Adstrum In Ruinas. | Part One.
Adstrum in ruinas. | part one.
General Marcus Acacius × F ! Reader
• summary: After your father’s sudden death, the general starts spending more time with you. At first, it feels strange, but as you come to learn, he isn't that big a brute everyone thinks he is.
• kind of slow burn ??, age gap (unspecified), forbidden love, marcus is pretty positive and in love, and he's cute, mutual pining, mentions of death, lmk if i missed anything.
• tokkis note: This is the first part of a little fic i wanted to write. the nsfw smut part will be in part two since this part already has almost 4k words. i just wanted a little backstory, so who knows... if you guys enjoy this part, maybe i will make it into a short series. i have lots of ideas. anyways, enjoy!!!
The palace felt colder after your father’s death. Though the sun still danced across the walls, nothing could have warmed you.
He had always been a quiet man, steady in his craft and in his love for you. You had grown up watching his hands work leather as though it were clay, each stitch meticulous, each touch with purpose. He had poured his life into the emperor’s court, shaping beauty out of necessity, and yet, when his time had come, they had discarded him without hesitation.
Accused of theft, he had been taken swiftly, the charges flimsy, the judgment quick. You had not been allowed to speak on his behalf. No one had. And when his life ended on the blade of the emperor’s justice, the world moved on as though he had never existed. You had not cried when they took him. There had been no time, no space for grief within the stone walls of the palace. Instead, you swallowed it whole, the ache settling deep within your chest, cold and unforgiving. You could not cry. In a way, crying was admitting to the gods that he was no longer, so you did not dare slip one tear. Let the pain seethe.
No one spoke his name. To your face, at least. Not until General Marcus Acacius.
You had known his name long before you ever knew his face. The empire’s greatest general, a man whose victories had carved Rome’s borders, who had spilled oceans of blood in the emperor’s name. He was the kind of man you had only seen from afar—untouchable, his presence a thing of myths whispered amongst men. To you, he was just that: a man. A cruel one.
So when he first appeared in the apothecary, you almost did not believe it was him. “The town speaks of… you,” he said, voice filling the room like the low roll of thunder. You turned sharply, the pestle slipping from your grasp. He stood in the doorway, tall and broad, his figure framed by the dim light spilling in from the corridor. His tunic was torn, a gash running across his arm where blood had soaked through. “So I heard,” he continued, stepping inside, “if it is true—”
“Oh, yes, I—yes, it is true,” you stammered, fumbling for words. His presence unsettled you, though you could not say why. Perhaps it was the way his gaze lingered or faint something in his tone. It was different this time. “I understand. You have my condolences,” he said. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Something in your heart fluttered. “Thank you, General.” He was not a monster. Not here with you, not now, at least. It seemed sincere enough. You looked him up and down. Why did the blood keep on trickling? For a moment, you thought he might say more, but he simply gestured to his arm. “May I trouble you for assistance?” No monster.
At first, you thought nothing of his visits.
They were sporadic, a few days apart—always under the pretense of some new injury. A cut from a sparring match. A dislocated shoulder. The aches and pains of a soldier’s life. He came to you because it was easier than seeking the palace’s physicians, or so you told yourself. But then the days stretched into weeks, and his appearances grew more frequent.
You noticed the small ways in which he lingered. The way his eyes followed you as you moved about the room, the way his voice softened when he addressed you. It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible, but as the days passed, you found yourself waiting for the sound of his footsteps in the hall.
For even when he was far, his touch still lingered, you were still drunken on his smell, and his eyes still loved yours.
One evening, as you prepared a salve by the fire, he spoke. “Your father was a great man.” You froze, your hands stilling over the mortar. “I remember his work,” Marcus continued, his voice low. “He made my first pair of riding boots. I was just a young man then.” You swallowed dry, willing your voice to remain steady. “He never spoke of you.”
“No, I suppose he would not have.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Finally, “So why are you telling me this?”
“Because he deserved better,” Marcus said simply. The words struck something deep within you. You looked away, vision blurring as the firelight flickered. Better.
