy to him.

One night, after a very annoying shift, you invited him to visit your crappy apartment downtown. Gojo jumped at the opportunity and practically threw you into his Bently, no doubt breaking a couple of traffic laws to make it to your place in record time. It was so humbling, your apartment. There were cracks in the fall and the faucet had the most annoying drip, this would absolutely not do. You deserved to live in a fucking castle in the sky, not in this shithole.

Gojo bought you a townhouse a stone's throw away from his penthouse. You protested and groaned at him not to, claiming you weren’t worth it. Gojo quickly shut you up with a passionate and longing kiss, whispering against your plush lips that he would buy you the moon and the stars. After that, you really couldn’t complain. Everything was paid off for the fifty-year lease that Gojo had signed; he was so disgustingly rich. Why did you have to go back to working at that sleazy club? Oh, right, you had to afford to eat and shop. Don’t worry; Gojo gave you a ridiculously large sum of money every week to buy whatever the hell you wanted, sending you more money if you run out. You only spend a couple of hundred dollars a week on groceries, but then there was this stunning vintage Dior dress in a shop window, and you simply had to have it. You sent Gojo a picture that displayed the price tag, and he swore he came in his pants. Fuck, you looked amazing wearing designer dresses. And you were modeling for him; he wanted to marry you so badly.

You bought lingerie one time, lacy and black, and so fucking expensive. Garters and stockings and the works, a gorgeous French design. Gojo just about lost his mind when he saw that photo you sent, driving over to your townhouse as soon as he had an opening. He tackled you in a passionate and longing kiss, ripping off the lingerie with his hands. Whatever, he’d buy you another set. No, twenty more sets.

His lips trailed across your body, leaving searing, hot kisses in their wake. You were covered in Gojo’s bites and bruises, looking like an ancient Greek sculpture. Gojo fucked you right on the floor of your living room, not bothering to carry you up the flight of stairs to your bed. You just looked so good in the lingerie you purchased with his money. His money, his lingerie, his sugar baby. Your sobbing pussy was squeezing his massive fucking cock, sucking him into you like a vortex. Your manicured fingernails left angry crescent-shaped prints on his back, his Italian jacket, and other expensive clothes long forgotten about in a pile next to the door. His cock slammed into you over and over again, the tip of his dick kissing your cervix until you were screaming his name, swearing you were gonna cum all over his cock. Gojo fucking loved hearing your moans; they sounded so expensive when his ringed fingers were wrapped around your throat, squeezing it ever so gently. He moaned into your ear as your orgasm washed over you once more, the third one in the hour. He still wasn’t finished, oh no. He had you folded into a mating press, begging and whining to be cummed in by one of the wealthiest men in the world. And who was he to deny his princess? Gojo shot himself deep inside of you, painting your womb with his seed. It looked so pretty seeping out of who; he just had to take a picture. You wouldn’t mind, right? He’d just give you another five grand for a few more dresses.

Oh, even his aftercare was expensive. Running you a bath infused with freshly-pressed lavender and rose oil, soaking into your skin beautifully. Your fucked-out face was flush from the steam in the bathroom, making your already perfect skin so smooth. Gojo never wanted to stop touching you, not for a moment. He wrapped you in your Egyptian cotton sheets and held you tightly in his arms, thanking you for being his baby. As he whispered sweet nothings in your ear, his precious baby’s ear, you drifted off.

After that perfect night, Gojo basically lived in your luxury townhouse. He would be there when you opened your eyes and when you closed them. There to take you out on romantic restaurant dates and feed you the highest quality sushi there was. He was there to buy half the fucking boutique if you wanted him to. Those dresses were too pretty for anyone else to wear besides you. You no longer protested when he bought you stuff, only kissing his chest while humming a thank you in his ear. The expensive lipstick you wore stained his cheek, not that he minded one bit.

Apart from the expensive gifts, dates, and other such things, Gojo loved fucking you. You modeled every single set of lingerie he wanted you to, especially black and blue sets. He loved your little fashion shows, the way you would always sit on his lap and grind down on his thigh, your arousal soaking the delicate fabrics. His hand would slap your ass, commanding you cum on his thigh and ruin your panties. He’d fuck you face down ass up with an expensive vibrator on your puffy clit, smirking sadistically as you sobbed that it was too much, you couldn’t take it. He’d make you ride him in his home office, making sure his video camera was always off during meetings so no one except for him could see that pretty ass bouncing up and down on his cock, milking it for all it was worth. He’d demand you sit on his face, not letting you off until he had his fill, your cum covering his mouth and face. Gojo would command you to lick it off him, hands squeezing your waist, and was adorned with a leather garter belt.

God, he wanted to breed you. He never wanted to use protection, which you objected to at first. But he whined and pleaded, claiming it would only be once. Well, once turned into always. He always came inside of you multiple times a day. He wouldn’t stop until he was sure that he had fucked his cum inside of your pussy, sticking a finger inside just to make sure it was still there. He would babble on about how you two would have the most perfect wedding and have such cute babies, how he would take care of you. You would be so pretty, all swollen with his child.

Satoru Gojo took care of you from the moment the two of you met, your companionship being the most valuable asset he had. To him, you were the most precious thing, and he would take care of you until the day that he died.

#jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut

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authorpanda15 · 4 months ago

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PROXIMITY

↳ katsuki bakugō x reader

a/n: this was just supposed to be a small blurb, but it turned into a whole ass fic halfway through!!! wtf!!!

imagine forced proximity with katsuki bakugō...

-> katsuki didn’t like you, and you didn’t like him; his abrasive attitude clashed with your personality. and yet, you were a recurring presence in each other’s lives...

-> the two of you often found yourselves butting heads whenever you had to work together. he wished he didn’t have to look at your face so often, but your agencies kept pairing you two together. “you work well together,” they said. katsuki didn’t miss his agent whispering that you’re “the only person who can reign him in.”

-> as he's wrapping up his shift, katsuki receives a text from eijirō— affectionately saved as “shitty hair” on his phone— inviting him out to drinks and food with the group and for once, he accepts. after the day he had, he could use a drink, or two. but as he steps into the restaurant and finds his friends extras, he thinks that he’ll need more drinks than that when he sees you sitting at the booth.

so not only do you two have to work together, you also have mutual friends. great.

the once lively atmosphere at the table had slowly simmered, with a terrifying tension taking its place. mina, denki, eijirō and hanta would have to be completely tone-deaf to not notice the way you and katsuki stared daggers at each other.

eijirō, always amicable, was the first to speak up. “so... I take it you and bakugō know each other?”

you confirmed with a small nod, making the conscious effort to keep your eyes trained on the redhead. “our agencies thought it would be a good idea to work together.”

“ooh, that must be fun,” denki added, glancing at you and katsuki, the latter scoffing at his enthusiasm.

“if by ‘fun,’ you mean ‘I need to take pain relievers at the end of every shift because a certain someone has never heard of an inside voice before’,” your eyes flickered towards the certain someone in question; he’s already glaring at you. “...then, yes; I’ve been having a swell time!”

“the only reason I yell is because you don’t listen to me,” katsuki said, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “I swear, it’s like you’re deaf.”

“hearing loss is often caused by loud noises— now, who’s fault would that be?”

“yours, because the second you get off shift, you shove your earbuds in and turn your music volume all the way to the max!”

“music is the only thing that soothes me after working a shift with you! maybe if you had something to calm you down after a day’s work, you wouldn’t have a stick up your ass.”

eijirō attempts to interject. “guys—!”

“what’d you say to me?”

“hey, I think the food’s coming!” hanta suddenly announces to the table, which turns everyone’s attention to the waiter coming their way, balancing multiple orders on a serving tray.

you and katsuki simultaneously slump back into your seats without another word, prompting the rest of the table to breathe a sigh of relief as the waiter starts placing down plates of food.

the rest of dinner was uneventful compared to earlier. thankfully, denki and eijirō managed to bring the mood up— bless their hearts. drinks were shared and stories from the past were recalled, all the while you and katsuki remained mostly silent.

once dinner came to a close, you followed the group out of the restaurant as they discussed each other’s schedules— possibly planning when they can all hang out again.

you can’t help but wonder if they’ll invite you next time. you’ve no doubt made a fool out of yourself, acting so hostile and vulgar at the dinner table. but it’s not your fault! it’s his... isn’t it...?

you feel a sudden weight on your shoulder.