He was all you could think about. Each night, from the first, you would sing sweet, mournful songs to the moon. Maybe it was because you missed your father dearly, and he filled that space up almost perfectly. Or maybe because, when he was with you, he did not seem to be the seven-headed monster all saw him as. Maybe pretending was his virtue.
But you were not the last judgment.
“Why are you always here?” you asked, voice sharper than you intended. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the floor. “Do you not want me here?” A smile played on his lips. “That is not what I said.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because I do not understand.” You stepped closer, your heart pounding in your chest. “You never cared before. Why now?” His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might walk away. But then he sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing just slightly. “It is nothing,” he said at last.
“It is not nothing,” you pressed. “You are avoiding the truth.”
He looked at you then, his expression guarded but not unkind. “And if I told you the truth, would you thank me for it? Or curse me for what I know?”
Your breath caught in your throat. “What is it that you mean?” Marcus hesitated, the words heavy on his tongue. “Your father,” he said finally. “He did not die because of the charges. He died because they needed a scapegoat. The emperor needed to remind the court what happens when you step out of line.” The room seemed to tilt, the walls closing in around you. “You knew?”
“I tried to stop it,” he said quietly. “But there are things even I cannot change.”
You shook your head, the ache in your chest threatening to overwhelm you. “I do not need your protection, Marcus. I do not need anyone’s.”
“I know,” he said, stepping closer. His voice was steady, but there was something raw in his eyes. “But you have it anyway.”
You wanted to be angry with him. You wanted to scream, to push him away, but instead, you stood there, frozen, as he reached for you. His hands were rough, calloused from years of battle, but they cradled your face with a tenderness that left you breathless. You craved it. And you will crave it until the day you are no more.
“I care for you more than I have ever cared,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “And that terrifies me.”
Whatever happened to honor and victory? It was brutal. He was brutal. Raw, bloody, and utterly inhuman. But how could he also be the quiet after the storm? The wind that travels over still waters, the sound of dawn over mountains of dead people? You had to treat him many times, but the wounds he had inside his heart came well over the ones on his skin, you think.
You didn’t want to think of him—Marcus, with his dark eyes and the way they seemed to unravel you each time they met your own. But he lingered, even when he wasn’t here. He lingered in the soft creak of the door, the faint scent of leather and iron that clung to the air after he’d gone. It wasn’t fair, how much space he took in your thoughts. How much warmth he brought into this cold, empty life. You hated him for it. You hated yourself more.
“You work too hard.” You glanced up, startled by the suddenness of his words. He was seated by the fire, his armor stripped away, leaving only the simple tunic beneath. His shoulders were broad, his posture commanding even in repose. “You say that as though there’s an alternative,” you replied, turning back to the herbs in your hands.
“You could rest,” he said simply. “And do what? Dream of better days?” The bitterness in your voice surprised even you. Marcus leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. “You deserve better days.” The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Finally, you set the pestle down and met his gaze. “Better days won’t bring my father back.”
“No,” he agreed. “But they might give you something to hope for.” You shook your head, unwilling to let yourself be drawn into his optimism. “Hope is for fools, General.”
“Perhaps,” he said, his voice quieter now. “But sometimes, it’s all we have.”
He wanted to hold you, to let his body meld with yours, ask you to run away to far lands. Let him take care of you, make you have his babies. Love you until there's nothing left.
but he couldn't.
“What would you do with better days?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Marcus’s gaze lifted, startled by the question. He leaned back in his chair, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the dim room.
“I don’t know,” he said after a moment. he did know. he'd spend them with you. oh, silly it all felt. “I stopped imagining them a long time ago.” You paused, your fingers stilling over a jar. “You must have thought about it. When you were younger, before…” You trailed off, uncertain how to finish the sentence. “Before the blood?” he supplied, his tone sharper than you expected. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I suppose I did. Once.” still.
“And?”
He hesitated, the tension in his shoulders palpable. “And it doesn’t matter. The man I am now... he has no place in better days.” Something in your chest ached at his words, though you couldn’t say why. You wanted to reach for him, to close the distance between you and tell him he was wrong. But you didn’t. Instead, you lowered your gaze and returned to your work, your voice quiet. “That’s a pity.”
The days stretched into weeks, and though you tried to resist, the threads of your lives intertwined in ways you couldn’t untangle. Marcus became a constant presence, his visits no longer marked by the pretense of injuries. He came for you, though neither of you dared to speak it aloud.
Each touch, each glance, was a betrayal of the barriers you had built around yourself. Yet, you let him break them piece by piece, unable to deny the pull that drew you closer.
One night, as the apothecary lay bathed in moonlight, he found you humming an old melody—a song your father had sung on quiet nights. The tune was bittersweet, a memory wrapped in longing. Marcus lingered in the doorway, his shadow stretching across the room.
“I’ve heard that before,” he said softly.
You turned, startled. “My father used to sing it.” He nodded, stepping closer. “It suits you. Beautiful and haunting.” You didn’t respond, your gaze dropping to your hands. “I don’t sing much anymore.”
“You should.”
He was close now, close enough that you could see the faint scar that ran along his jaw, the one you’d traced with your eyes so many times but never dared to touch. “Why?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because it’s part of you,” he said simply. “And I want to know all of you.” His words left you breathless, the weight of them settling in your chest. You wanted to pull away, to guard the fragile thing that was growing between you, but you couldn’t.
But people talk.
They talk in whispers that snake through the palace walls, slithering through cracks and beneath doors. Whispers of his visits, of his presence in the apothecary, of the time he lingers where he should not. They do not speak to you directly, but you can feel their words coiling around your throat, tightening with every passing day.
You hear them behind you when you walk through the halls: the sharp staccato of hurried footsteps, the low murmur of voices that stop the moment you turn. You catch glimpses of knowing glances, the way the maids shift their eyes when you enter a room, how the guards avert their gazes.
They all know, and yet they know nothing.
Because what is there to know? You have not touched him beyond necessity, have not dared to let your hand linger when you tend his wounds. And yet, the air between you is thick, suffused with something that neither of you has the courage to name.
“You should not come here anymore,” It was late. The apothecary was empty, save for the two of you. You stood with your back to him, arranging jars on the shelves in some vain attempt to distract yourself from the weight of his presence.
“I will decide what I should or should not do,” Marcus replied, his voice steady. You turned to face him, exasperation rising in your chest. “They talk, Marcus. Do you not see the danger in that? For you— for me?” His expression changed fast. “I cannot stop them from speaking,” he said finally, his voice quieter now. “And I will not stop coming.”
“Why?” you demanded, stepping closer. “Why do you care what happens to me? Why do you risk so much just to be here?”
He did not answer immediately. His gaze flicked over your face, searching for something, though you could not say what. Finally, he sighed, the sound heavy. “Because you deserve better than this,” he said. “Better than what the court has given you. Just... better." You shook your head, chest tightening. “That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one I can give you,” he said, stepping closer. “For now." But deep down, you knew better.
And you hated him for it, too.
“I see the way you look at me,” he said one night, his voice breaking the silence. You froze, your hands stilling over the poultice you were preparing. “What?”
“Do not deny it,” Marcus said, his tone softer now. “I know that look. I have seen it on too many faces not to recognize it.” You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “And what look is that?”
“The one that says you hate me as much as you try to fight it." The words struck you like a blow, and you turned to face him, your cheeks burning. “I do not—”
“You do,” he said simply, cutting you off. “And I do not blame you for it.”
His gaze was steady, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a moment, you thought he might say more, but instead, he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to brush against your arm. “I do not deserve your forgiveness,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I hope for it, all the same.” You did not hate him. you wish you could, because falling in love wasn't what you wanted right now.
“I think about you,” Marcus admitted, his voice raw. “More than I should. More than is safe.” Your breath caught in your throat, your chest tightening as his words sank in. “You shouldn’t,” you whispered, though your voice lacked conviction. “I know.”
The silence between you stretched.