“what’s up? you look bummed,” denki said, titling his head to the side as he leaned against you.

“I, uh, I didn’t mean to start shouting back there, it’s just...” bakugō gets me so riled up... is what you almost said, but you decided to hold your tongue after a second thought. “...nevermind. I just, I hope I didn’t make dinner uncomfortable for the rest of you.”

denki patted your back and offered his signature grin. “don’t be so uptight! it’s all good!”

you exhaled, relieved he didn’t cause you to make a fool out of yourself, when denki suddenly leaned in close and whispered in your ear, “between you and me, I also think kacchan is a bit of a prick...”

“you say somethin’, dunce face?” as if he sensed he was being talked about and materialized behind you, katsuki’s presence suddenly towered over your’s.

denki yelped and cowered behind you, partially hiding his face in your shoulder. “protect me...!”

you tilt your head upwards to look at the blond not currently clinging to you. “you’re paranoid. we were just talking about dinner, that’s all.”

katsuki rolled his eyes at your reply, but didn’t argue.

for once.

later that night, after you made it to the comforts of your home, you received a message.

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salemlunaa · 10 months ago

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TO CHANGE REALITIES YOU MUST IGNORE THE 3D ᥫ᭡

ITS HARD PUT YOU GOTTA PUSH THROUGH

Don’t bug, your girl is back!! (iykyk)

When it comes to shifting and manifesting, I know the 3D can be hard when it’s in your face but you have to push that barrier. Being told that nothing comes easy in this world has wired our brains to believe that manifesting and shifting cannot be this easy. But we have to break that barrier to getting in to our god state. I must preface that the 3D is just a physical plane it’s not your enemy and it’s not end all, be all. The 3D is just utterly irrelevant, and i’m not saying that in a negative way, it’s simply just irrelevant because the only reality is your imagination. The 3D is malleable and dormant and only reflects what the 4D is dominant in.

once you accept it in the 4D with out any inch of doubt the 3D will have no choice to conform, you can change the 3D without the 4D, the 3D isn't real and is just a mirror for the 4D, without focusing on the 4D the 3D remains untouchable and unchanged. So you must move your focus to the 4D instead of obsessing over the 3D.

Let me give you an analogy, let’s say you’re going out with a friend and you look in the mirror and see that the yellow top you’re wearing doesn’t look as good as you wanted and you would like to change into your green top, you’re not going to try and change the mirror, trying to put your hand through the mirror to change your outfit or hitting the mirror and crying because your top hasn’t changed, because you’re gonna look really stupid aren’t you? You would change yourself, you would go to the closet and change self and then when you have changed into your green top the mirror will also reflect that you are wearing your green top. The 3D is JUST a mirror that will only change once you have changed self and accepted your new reality. That’s it. That’s what manifesting and shifting is, not all this complicated nonsense, you are just changing self.

so yes you did go to the void and wake up in your dream reality and YOURE SO HAPPY, feel and think as if. Idc if you woke up in the bed of your shitty “reality” because it’s not real, you have no place there you are a void/manifesting MASTER and anything you say goes.

CHANGE SELF + FORGET THE REST = SHIFTING BEING EASY AS FUCK 🐅💋

#salemlunaa #shiftblr #permashifting #reality shifting #shifting #law of assumption #loa #success story #void state #the void #void concept #respawning #the void state #voidstate #void state tips #manifesting #desired appearance #archive♡

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dearlenore · 1 month ago

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THE SUNSHINE STATE. / T.BRADFORD / SUMMARY - Tim Bradford struggles to accept his TO

PAIRING: TO!reader x Tim Bradford / w/c: 2.0k / fluff

a/n: this request is so cute I’m obsessed !!! anon’s req here

Tim Bradford wasn’t sure what fresh hell he’d walked into when he got assigned to you.

You were waiting by the patrol car at the crack of dawn, coffee in one hand and an energy bar in the other, your uniform crisp and your hair tied back in a way that somehow looked both professional and adorable. The second you saw him, your face lit up like the damn sun.

“Oh my god, you must be Officer Bradford!” you chirped, holding out your coffee-less hand for a shake. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

He blinked once. Twice.

“Uh-huh,” was all he said, giving your hand a firm shake before dropping it.

You were not deterred.

“I read your file. Former Marine, ran point on a meth bust your first year, commendations up the wazoo,” you recited like it was the most exciting thing in the world. “I’m honored to be your TO.”

Tim narrowed his eyes at you. “You always this… chipper?”

You didn’t flinch. “Pretty much. You’ll get used to it.”

“I doubt that.”

You smiled wider.

The first hour of your shift was quiet, minus the occasional call over dispatch and the static of the radio. You drove with one hand on the wheel and the other occasionally reaching for your thermos. Tim sat in the passenger seat, arms crossed, jaw clenched, radiating silent judgment.

You hummed to the radio.

“You know,” he muttered, “this isn’t a joyride. You don’t have to act like we’re on a road trip to Disneyland.”

You didn’t even look offended. “I’m not acting, I like my job. You’ll find out I’m serious when I need to be. But I’m also not going to pretend I hate life just to seem ‘tough.’ That’s not how I roll.”

He side-eyed you. “You think you’re gonna scare me straight with sunshine and good vibes?”

You grinned. “Oh, Bradford. You’re already halfway there.”

By the time you responded to your first call — a domestic dispute involving a weed-whacker and an angry ex-boyfriend — Tim watched in disbelief as you managed to talk both parties down with a warm voice and a soft touch. Somehow, in five minutes, you had the suspect in cuffs and the victim laughing through her tears.

He blinked again. “What the hell are you?”

You glanced over your shoulder as you loaded the suspect into the back of the cruiser. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” he gestured vaguely, “you’re not a robot. You’re not fake. But you’re… freakishly nice.”

You leaned in, conspiratorially. “Wanna know a secret?”

He didn’t answer. You told him anyway.

“I used to be a total hardass. Military family, everything by the book. And then one day, I realized I could be good at this without being mean about it.”

Tim stared at you, genuinely puzzled.

You just smiled again. “C’mon, partner. Time to file some paperwork. I’ll even let you pick the radio station.”

He grumbled something under his breath but followed you anyway.

Tim had been assigned to you for exactly ten days, and he still wasn’t sure if he wanted to punch a wall or throw himself out of the cruiser every time you smiled at him.

You were… too much.

Too bright. Too chipper. Too goddamn nice.

And worst of all?

You meant it.

It wasn’t fake, not a performance. You didn’t walk around with rose-colored glasses—you saw the rot in the world, just like he did—but somehow, you still managed to find something good in every shitty situation you two rolled up on. You always had a kind word, a soft smile, a calm presence that made even the worst days feel manageable.

It pissed him off.

Because if you could be this warm, this sunshiney—then maybe he was the problem.

Today had started with a call about a stolen dog, followed by a B&E in a sketchy part of town. You cleared the house together, Tim moving methodically, his voice clipped as he gave commands. You? You were calm, collected, and didn’t even flinch when a guy with a tire iron came charging out of a closet.

Tim got to him first, tackling the suspect to the ground.

You slapped cuffs on the guy like it was nothing.

“You okay?” you asked, brushing a leaf out of your hair after the struggle.

Tim stood, flexing his knuckles. “I’m fine.”

“You always say that,” you murmured.

“Because I am.”

You tilted your head, studying him with those big, annoyingly observant eyes. “You know, being vulnerable doesn’t make you weak.”

He scoffed. “Did I look weak when I took that guy down?”

“No,” you said with a laugh. “But you do look like someone who hasn’t let himself breathe in about five years.”

Tim said nothing.

You handed him a water bottle from the back of the cruiser. “Drink. You’re dehydrated and grumpy.”

“I’m always ‘grumpy.’ According to you at least.”

“Yeah, but now you’re grumpy and tired. Double homicide.”

That almost earned you a smile. Almost.

It was only later, during the lull between calls, when things started to shift.

You were sitting on the hood of the cruiser, legs dangling, eating trail mix and humming along to some cheesy 2000s song playing on the radio. Tim leaned against the driver’s side door, arms crossed, watching the sunset with a scowl.

You nudged his leg with your foot.

He glanced over.

“You know,” you said, popping a peanut into your mouth, “I can’t tell if you hate me or if this is just your resting murder face.”

“It’s my resting leave me alone face.”