“But why?” you asked, your voice trembling. “Why do you care now, after all this time? You never gave me an answer, Marcus..."
He hesitated, his jaw tightening. “Because I see you,” he said finally. “And I see myself in you—the parts of me I thought were dead. The parts I’ve tried to bury.” You shook your head, tears stinging your eyes. “I don’tㅡ Marcus, if this is all a game to you, of things you want to rediscover within you..."
"It is not. I do not intend to play with your heart."
So why does the blood keep on trickling?
They were wildflowers, clearly gathered from the edges of the palace gardens, and they looked out of place in his calloused hands. He held them out awkwardly, his expression somewhere between defiance and vulnerability, as though he expected you to scold him for the gesture. “For you,” he said simply. You stared at them for a moment, then at him. “Why?” you couldn’t help but smile. “Do I need a reason?” His tone was defensive, but the softness in his gaze betrayed him. No monster.
Your fingers brushed against his as you took the flowers, and he flinched almost imperceptibly, as if the touch burned him. “They’re beautiful,” you said. He didn’t reply, but you thought you saw the corner of his mouth twitch— an almost-smile, there and gone in an instant.
“Are you trying to court me, General?” you asked, half-joking. The question caught him off guard, and he looked at you with something close to panic in his eyes. “No.” You laughed, shaking your head. “Good. You’d be terrible at it.” But the truth was, you didn’t hate the thought.
He started threatening the others after that.
The first time, you hadn’t been there to see it, but you heard about it from one of the maids who whispered to you in passing. “The general,” she said, her eyes wide. “He nearly broke Marcellus’s arm. All because he said something about you.”
He didn’t deny it. “He should not have said what he did,” he said simply, his tone calm but firm. “What did he say?”
“It does not matter.”
“Marcus—”
“It does not matter,” he repeated, his voice sharper now. “What matters is that he will not say it again.”
You wanted to argue with him, to tell him he couldn’t go around threatening people in your name. But the truth was, a part of you was glad. A part of you wanted him to protect you. He didn’t just watch over you—he hovered, his presence a constant shadow that both comforted and unnerved you. When he wasn’t by your side, you found yourself looking for him, craving his presence like air. And when he was with you, you felt safer than you had since your father’s death.
Days passed, and though you told yourself you should push him away, you could not.
He was always there, like a storm on the horizon—inevitable, impossible to ignore. You felt his presence even when he was not near, his voice echoing in your mind, his touch lingering on your skin.
You hated yourself for it. Hated the way your heart leapt when you heard his footsteps, the way your breath hitched when his fingers brushed yours. You tried to convince yourself it meant nothing, that it was a passing infatuation born of grief and the fact that he so happened to be there. You tried to convince yourself that the soft yearning in your chest was fleeting. A passing fancy, born of loneliness and the way Marcus had carved out a space in your world so effortlessly.
But as the days turned to weeks, the intensity of your feelings betrayed you. Every glance he cast your way lingered. Every word he spoke seemed to reverberate in your mind long after it had been said.
And every time his hand brushed against yours—whether by accident or intent—it felt as if the earth shifted beneath your feet.
It was one of those moments now. The two of you stood side by side in the apothecary, the late afternoon sunlight spilling through the windows. He was reaching for a jar of herbs on the shelf above, his arm brushing against yours as he leaned closer.
Your breath hitched, and you stepped back quickly, your movements too sharp, too sudden. “Am I in your way?” Marcus asked, his voice low and amused. “No,” you said hastily, turning to busy yourself with a mortar and pestle. “Not at all.” He did not move, and you could feel his gaze on you, heavy and unwavering. “You always do that,” he said after a moment, his tone thoughtful.
“Do what?”
“Step away.” You forced yourself to meet his eyes. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do,” he said quietly. There was no accusation in his voice, only a gentle insistence. “You step away as if the space will make it easier. But it does not, does it?” Your fingers tightened around the pestle. “Marcus—”
“I feel it too,” he said, cutting you off. The words hung between you, raw and unvarnished. You stared at him, your heart pounding. “You should not say that.”