You smirked. “Cute.”

He stared at you, deadpan. “Are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.”

He blinked.

You turned back to the sky, eyes soft. “I like sunsets. They remind me that no matter how bad a day was, it’s still ending. Still got through it. Still standing.”

Tim looked at you like you’d just said something in a foreign language. He didn’t understand people like you—people who felt things, who believed in good for no damn reason.

“What happened to you?” he asked before he could stop himself.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You said you used to be a hardass. Something changed you. What was it?”

You hesitated.

Then: “My best friend. She was sick for a long time. Cancer. I spent so much time being angry, trying to control everything. But I couldn’t control that. Couldn’t save her. So, after she died, I just… decided I didn’t want to live like that anymore. If I only have so much time, I’d rather spend it being kind.”

Tim didn’t say anything for a long time.

Finally, he asked quietly, “Do you ever regret it? Choosing to be soft in a hard world?”

You smiled at him, but it wasn’t your usual sunny grin. It was smaller. Sadder. “Sometimes. But it’s still who I am.”

And then you did something that completely threw him.

You leaned your head against his shoulder.

Not in a romantic way. Not even flirtatious. Just quiet comfort. A human moment.

He didn’t move away.

There were many more moments like that. He would buy you coffee, offer his jacket when you were cold, split his food with you.

Small gestures that meant the world to you.

You were standing in the precinct parking lot after another long shift. The air was heavy with the smell of impending rain, thick and warm with the kind of tension that mirrored what had been building between the two of you for days. Weeks, maybe.

Tim had lingered after debrief. You’d pretended to be finishing paperwork on the hood of the cruiser, but you weren’t fooling either of you. He leaned against the passenger side door, watching you quietly.

Finally, you looked up.

“What?” you asked with a small smile. “You gonna critique my penmanship now?”

His lips twitched. “You write like you talk. Loopy.”

“You mean pretty.”

“I mean chaotic.”

You rolled your eyes and closed the folder. The sky above you rumbled, soft thunder echoing in the distance.

“You sticking around for a reason boot?” you asked, more gently this time.

Tim didn’t answer at first. His gaze was unreadable, guarded, like he was working through something in his head and didn’t trust himself to say it yet. You knew that look now. You’d come to know it too well.

You let the silence stretch, gave him the space.

He stepped forward.

“Back there,” he started, “during the foot chase… you looked over your shoulder. Right after I went over the fence.”

You blinked. “Okay…?”

“You looked for me,” he said, voice low. “You could’ve kept going, but you didn’t.”

You shrugged, trying to keep it light. “Well, I didn’t want to explain to Sergeant Grey how I lost my grumpy new partner in a foot pursuit.”

He didn’t smile.

“You worry about me.”

The words weren’t accusatory. They were soft. Surprised. Vulnerable.

You swallowed. “Of course I do.”

“Why?”

You hesitated.

“Because I care about you, Tim.”

He stared at you like he was seeing you for the first time. Rain started to fall in lazy drops, dotting the pavement around your boots. A droplet landed on your cheek, slid down like a tear.

Tim stepped closer.

“I thought I was imagining it,” he said. “Thought there was no way someone like you could feel anything for someone like me.”

You opened your mouth, but he cut you off.

“You’re… light,” he said, like it hurt. “You smile at strangers. You remember how I take my coffee. You hum in the car. You don’t treat people like problems to solve.”

“I’m not perfect you know?,” you laughed.

“I know. But you feel perfect. And I—” He exhaled sharply, eyes searching yours. “I’ve been through some stuff. Stuff that made me believe people like you don’t end up with people like me. That I don’t get to have this.”

You stepped even closer, until there was barely any space between you, until the rain was falling heavier and soaking into your clothes, your hair, and neither of you cared.

“Don’t you get it?” you said, voice thick. “I like you. And for what it’s worth I think you like me too, I think that I bring something to your days that you’ve never known until now.”

His breath caught.

Then he said, very quietly: “Do you love me?”

You felt your heart stop and stutter in your chest. It was too soon. Or maybe it wasn’t. Maybe it had been coming since day one.

You didn’t flinch.

“I’m getting there,” you said, honest and certain. “Every day, I get closer.”

Tim looked like you’d knocked the wind out of him.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hard. It was steady. Reverent. His hands found your face, fingers curling gently at your jaw as his lips pressed against yours like he’d been thinking about this for weeks—because he had.

You leaned into it, fingers gripping the front of his uniform, kissing him back like you were afraid you’d wake up and find it had never happened.

When he finally pulled away, rain dripping from his lashes, he rested his forehead against yours.

“I’ve wanted to do that since day two,” he admitted.

“Why not day one?”

“You scared the hell out of me.”

You laughed, breathless.

“Still do, a little,” he added.

You kissed his cheek and whispered, “You’ll survive.”

“Promise?”

You nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His smile was small, but real.

And when he tucked a strand of wet hair behind your ear, the storm around you didn’t feel nearly as loud.

#the rookie #x reader #tim bradford #fanfic #tim bradford x reader #the rookie fluff #fluff #request

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erenstitanweave · 12 days ago

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RUNWAY WALK!

synopsis: rumors quickly began spreading that new york city's hottest model has been spotted seemingly being smitten with spiderman on numerous occasions, little does the public understand, though, the two are far past smitten.

rating: sfw (obviously), two teens in love i fear, kissing, reader is a well known model, reader and miles giggle about an inside joke (will be explained dw), miles is a FLIRT.

a/n: is this extremely self indulgent? absolutely!! do i care? absolutely NOT!! in all seriousness though, i love love love miles so much (no one say i have a type, NO ONE.) so i had to write for him!! this might not even get posted but just in case it does, reblogs and comments are well appreciated, enjoy!!

Headlines were one of two things, a way to spread publicity in a good way, or, more likely, a way for shitty journalists to get a buck. This newest headline about you was unfortunately an instance of the latter.

“NEW YORK’S HOTTEST MODEL SPOTTED WITH SPIDER-MAN YET AGAIN: COINCIDENCE OR SOMETHING MORE?”

You sighed as your eyes glazed over the big bold letters, no doubt you’d be getting an earful from your manager about this later. For now, though, the headline unfortunately took your attention off of the one currently laying on you. Miles groaned in annoyance, snatching your hand back towards him and putting it back in his hair, smirking against your skin once he felt the bliss of your nails gently scratching his scalp. You let out a small laugh and moved the phone away from your face, looking down at him. He peered up at you with a look in his eyes, a mixture of curiosity and what looked to be knowing. “You can't keep stalking me, you know that, right?” You asked, taking your hand out his hair and moving it down to his jaw, rubbing small circles with your thumb into the back of his neck.

He shifted his upper body, taking his face out the crook of your neck and opting to just lie on your chest. “Not stalking..it's called checking on you.” He mumbled, struggling to keep his eyes open as he spoke. The slight ray of sunlight from the window beamed down onto his face, moreso his eyes in particular, his eyes making your heart melt. “You're lucky you're cute, but I can't get fired because you keep ‘bumping’ into me.” You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his brow. “Just..try to be subtle, my love.” You whispered, feeling his grip slightly tighten around you. He pressed his lips to your collar, sprinkling kisses wherever he could reach without exerting himself too much.

You felt him hum in response against your skin, the sensation making you squirm slightly. His hands moved painstakingly slow up and down your sides, his lips curving into a smirk against your skin. You felt him murmuring against you, something that sounded like "I love you", but you weren't entirely sure. "Why don't you go to sleep? You've been half awake for two hours now." You asked, the sight of him making you giggle lightly. He barely shrugged his shoulders in response, staying still for a few minutes before lifting his head up to look at you. "Is it..really a problem? Me coming to see you, I mean." He clarified, adjusting his body and sitting up on his elbows. You hummed lightly, adjusting with him until you both laid down on your sides facing each other. "Not necessarily, at least, not to me." You said, leaning forward a bit and kissing his cheek. "I think she's just worried, stuff like this isn't usually taken well in the public eye. Plus, last thing you need is this backfiring on you."

Miles nodded slightly, his eyes closing in on your face, seemingly studying your expression. "Last thing you need is another mess on the runway because of me." He said with a laugh, making you giggle in response, shoving him lightly. "Yeah..she's still pissed about that, next time, aim the flowers at me and not at a rookie behind me." Miles groaned and rolled his eyes, laughing under his breath. "It was one time! I didn't do it again, so what's she still mad for?" He said, his lips contorting into that stupidly cute pout he always did. You both just laughed at each other, the laughter slowly dying out as the calm atmosphere consumed you both.