“Why not? Because it is the truth?” He stepped closer, his hand resting on the edge of the table. “Because I look at you and I can think of nothing else? Because when I leave here, all I want is to come back?”
“Marcus, stop.” Your voice was trembling now, a plea more than a command. “I cannot stop,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I do not think you can, either.” The room seemed to shrink around you, the air charged with something that felt too big for your soul to understand. “Tell me to leave,” he said, his eyes searching yours. “If this is too much, if I have crossed a line, say the word, and I will go.” You opened your mouth, the words on the tip of your tongue. But they would not come. Because no matter how much you told yourself this was dangerous, reckless, wrong. you did not want him to go.
You did not step back this time. “I cannot,” you whispered, the words breaking free like a confession. His breath hitched, and for a moment, neither of you moved. Then he reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “I do not know how to do this,” you said, your voice trembling. “I do not know what happens now.”
what is this pandora box you have opened?
Before you could respond, his lips were on yours. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tentative. It was raw and consuming, as though he’d been holding back a storm and now it was unleashed. His hands slid to frame your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks as his lips claimed yours. There was no hesitation, no room for doubt. And, oh, you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Your hands found his tunic, clutching the fabric as though it were the only thing keeping you grounded. His scent filling your lungs, his warmth, the feel of him, it was too much and not enough all at once.
When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against yours. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I shouldn’t…”
“You did,” you whispered, your own voice shaky. “And I didn’t stop you.” His lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile, but his eyes remained serious. “Say the word, and I’ll walk away. I swear it.”
You hesitated, the weight of his words settling over you. But then you shook your head, your hand lifting to brush against his cheek. “I wil not say it.” His eyes closed briefly, as though your words had physically hit him. When he opened them again, they were softer, full of something you couldn’t name but felt in every corner of your soul.
“Then I am yours,” he murmured. “For as long as you’ll have me.” You leaned up, your lips brushing against his once more. A promise, a surrender, a beginning.
More Posts from Honestlysublimecherryblossom and Others
happy birthday 🩵
i love you. i miss you. 5️⃣🩵
duuude i want my marriage, arranged or love, to be like this 😩. can i pls get my own gojo; is that so much to ask for
MARRIED ON PURPOSE
- gojo satoru x reader
"for one, i can show you incredible things!" jujutsu, madness, heaven, sin. the strongest sorcerer is sure to show you all of that during the whole duration of your six-month marriage contract.
genre: marriage of convenience, enemies to lovers, crack, fluff, slight satosugu angst/comfort, kamo!reader, very suggestive. gojo clan is portrayed as very traditional, meanwhile kamo clan is rather unpleasant here
note: the unholy amount of times i've edited this story *sigh* but okay i must drop it here or else i'm going to keep editing it and losing my mind. despite my misgivings and all, i really had fun writing this and i hope you enjoy it! wc. 5k !
a part of 1K MILESTONE EVENT
series masterlist | oneshot masterlist
Some would say... marrying Gojo Satoru would be living the dream.
“Don't look that sour now, wife.”
“…sigh.”
A playful nudge at your side, a lighthearted voice— “You're going to make them question our veeery happy marriage, you know… We don't want that now, do we?”
But to you, it was more like nightmare dressed in a daydream.
It was peak comedy because why would you put marrying Gojo Satoru in your life plans? He was incorrigible, a child trapped in a man's body, and there was also the very fact that you hate him. His only redeeming trait was being born in the esteemed Gojo clan, and now held the title of the strongest.
You know you must have accumulated karma, but out of everything else, why must you end up in this predicament?
Hailing from the great clans of jujutsu society, both of you know well that marriage is the essence to make the clan greater. And when it involves the big three clans, its importance amplifies even further.
It was just that you two were too rebellious to follow it through, for one reason or another. Everyone knows Gojo Satoru was faithless to any woman, and you were not exactly thrilled with the idea of marriage as a whole.
He was the one who came to you, proposing this insane idea of a temporary marriage.