"Well, I guess you could start checking up on me before or after the shows..I mean, if you aren't catching any bank robbers or anything." You sighed, picking up your phone and continuing to scroll through the different news articles once again. Miles silently stared at you for a moment, just letting his eyes wander over your face and then the phone screen. His attention was caught by an article you mindlessly scrolled past, making him lift his hand and scroll upward. "Is that..me?" He asked slowly, the disbelief in his voice evident as you squinted your eyes to read the title.

"SPIDER-MAN: FROM THE EYES OF NEW YORK"

The title was oddly worded, at least, until you clicked on the actual article. The sight before you made you burst out laughing, the phone being dropped onto the bed somehow made it even funnier. The photos under the title were seemingly taken by people watching Miles fight, most of the photos probably even frames of videos made the poses caught by the camera even more hilarious. Miles, on the other hand, did NOT find this amusing in the slightest. The first image was probably the funniest, with him mid flip and his lanky arms dangling in the air. The second, taken mid-fight with a few bank robbers, showed Miles in the air looking as though he was floating above the criminals below him. The third, however, was the funniest one to you. Miles apparently had ordered a pizza for himself, only for a pigeon to take the pizza before he could even get it out of the box.

Between your tears and laughter, you silently thanked whoever took the photo, knowing it'd probably make it's way to your wallpaper once Miles left. Miles just stared at you with a blank expression, making the whole thing even more funny. "None of that was funny, baby." He huffed, snatching the phone and swiping out of the app. You breathed in and out for a moment, giggling to yourself as you tried to reach for the phone. "Wait! Come on, I wasn't even laughing that much!" You said, flopping down onto him and reaching for the phone. Miles kept up though, moving the phone every split second before you could grab it. Suddenly, he drops the phone right behind his head, his hands reaching to cradle the back of your neck and your jawline. His movements made you halt on your own, staying wide-eyed and completely still.

"As much as I love you, you can't beat me." He whispered with that stupid smirk on his face, kissing your cheek and around your mouth, very purposely missing your lips. You groaned lightly, giving his chest a gentle shove with a smile on your face. "Stop playing and kiss me, you dork." You giggled, leaning in and letting him kiss you. You moved upward, resting yourself on your knees on either side of his legs, slowly moving your hand off his chest and onto the bed. You peeked out from one eye, quickly grabbing the phone and gently pulling away, watching Miles realize what you just did. "As much as I love you, you can't beat me." You said with a grin, kissing the side of his mouth and opening the phone once more, ready and eager to find your new wallpaper once again.

#ali's writings ✮#across the spiderverse #atsv x reader #miles morales x reader #atsv #miles morales #dividers by cafekitsune #guys chill i'm gonna start posting again soon </3

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schemmentigfs · 8 months ago

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Your Body, My Playground.

Summary: Melissa fucks her frustration on you.

Warnings: cockwarming, breeding kink, humiliation, strap-on use, daddy kink, hair pulling, mel is a meanie. (shitty writing)

@tmlwattpad19 said something about daddy!schemmenti, so here we are. happy kinktober fellas.

Melissa stormed through the front door, her face twisted with frustration as she tossed her bag to the floor without a second thought. She marched straight into the living room, where you were sitting on the old plastic sofa, its cheap material sticking to your skin from the heat. You could tell just by the look on her face that it had been one of those days. She threw herself down next to you with a grunt, her brows furrowed and jaw tight.

You didn’t need to ask to know she was pissed. Her energy filled the room like a storm cloud, dark and foreboding.

“Fuckin’ hell,” she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temples as if trying to ward off a throbbing headache. You shifted nervously beside her, feeling the tension radiating from her in waves. Her fingers tapped impatiently on her thighs, and she let out a harsh sigh before her gaze snapped toward you.

“Come here,” she said, her voice low and authoritative. There was a dangerous edge to her tone that made your breath hitch in your throat. No softness or affection—just pure, unfiltered dominance.

You hesitated, unsure of what she wanted, but she wasn’t about to wait for you to figure it out. “Are you deaf? I said come here. Now.”

You swallowed hard and obeyed, slipping off the spot on the couch and standing in front of her. Melissa’s eyes trailed slowly up and down your body, and you could feel the weight of her gaze as if it were physically pressing against you.

“Sit on daddy’s lap,” she ordered, her voice dripping with something dark, something possessive.

You blinked, feeling a blush creeping up your cheeks at her command. You had always been shy when it came to this side of Melissa. She could be so intense, so demanding, and you felt small and dirty under her scrutiny. You hesitated again, your hands fidgeting nervously at your sides.

“Uh, what did you said, babe?”

“Don’t make me tell you twice,” Melissa snapped, her tone sending a shiver down your spine. “Be a good girl and sit. On. Daddy’s. Lap.”

You nodded quickly and carefully straddled her, lowering yourself onto her lap. Her hands immediately gripped your gorgeous hips, pulling you closer, holding you firmly in place. Her fingers dug into your skin as she guided you to settle against her, and the closeness made your heart race. You could feel the heat radiating from her body, the tension coiled tightly in her muscles.

“That’s better,” she purred, her voice softer now but no less intense. She tilted her head back against the couch, her eyes dark with lust as they bore into you. “Daddy had a shitty day, baby, and I need you to make it better. Think you can do that for me?”

You silently agreed again, unable to find your voice. Melissa’s hands began to roam, sliding over your thighs, gripping your waist, teasing at the hem of your shirt. She smirked as she felt you tremble under her touch.

“Hmm, you’re always so shy, aren’t you?” she teased, leaning in closer until her lips brushed against your ear. “But I think you like it when I’m like this, don’t you? You like it when I take control. When I make you call me daddy…”

She trailed off, waiting for your response, her breath hot against your neck. You bit down on your lip, feeling your face flush deeper. You knew what she wanted you to say, but the words stuck in your throat, trapped by your shyness.

The redhead’s grip on you tightened as she pulled you even closer, her lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your collarbone. “Say it,” she whispered, her voice a low, dangerous command. “Call me daddy.”

Your breath hitched, and after a moment of doubt, you whispered. “Daddy…”

“Good.” She nipped at your neck playfully, making you squirm in her lap. “Now, be nice to daddy. Show me how much you’ve missed me today.”

Her words made your heart race even faster, and you couldn’t help the small groan that escaped your lips as her hands continued their teasing exploration of your body. Melissa’s lips found yours, kissing you hard, possessive, taking what she wanted. There was no gentleness in her touch, only raw need.

“You’re going to be so good for me tonight,” Melissa whispered against your lips. “Aren’t you, baby? You’re going to make me forget about that fucking awful day, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Melissa.”

Instantly, she clicked her tongue in disapproval. “No, no. You need to remind who’s in control here and by that, refer to me properly.”

“I’m so sorry, daddy,” you corrected yourself. “That won’t happen again.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear, pretty girl.” Your body responded to the roughness of her touch and voice, the intensity of her words. You felt her smirk against your mouth as her hands slipped under your shirt, tugging it upward, exposing more of your skin to her hungry gaze.

“Tell me you’ll be good,” she demanded, her voice sharp, her eyes blazing with desire. “Tell me you’ll do whatever daddy wants to this beautiful body.”

“I—I’ll be good,” you whispered, your voice trembling with nerves. “I’ll do whatever you want…”

Melissa grinned, a wicked glint in her eyes as she finally yanked your oversized shirt off, tossing it aside. Her cold palms roamed over your bare figure, fingers tracing over every curve and dip with a sense of ownership.

“Aren’t you just the perfect little brat?” she asked, dripping with approval before her lips crashed against yours once more, rough and insistent. She kissed you like she wanted to devour you, her hands busy unclasping your bra with a deft motion that spoke to her impatience.

The cool air hit your exposed skin, causing you to shutter as she pulled back to admire you fully. Her pupils dilated as she took in your erect nipples, hard and waiting for her touch.

“Look at these beautiful girls,” Melissa teased, giving your breasts a gentle squeeze. “Already hard for me, huh?”

She captured one of your nipples between her warm, wet lips, sucking and teasing it as her fingers rolled the other between her thumb and forefinger. You shouted, arching your back into her mouth, feeling the electric shock of pleasure shoot through you.

“Fuck, daddy! You’re driving me crazy.”

At the same time, Melissa slid her knee up between your legs, pressing it against your core. She began to rock you against her clothed thigh, the delicious friction of the black tight leather pants sending shockwaves of endless pleasure.

Panting, she released your bud with a wet pop.

“You can’t help but grind against my knee like a bitch in heat, can you? Such a needy slut.”

Each thrust of your hips brought you closer to the edge, and the redhead seemed to sense it, her grip tightening around your tits as she looked up at you. “You want to cum on my knee, don’t you?” she scoffed, her own breathing ragged as she continued to rock you, the rhythm building between you. “I don’t think you deserve it.”

“Daddy?! You can’t be serious right now. I’ve been good!” you rambled, tears starting to form in your eyes.

The older woman’s smirk grew darker as your trembling voice broke through the tension. She leaned back into the couch, her hold still firm on you, her eyes gleaming with a wicked sense of satisfaction at how compliant you had become. It wasn’t enough for her, though. She wanted more. She wanted to break you down, make you hers entirely for the night, and push you to the very edge of your limits.

As you opened your mouth to speak, to say something, anything, Melissa silenced you with a sharp, cold look. Her lips twisted into a cruel grin as she shook her head slowly and made a zipper closing motion to her own lips.

“Shh,” she hissed. “Objects don’t talk, baby.”

The harshness of her words made you freeze, your eyes widening in pure shock. You hadn’t expected her to be so blunt, so brutal, and the embarrassment of her degradation made you instinctively lower your gaze. You bit your lower lip, your breath caught in your throat as you tried to process her words. She was really pushing tonight, more so than usual, and it was overwhelming. But even as your mind screamed to pull back, your body betrayed you, responding to her dominance in ways you couldn’t control.

Melissa being perceptive as the fiery woman she was, seemed to sense your internal struggle, her fingers trailing possessively over your bare thighs. Her green eyes narrowed with amusement as she watched you squirm in her lap, your face flushed and your breath unsteady.

“That's right,” she purred darkly. “You’re not here to talk. You’re here to do exactly what daddy wants, and that’s it. No more words. Just be good for me, and maybe…just maybe. You’ll get what you’re begging for.”

You swallowed hard, feeling your heart pound in your chest as you nodded in silent obedience. Your cheeks burned with humiliation, but deep down, you found yourself craving more of Melissa’s control, more of her rough touch.

“Good. See? You can follow orders like an obedient servant,” Melissa cooed mockingly, her voice dripping with satisfaction. She ran her hands up your sides, her fingers pressing firmly against your skin as she continued to assert her dominance over you. She paused for a moment, her hand teasing at the waistband of your damp underwear before slipping underneath, making you gasp.

The first touch of her fingers against your pussy was almost too much. You bit down hard on your hand to suppress a moan as Melissa’s fingers slid between your folds, teasing you with deliberate slowness. Her eyes never left your face, watching every reaction as her fingers pumped with expert precision. She enjoyed seeing you like this—desperate, needy, and completely at her mercy.

Your body betrayed you as you instinctively leaned into her touch, your hips rolling slightly in search of more friction. But your girlfriend wasn’t having that. She gripped your hips hard, stilling your movements.

“Nuh-uh,” she warned. “You stay still. Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

You whined softly, the frustration bubbling inside you as she continued to tease, her fingers ghosting over your most sensitive spots but never quite giving you the release you craved. The desperation clawed at you, and before you could stop yourself, you buried your face in her shoulder, seeking comfort in the closeness of her body. The scent of her perfume filled your senses, and you clung to her, trying to ground yourself against the overwhelming intensity of it all.

Melissa chuckled, clearly entertained by your neediness. “Look at you,” she spoke against your ear. “You’re already so worked up, and I haven’t even really started yet. Such a desperate little thing. I bet you’d do anything for daddy right now, wouldn’t you?"

You nodded weakly, your face still pressed against her shoulder, your breath ragged and uneven as she continued to toy with you. Her fingers moved slowly, teasingly, bringing you closer to the edge but never letting you fall over it. It was torture, but you were powerless to resist her.

Melissa was the one in control, not you.

“Poor baby,” she pouted, mimicking the form your lips were quivering. “So needy. So fuckin’ pathetic. But that’s alright, because that’s exactly how I want you. completely at Daddy’s mercy. You belong to me tonight. Every inch of you. And I’m going to take what I want, whether you’re ready or not.”

She continued to torment you with her fingers, alternating between slow, torturous strokes and sudden bursts of intensity that left you gasping for air.

When you finally couldn’t take it anymore, you let out a choked sob, trying to form the words to beg her for more, but Melissa quickly cut you off.

“Shh,” she said again, her voice taking on a more menacing tone. “I told you, objects don’t talk. I didn’t give you permission to speak.”

You let out a frustrated moan, burying your face even deeper into her shoulder. The weight of her control, the harshness of her words, and the relentless teasing of her fingers were too much to bear. Your body was trembling with the need for release, but Melissa wasn’t going to give it to you until she was satisfied.

Her fingers slid deeper inside you, and you bit down hard on your lip to muffle the moan that threatened to escape. The pleasure was overwhelming, and you clung to her tighter, your fingers digging into her shoulders as she worked you with an almost cruel precision.

“That’s it. Take it. Take whatever I give ya, and don’t make a sound unless I say so.”

You nodded weakly, your body trembling under the force of her dominance. You were lost in the sensations, in the way she took control of your body so effortlessly. It was both thrilling and terrifying, and you were completely at her mercy.

As her fingers continued to work you closer and closer to the edge, Melissa leaned in close to your ear, her breath hot against your skin. “You want to cum for daddy, don’t you?” she whispered, her voice a low, dangerous purr. “You want me to let you come?”

You nodded desperately, your breath hitching in your throat as you tried to hold back the moan that threatened to escape. Your body was on fire, every nerve ending alive with the need for release, but you knew better than to disobey her command. You had to wait for her permission.

Melissa’s brows arched as she watched you struggle. “Beg for it. Even though you’re not supposed to talk, I want to hear you beg. Beg daddy to let you cum.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, your face still buried in her shoulder as you tried to find the words. You could barely think straight, your mind clouded with desire and the need for release, but you knew what she wanted to hear. You swallowed hard, your voice shaky as you whispered against her skin.

“Please, daddy,” you whimpered. “Please let me come.”

Melissa let out a satisfied hum, her fingers curling inside you just enough to make you gasp. “That’s better,” she chuckled. “But I don’t think you’ve earned it yet. Maybe if you’re really good for me, I’ll think about it.”

The frustration and desperation were building inside you to unbearable levels. But there was nothing you could do except wait and hope that Melissa would eventually take pity on you. You were completely under her control, and she wasn’t about to let you forget it.

Your girlfriend’s digits moved faster now, pushing you closer and closer to the edge with each stroke. Your body tensed, every muscle coiled tight with anticipation as you clung to her, trying to hold on. You were so close, so achingly close, but Melissa was still in control, and you knew she would decide when you were allowed to let go.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of teasing and torment, she whispered the words you had been waiting for.

“Come for daddy,” the Italian woman growled.

And with those words, you finally let go. Your body shuddered with the force of your release, and you buried your face in Melissa’s neck, your breath coming in ragged gasps as the waves of pleasure crashed over you. You could feel her smirk against your skin as she held you close, her hands still possessively gripping your hips.

“Good girl,” she praised. “That’s my good fucktoy.”

“Shit..”

Melissa’s eyes darkened with an intense hunger, her smirk twisting into something even more devious. She let you catch your breath for just a moment, her fingers slowing their assault, but the promise of something more dangerous lingered in the air. You could feel her gaze burning into you, the weight of her control pressing down like a heavy blanket. And just as you thought she might ease up, she didn’t.

“I’m going to cum on your needy pussy,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “And I want you to feel every fuckin’ bit of it.”

Before you could fully process the intensity of her words, the older woman pushed you off her lap, her hands rough as she guided you down to the floor in front of the couch. Your legs wobbled beneath you, weak from the intensity of what she’d already put you through, but she gave you no time to recover. You felt her looming over you, her eyes glued to your every movement, watching as you trembled under her gaze.

Without a word, she undressed and reached beneath the couch, pulling out the thick purple strap she kept hidden there. Your stomach tightened at the sight of it—the solid length of silicone glistening under the dim lights of the living room.