"Look at it this way," Satoru said with a wry grin, contrasting your puzzled frown on that fateful afternoon. "It's either me or Zen'in Naoya for you, isn't it? It's so clear which is the better man."
That was what grated you the most. You would be damned if you married the misogynist.
"What do you get from this arrangement, really?" you questioned begrudgingly.
His name would give you security, stop the harassment from your clan, and maybe even a better life, but you didn't quite get what he'd get from the offer he willingly extended to you.
Satoru flippantly shrugged. "Nah, you are not exactly my type, but you're still far better than the boring puppet my family have considered to be my wife."
"Who?"
"Don't remember her name. All she goes on about is that she'll be the good wife and mother of my child. Ew."
Seven hells. You scowled. Gojo Satoru and his penchant for chasing the thrill. Boring women would kill him before an actual curse would.
"And hey, for one," he shot you a smirk, visibly smug. "I can show you incredible things!"
"That's not the point! Gojo, do you even realize—" your voice rose, pulsating with righteous fury, "—how serious all of this is? My life, your life! We're going to be stuck—together!"
"Six months," he blurted, tilting his head slightly. His sunglasses slipped down just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his sparkling eyes. "It's enough time to work through our shits, and by then if you have enough, we're through."
At that time, it seemed feasible. Both of you tolerating each other to avoid a much worse match.
. . .
BACK TO PRESENT—barely a week ever since you were paraded around as his wife, now you and Satoru were stiffly poised in the studio in your formal garbs, capturing your official wedding photos.
At that time, it seemed feasible, but now, it felt like a chore, as you realized that conversing with him either spiked your blood pressure so much that you wouldn't even be surprised if you ended up with hypertension or completely sapped your energy that you were left exhausted.
"Come on, show a smiiile," Satoru said in a sing-song voice, gesturing toward the camera as it flashed for the pictures. You were beyond appalled, shooting a glare in his direction.
"I am smiling, Gojo."
"Liar. You're pouting, wifey~"
Sigh… this really is going to be one hella of a ride, huh?
MONTH ONE, and you found out that Gojo Satoru is apparently as mad as people made him out to be.
"You've got to be kidding me!" you fumed, right after he hauled you into one of the rooms in his grand, traditional estate. Your glare pierced through him, a blood vessel ready to burst. "We never agreed on ‘consummating’ the marriage!"
You wrote him a goddamn contract. And the three conditions of this chaotic marriage are: one, it would only last six months; two, no personal feelings involved; and three, nothing borderline disturbing.
And this, you concluded, was the height of what could be called as disturbing.
"We will not," Satoru replied with a hint of disdain, grimacing, as if the notion didn't sit well with him either. The audacity! "We're just going to make it as if we are—"
"And why?! Why should I do that?!"
"Why else? Because my old fart believes that we indeed haven't done so."
"Then it's your fault? For failing to convince him? Why turn it into my problem!"
"Because, dear wife," he drawled, his tone taunting on the final note. "Now we're on the same page, in case you have forgotten."
Great clans and their hollow expectations spare no one, not even Gojo Satoru. They place importance in the most banal things, such as the continuity of sacred bloodlines and such.
The only alternative wasn't appealing either. Should you be found out that you married only to divorce... sigh, you didn't even want to know how big of a scandal it would be. One thing was certain: your clan would chop you to shreds.
You really had no choice, huh?
"Five minutes," you warned, glaring at him. "Make it loud. Make it so that no one wouldn't question this anymore."
Oh and sure he would. As Satoru pulled that shit-eating grin, you were in for another ride. You waited out until several maids were nearby, left the wooden door ajar, and began the show—
His hands wrapped around your waist—the feeling was peculiar, but you ignored it—and you let him pull you near that open door. He snuggled his face on your neck—his hair tickling you in the process, but you ignored that peculiarity again—as he started making suggestive noises. "Mm, you're so pretty, darling."
You could hear those maids gasp in surprise. And to add the flavor, you faked a moan.
This is... kinda fun? A twisted part of you suddenly found satisfaction in fooling the maids. A smile tugged at your lips as you shoved him away, and Satoru eyed you in surprise and irritation.