Melissa stood up, towering over you as she strapped it on, her movements precise and deliberate. There was something so methodical about the way she handled the strap, as if this was just another part of her dominance, another way to assert her control over you. And once she had it secured, her gaze locked back onto you.

Her lips curled into a wicked smirk as the redhead stopped and beckoned you with a single finger.

“Come over to daddy, sweetheart,” she ordered.

You obeyed without hesitation, crawling back up to her, your eyes flickering between her face and the strap as your body ached with need. You could feel the heat radiating off her, and the sight of her standing there, fully in control, made your stomach churn with anticipation.

Melissa grabbed you by the arm, yanking you up to your knees before positioning herself back on the couch. She spread her legs wide, tugging you toward her until you were straddling her once more. But this time, there was nothing gentle in her movements. She gripped your hips tightly, her fingers digging into your skin as she lined the strap up with your entrance, her eyes blazing with a possessive fire.

“You’re going to sit there like a good little slut,” Melissa started. “You’re going to cockwarm me until I’m ready to fuck you properly. Got it?”

You nodded quickly, your breath catching in your throat as you lowered yourself down onto the strap. The sensation of it filling you made you gasp, your body stretching around the thickness as you sank down into Melissa’s lap. She hissed through her teeth as she felt you take her in, her hands gripping your hips tightly to keep you in place.

“That’s it,” she whispered darkly, her voice laced with satisfaction. “Good girl. Just stay there and warm me up.”

You whimpered as you settled into her lap, your body trembling with the effort of holding still. Melissa’s hands remained firm on your hips, her fingers occasionally digging into your skin just to remind you of her presence, of her control. You could feel her eyes watching you closely, and despite the intensity of the situation, there was a dark thrill that came with being so completely at her mercy.

For a moment, everything was still. The only sound in the room was the quiet hum of your ragged breathing, the tension between you and Melissa so thick it felt like it might swallow you whole. But then, without warning, she shifted beneath you, grinding her hips up just enough to make you gasp.

“Does it feel good, baby?” she prompted, her voice soft but dangerous. “You like being stuffed full of daddy’s big cock, don’t you?”

You nodded, your body trembling as you tried to hold still, but Melissa wasn’t satisfied with your silent response. She lifted one hand from your hip and tangled her fingers in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to force you to meet her gaze.

“Answer me,” she demanded, her voice hard.

“Y-yes, daddy,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper. “I like it.”

Melissa’s smirk widened, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Good,” she muttered, releasing your hair and letting your head fall forward again. “Because you’re going to sit there and feel every fucking inch of it until I’m ready for more.”

You let out a shaky breath, your body straining to stay still as Melissa shifted beneath you again, sending another wave of sensation through your core. You could feel her heat, her power, the way she controlled your every movement with nothing more than the press of her fingers against your hips. It was overwhelming, but you craved it. You needed it. You needed her to take everything from you and give you nothing in return.

For what felt like an eternity, your girlfriend kept you there, grinding against you occasionally, teasing you with brief flashes of pleasure but never letting you have what you truly wanted. Every time you tried to shift or move, her grip would tighten, and she would remind you in a low, menacing growl that objects don’t get to decide when they’re done.

Finally, after what felt like long hours of torment, Melissa leaned in close, her lips brushing against your ear as she whispered in a voice so low it sent chills down your spine.

“Now,” she hissed, her fingers tightening their grip on your hips. “Now, I’m going to fuck you, and you’re going to be a good pet and take every bit of it. Understand?”

“Okay..”

And then Melissa moved. Her hips bucked up beneath you, the strap filling you completely as she began to thrust into you with a brutal rhythm. You cried out, your hands gripping her shoulders for support as she drove into you over and over again, her pace unrelenting. There was no tenderness, no softness—just raw, animal desire as Melissa took what she wanted from you, her control absolute.

“That’s it,” she growled, her voice rough with pleasure. “You really are just a cockslut.”

Each thrust sent a shockwave of pleasure through your body, your mind reeling from the intensity of it all. You buried your face in Melissa’s shoulder again, trying to muffle your moans, but she wasn’t having that. She grabbed your chin, forcing your head back so she could see your face.

“Don’t hide from me,” she snarled. “I want to see your pretty face while I fuck you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes locked with hers, and the intensity of her gaze was almost too much to bear. You felt completely exposed, completely vulnerable, but that only seemed to spur her on. She fucked you harder, faster, her hands gripping your hips so tightly you were sure there would be bruises in the morning.

You were lost in the sensation, in the pleasure and pain that Melissa was inflicting on you. And as she drove you closer and closer to the edge, her voice growled in your ear once more.

“Come,” she commanded, her voice rough and demanding. “Come right now, you filthy little slut.”

And with that, you shattered.

#melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti x you #lisa ann walter #kinktober #kinktober 2024 #abbott elementary #wlw

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everythingspokenfor · 3 months ago

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Pairing: Bakugou x reader

Summary: Maybe you should have just asked him for help in the gym, rather that watching him from afar...

He can feel you eyes on him, at this point it's too obvious that you are oogling him, anyone can notice it. He is so sure now that you do stare at him, and that it's not a hallucinations his egoistic brain he is self aware came up with.

Tho, he'd appreciate if you just came up to him and asked for an autograph or maybe even a picture, but with the way things have been, he is starting to doubt whether you are a fan or a crazy stalker.

You joined the gym 2 months ago, initially minding your business, fumbling around equipments, form kind of shitty, technique somewhat concerning but alas there are gym instructors for this exact reason, not thinking much of it, he went on with his workout.

Initially, he did find you cute, would occasionally glance your way as you tried to navigate through the gym, almost giving away his own stalking tendencies, when he almost sprinted to help you, already having noticed your clumsiness.

It all changed when he started to notice you lingering around him, at some point in his workout he could see you stare at him, once he finishes you would work on the same equipment, albeit with lesser weights.

So, not only were you a creepy stalker, you were a freak too. He understands why heroes need security too, fans do sometimes loose themselves when it comes to their favourite heroes.

Rationally, you weren't causing him any harm, so he let it be. But, now it's getting out of hand, you stare at him throughout the workout, eyes only leaving his frame once he enters the men's locker room. He assumes that'll change soon with the way things have been, you'll find a way to watch him in there as well. Creeps always do.

He can't really complain to the Ryo, the gym owner, he is close to you. Bakugou had tried to enquire about you the 1st week you were here. But all he got was, that you were Ryo's junior from college, had shifted to Musutafu, joined the gym mostly because it allowed you to meet few people you already knew, plus you wanted to start working out.

Not was exactly skeptical about you, Bakugou was still suspicious, from what he had gathered, you liked to stare at him, looking keenly at him, and workout on the same equipment as him, although you did really copy his entire routine, your entire workout was still 30% of what he did, which as still alot considering that's all you did.

At one point, he got too irritated, finally sick and tired of you blatantly stalking him, he decided to confront you, actively looking for opportunities to corner you and ask what exactly is your issue.

Ryo hadn't come to the gym today, which meant he could have a little chat with you, without causing a scene. You were standing by the weights, exactly where Bakugou was before he went to a different equipment.

He comes to stand next to you, looking directly at your head, because once he started approaching, you looked down immediately refusing to lock eyes with him, embarassed to be caught idly standing in the gym.

"Can I help you?" You mutter, lifting your head, finally looking at him, the height difference made him appear more intimidating, he looked mad for some reason.

He pressed his lips together, as he glared down at you, "Yeah, stop being a fuckin' creep." He whispered, voice filled with threat, arms crossed with one hand pointing an accusatory finger at you. He breathed deeply, trying not to yell curses at you, expose your creepy behaviour to the entire gym.

"Sorry, what?" You gasp out, eyes narrowing, face scrunched up as you glared at him.

The audacity. He thought, why the fuck are you acting like he is the wrong one.

"Think I am stupid, I see you starin' at me, even using the machine I used, noticed how you barely even wait before getting on 'em after me." He moves in closer, sizing you up. "All you do is follow me 'round." Grunting in your direction, tightening his jaw, "Thought you were a fan but now it's fuckin' creepy."

"I watch your form." You blurt out, suddenly embarassed that your attempt at fixing your form, made you seem like a creep.

"Ryo, said to ask you for help, but I didn't want to bother," you lift your head to look at him, eyes twitching as you regretted your decision,"observing your form was good enough."

You let out a breath, realising your decision to not ask for help kind off came back to bite you in the ass. "Listen, I am sorry for coming across as a creep, but you could have approached this confrontation with lesser self obsession." May be that was a bit harsh, but if you were being honest, he had it coming.

He stared at you dumbfounded, lips parting to say something before he closes his mouth, not really sure what to say, now that his thinks about it, you did have difficulty with equipments and Rio did mention about starting the gym recently. Although your method to learn was odd, at the end of the day you didn't do anything wrong, and now he felt like an idiot.

"So-"

"It's alright, I don't wanna discuss this anymore", you cut him off, "we go back to working out and pretend this never happened."

You barely let him utter another word, already shuffling away to the changing rooms, he stares at the closed door, wondering how to go about now.

He should be happy right now, his gym experience should be back to peaceful without any peering eyes, but for some reason he feels uneasy.

You don't show up to the gym the next day, or the day after, and soon it's a 2 whole weeks since had seen you. He initial curiosity is now outweighed by his concerns, he knows he shouldn't enquire about you, especially considering the high chance you already told Ryo about the incident.

"Oi, Ryo, has yer' junior quit the gym?" He questioned Ryo, his features easy going like the answer to his question doesn't bother him, but his posture stiff, a tell tale sign of his genuine concern.

"Why? You miss her?" Ryo wiggles his eyebrows, elbow coming to playfully jab Bakugou's rib, "She just changed the timing of her gym," He does clarify, after he is done tormenting Bakugou, he is just glad you didn't tell Ryo about the conversation that day.

It's a lot later than his usual time, for a moment he wonders if you intentionally chose late evenings so there wouldn't be any chance of you running into him. But he needs to talk to you, set few things straight, apologise for his behaviour.

So, here he is, outside the gym, waiting for you to come out, fucking hypocrite he thinks to himself, he is the one acting like a creep right now, figuring out the time you got done, showing up a hour before, hands holding homemade katsudon, specifically choosing the day he knew Ryo wouldn't be available.

He watches you leave the gym, a large cross body bag hung on your shoulder, you are amidst of detangling your earphones when you hear a loud call od your name, turning around you find, Bakugou, the guy you allegedly stalked.

"What is it now? Do I have to change the gym?" Already assuming that somehow he had come to harass you again.

"That's not wha- nevermind, I am here to apologise." He didn't want to argue especially since he was here to apologise.

Your eyes widened, lips parting like you had seen ghost, did the prospect of him apologising really that foreign to you, "You okay, did you hit your head at the gym today?" You queried, faux concern painted on your features.

"Really funny." He deadpanned, he moved to stand in front of you, letting out a breath he looks back at you,"I did want to apologise, whatever I assumed was wrong and I should have handled it better."

His apology seemed rehearsed, in a way that it seemed almost endearing, like he stood in front of a mirror and practised it he did. You weren't really mad at him, you knew he wasn't at complete fault you messed up too not that you'll admit it.

"7/10." You breath out after a moment of staring at him, cheeky smile spreading on your face, he looks at you incredulously, before a grin paints his lips as well, "It's atleast an 8." He breaths out, finally joking around.

"So, that's it, I suppose." He rubs the back of his head, not really having planned what would he say afterwards.

"I could make it a 10 if I can help you with your form?" He mutters, eyes skeptical, hoping you'd allow him the second chance. He is staring at you, trying to gauge your response, based of your body language.

"Promise you won't accuse me of being a creep again?" You joked, willing to start over for the second time.

"Promise."

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redfoxwritesstuff · 7 months ago

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I Own You (Demon Alastor x reader)

CW: Suicidal thoughts, suicidal actions, Anxiety, depression, shitty fuckin mental health, Pissed off Alastor, possessive Alastor, Branding, blood as lube, Toxic ass relationships, self doubt, smut, mirror sex Rating: Adult Summary: After getting a bunch of comments telling you you're not good enough for Alastor, old demons come back to life in your mind sending you to embrace the coping mechanism that sent you to hell in the first place. Alastor stops your plans in their tracks and is rather displeased by your actions. Requested by Anon. An: yes, we're finishing kinktober. I promised you 31 fics, you're getting 31 fics.

You stood high on the cliff overlooking the edge of Pentagram city. Hot wind whipped at your hair, sending it flying. The wind pushed your clothes against your body, framing it in a way that felt suffocating, just like everything else. The tears running down your face burned as stabbing pain shot through your heart, making it hard to breathe.

Thoughts ran through your head, screaming. They chased one another, clashing with violent force. It felt like they’d rip your skull apart if you didn’t get them out. Screaming did no good. Your throat was raw from how much you had screamed.

This was how you had found yourself in hell. It was how everything had ended, a sea of clashing thoughts, clashing against your skull, ripping the very gray matter of your brain apart until you put a stop to everything, chasing after the sweet release of silence.

The cosmic joke was on you. This was also how everything began. The silence was hardly a fraction of a second and then your eyes had opened to a red sky and the thoughts. So many thoughts. You thought it would never end, though you tried to put an end to them again and again.

It had been a long time since you had done that, though. It took time, but the voices, the thoughts, the doubts stopped. You had been happy, so happy.

Then the thoughts started again. They told you such horrible things. They made promises that this time, if you made it stop, you wouldn’t wake up again. He would be better off without you. Everyone thought he was too good for you. Everyone knew it was a joke.

“I just want it to stop,” you whimpered the words out, the hot wind snatching them from your lips and throwing them away like the trash they were.

One foot in front of the other. That’s all it would take. This time, it would stop. This time, it would be forever. This time, you could have peace.

Tears fell from your chin as your foot dangled off the edge. Just a shift of your weight and it would be over. This time, it would be over.

You wanted peace.

You wanted to be happy.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, shoe falling from the foot hovering over the drop. “You deserve someone better.”

Just a shift of your weight, that’s all it took. The world shifted, turning, tilting as you did. Hot wind rushed through your hair as the world barreled toward you. One last scream wanted to rip from your throat, but your lungs seized, holding the final sound locked inside.

The ground and its sweet promise of the end to the noise. The pain would be a flash, hardly lasting a moment before it would be over. This time would be different. You knew it in your heart.

This time would be different, you thought as black swarmed in front of your vision. That was proof, comforting your soul. This time was different.

You closed your eyes and opened them again, not to be greeted by darkness but by red. So much red and rich woods and then static.

Red-rimmed eyes looked around the room, only to see a form materialize from the shadows. You ended nothing. There was no peace. There was no end to the thoughts.

“What the *fuck* did you think you were doing?!” Alastor’s voice climbed, static glitching over the rare curse as if to remind him that it wasn’t suitable for the radio.

“I just,” your words were choked by your sobs. A new fear, a new pain shot through you at the wild look in his eyes. You hadn’t thought he had the power to catch you, to bring you here from such a great distance. “I just wanted it to end.”

“Wanted it to end!?” Alastor scoffed as his microphone laughed as if some joke had been played. “You wanted to end it?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, throat raw from the screaming.

“Have you thought,” he hissed, “that perhaps there are easier ways to dump a man than throwing yourself off the cliffs?”

“What?”

“Less dramatic ways than ending your life and waiting to respawn.” He turned, storming away from you.

“I didn’t- It wasn’t about you. It’s not about you.” The words trembled as they fell from your lips.

“Then what was it about!?” Alastor turned, bones and joints snapping and creaking.

“I’m not good enough!” you yelled, tears running down your face. “You need better than me. You deserve better than me. Everyone knows it. Everyone’s saying it. Everyone knows I should just die.”

There was a moment of silence where he just stood there, blinking at you. “Not good enough?” He seethed, rage fueled power flowing off him in waves. The deer skulls on the walls rattled with it. “Who are you to decide what is good enough for The Radio Demon?!”

Large hands gripped your upper arms, claws cutting your sleeves to shreds as he shook you. Your head snapped back and forth, making it all the harder to defend your inadequacy. Tears ran down your face, wide eyes unable to look away from the blazing red radio dials that his eyes had become.

Alastor was pissed.

Claws raked down your arms, claws catching and ripping fabric. The neck of your dress gave way, splitting under the pressure. The moment the fabric ripped, a sea of fabric fluttered down your body. In a heartbeat, you were standing in your bra and panties.

Shivers ran down your spine as Alastor looked at you. The static in the air had your the hairs on your arms sticking up. Gooseflesh ran over exposed skin as you tried to wrap yourself in your arms.

“You are mine.” Alastor growled out, hand wrapping the front of your bra, pulling it from your breasts. The strap around your back bit into your skin, stretching and stretching until the elastic gave way, and the straps snapped forward.

He threw the bra to the ground behind him as black shadows wrapped around your body, lifting you off your feet. They carried you easily to the bed. There was no soft placement on the surface, care given between lovers.

Alastor was far too angry for that.

You landed with a bounce as he stalked up to you. Shadows wrapped again around your wrists, pulling them up and pinning them just beyond your head.

Alastor ran sharp claws up your naked legs, teasingly light touch that disguised the dangerous sharp of his claws. Blood welled up, dots that marked the trail of scratches you hardly felt.

Never had you seen Alastor this angry.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, trembling. “I’m sorry I’m not strong enough.”

That was the wrong thing to say.

His face snapped up, burning red eyes threatening to make everything you were nothing more than ashes. “Again,” static nearly stole the words from him as he spoke, “you dare presume to decide what is enough.”

Claws slipped under the band of your panties. In a flash, he ripped them down your body, leaving gouges in the fabric and you utterly naked under his eyes.

“You do not get to decide what belongs to me.” Alastor loomed over you, hands spreading your thighs as he settled between them.

Your chest heaved as you watched his eyes, taking in every imperfection of your body. Everything everyone had said is wrong with you physically was on display.

“What are you doing?” His pants bulged at the crotch, and yet he made no move to touch your most intimate parts. He sat, looking at you, looming.

“It seems you need to be taught a lesson who decides what is mine,” Alastor smoothed his hand down over your stomach, watching as the muscles jumped under the soft touch.

Down and down his hand went until his fingers were running through the trimmed curls that gathered on your pubic mound. The hairs caught between his fingers, pulling. You wiggled your hips, uncomfortable with the pulling, only to freeze when heat radiated over the skin.

Alastor’s magic sparked, green flames spreading over the hairs. Smoke and the acrid smell of burning hair filled your nostrils. You spread your legs wider, trying to run from the hot flames racing over your skin. Fire dripped down your folds as you gasped. Each hair was singed from your core, leaving you bare.

Alastor ran his fingers over the now hairless skin, admiring the blank canvas he had created for himself.

“Open wide,” Alastor laughed, bitter and cold as you spread your thighs. “No, your mouth.”

“What are you ta-” A black tentacle shoved into your mouth, choking off your words.

“Good girl,” Alastor cooed, smile spread wide in a clear display of how insane your powerful lover was.

“You seem to forget,” he ran his claws over the bare, sensitive skin of your mound, tracing lines from hipbone to hipbone. “That you belong to me. It is I who decides what I want, not another… not you.”

You choked as searing pain ripped through your body, legs trapped in his hold before you curled them up and protect yourself. You screamed, though the sound was silenced by the mass in your mouth, pushing deeper and deeper.

“A” Alastor said, pulling the finger from your mound, eyes flicking up to you as he licked the blood from it.

Gasping breaths ripped through your nose, sinuses struggling to allow the amount of air your lungs demanded pass through. Tears ran down the sides of your face.

Pain, more pain. It ran through your body, lighting every nerve on fire.

“L” Alastor said, looking up again, watching how your chest heaved before returning to his task. “A… S…T…”

With each letter, he spoke out loud as he took his time. All the pain of your life and afterlife was nothing compared to the pain he was putting you through now. Scream after scream struggled to pass through your throat.

“O….” Alastor carefully carved the letter, small and neat into your flesh. “R!”

Pain… and the wetness of blood running down your body. It poured on each side of your mound, cutting a red river along where your thighs met the edges of your folds.

The shadows forced you up, suspending you on your knees on the bed. It shifted as made his way behind you, taking your arms in his large hands. Shadows dissipated, leaving Alastor all that held you up.

Infront of you, a mirror formed, shiny and black. You looked at yourself, naked in the arms of the man you loved. Blood ran down your mound, coating your folds and running down your thighs. It soaked into the blankets.

“Do you see it now?” Alastor asked, fist curling into your hair and forcing you to look back at yourself when your head drifted. Your hands fell to your sides, his hand leaving yours in favor of rustling with his clothes behind your back.

“It hurts,” you whimpered, held up by the hand in your hair as the burning shaft of his cock rubbed against your ass.

“Do you see how much I want you, cher?” Alastor jerked your head, shaking your body. “I desire you so much that I have carved my name into you.”

“Please,” tears ran down your face as you looked at the blood running down your lower half. What surprised you was the pride that sparked in you, seeing his name carved on your skin. It would scar, marking your skin forever. Even if you threw yourself off a cliff, the marks would regenerate along with everything else.

Hell’s fucked up system let healed body modifications stick. How generous. If you wanted to remove his claim, you’d have to cut his name from your body.

“I’m sorry,” you whined as he rutted his hard cock against you.

“Are you?” Alastor asked, shoving you forward. “You tried to take something from me that belongs to me. When you feel like doing it again, you’ll look down and see who owns your body.”

Alastor’s hand wrapped around the back of your neck as he pulled your hips up, placing you on your knees. For a moment he left you waiting, eyes roaming over your folds. Everything was painted red as blood continued to ooze from the clotting wounds.

“Red looks so lovely on you,” Alastor murmured as he ran the head of his cock over your bloody folds, staining his skin with your blood before lining up at your opening.

He filled you with one smoothe thrust, pushing through the resistance. Blood didn’t lubricate things very well, but he didn’t care. Alastor cared about one thing only in that moment- ensuring you understood who you belonged to in every way.

He pulled you up by the hand wrapped around your neck, not sparing a thought to how much it hurt. The mirror reflected to you the cold ownership and wild possession in Alastor’s eyes. A shiver ran down your spine as his sharp nose ran along your neck, taking in the scent of you.

He sank deeper and deeper into you, reaching everywhere at once. Your opening burned at the stretch. His size and lack of prep made for a painful intrusion. It was nothing compared to the pain from the deep weeping cuts.

“Do you see now?” Alastor asked, holding you to his chest by the hand wrapped around your throat as he thrust into you harshly, eyes locked with yours in the mirror.

“What?” You gasped, tears running down your face, drops landing on your breasts.

“Do you fucking see it now?” Alastor’s eyes changed red dials growing bright on a black background, antlers branching into wide tines that towered over you as he worked his cock in and out of you. “You belong to me.”

“Ah!” You moaned as his cock slipped in and out of you, eyes dropping to the oozing brand on your hairless mound. “Al-Alastor.”

“That’s right,” he moaned his praise into your ear, shoving you into your hands and knees as he thrust into you harder. Your breathy moans accompanied the echoing sound of his heavy balls slapping against your blood coated clit. Pain and pleasure danced together, becoming one as you and Alastor were. His hand ran over the cuts gouged into your skin, seeking your clit as he fucked into you harshly. “You belong to me.”

You watched him take you in the glossy shadow mirror, each harsh thrust taking you closer and closer to your climax. Possession and power danced around you, through you with every thrust.

“Al-” you moaned, a whimpered whine in your throat as he pulled his hand from your clit, only to scream as he slapped his name carved into you, fingers reaching down to strike your clit.

“Do you want to cum?” Alastor growled in your ear, each thrust reverberating through your whole body.

“Please,” you cried out as he struck you again and again, “Please, Alastor!”

“Who do you belong to?” His fingers returned to your clit in soothing strokes.

“You,” you gasped, “Alastor. Please, I’m so close.”

“Who decides if you are good enough for me?” Static ran over your limbs as you struggled to pull air into your lungs.

“Alastor,” you whine, “You do.”

“That’s right,” Alastor kissed your shoulder as he focused on those last few thrusts, all it would take to push you over the edge. “Now cum.”

You came with a scream, no longer able to support yourself. The only thing that kept you from falling forward was Alastor’s hand around your waist, fingers working over your clit even as your body convulsed around you.

“Good girl,” Alastor said, voice coming from everywhere again as your body pulled him into his own orgasm. Each wave of seed pumped into you was a claim of ownership. You belonged to him.

“I own you,” he growled as his cock twitched, spilling the last of his cum into you as you twitched. “Don’t forget that.”

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