"Husband, you're... insatiable," you worded languidly, and he immediately caught on your act, grinning. "Anyone can walk by, you know."
"Oh? But that's the point." Satoru's bright blue eyes twinkled with utter mischief, and even you couldn't deny the exhilarating rush. "I want them to know."
And suddenly you got this very brilliant idea. You swiftly moved past him and sent the books and trinkets on his desk flying to the floor, causing questionable noises.
"Oh my!" a girlish voice exclaimed.
"The master! And the lady!"
Satoru shook his head, thoroughly entertained. And you rolled your eyes. Those nosy maids would finally have enough now, and this charade would end—
"What's happening here?"
The old fart. Both you and Satoru grunted in unison. You really thought you would leave it up to the maids to spread the word, but then you were taken by surprise when he wrapped his hands around you and flung the door open, slamming you against it—and damn it hurt!—offering everyone a front-row seat to your charade.
The maids squealed. His grandfather raised a righteous, demanding eyebrow. You wanted to scream.
"Hey, gramps," he greeted jovially, breathless, his grip on you tightening and you felt heat radiating from his palm. "Ah, sorry, opened it by accident—the wife here is feisty, you see."
Your veins felt ready to burst. Was this a part of his plan all along? How would you show your face before your grandfather-in-law now that he had seen this... atrocity?!
"So, yeah, we'll resume our business!" Satoru, the idiot, said it as if it was the most normal thing in the world. "See ya!"
With that the door slammed shut, but oh no, it was not the end.
"Mmmph!?" you protested, unintentionally loud and eyes widening in alarm when Satoru muffled your mouth with his hand.
The rotten bastard! You found it nearly impossible to breathe, shooting daggers at him. "Mmmrgh! Mmmrrgh!"
"Oh... so that boy really does it huh," you heard the elder mutter in thoughtful manner from outside—and you were in disbelief at how trusting he was—before rounding the stunned maids and barked, "What are all you doing here? Go!"
You nearly sagged with relief when Satoru loosened his grip slightly, allowing you to breathe, as his meddlesome grandpa finally stalked away. Done. This horrible act was over! But wait, why did he still had his hand on your mouth?
"That went splendidly!" he snickered, appearing rather pleased with what had unfolded. "Now, if only we work together like this more often—"
This is… my life now, you lamented the reality. The feeling of his calloused hand on you made you feel things, honestly speaking, but another emotion—and impulse—currently overpowered that.
Seething with resentment, you fiercely chomped down on his hand hard, causing him to swear and pull his hand out of you.
"You—you devil! You bit me!"
"Serves you right!"
Okay, he was bad. He was insufferable. But to be frank, sometimes it wasn't all chaos.
And what's more, by MONTH TWO, you realized that being married to Gojo Satoru also comes with several perks.
"Miss, please, you're trespassing—"
You looked at the police with the haughtiest look you could muster, unamused. "Don't you know who I am?"
"No, but it shouldn't—"
"I'm that man's wife," you declared regally, motioning towards a certain tall shuttlecock a few meters away. "Is that not clear enough for you?"
For one, no one can look down on you anymore, because should they try, you have the power to raise your chin high and declare yourself as the wife of the infamous sorcerer. The very moment you did, that nosy police stopped yapping, and let you through.
The cursed boy, Yuta and his classmate had just been trapped inside a barrier a curse user pulled down, and you were assigned to look into this case by the headquarters. As much as it boggled you—because certainly, the strongest sorcerer was enough to investigate this—you still had to do your job.
“What is this?” you asked Satoru, who was observing something far beyond what your measly ordinary eyes could see. “What happened here?”
He turned to you, all with bandaged eyes. “Hmm? Oh, you’re here too?”
“Don't act surprised. Answer my question, Gojo.”
"You’re too uptight, wifey," Satoru's lips curved upwards playfully. He had taken to addressing you with pet names as of late, if anything, only to get a rise out of you. "Isn't it the time for you to start calling me by my given name?"
You let out a weary exhale, exasperated. "I'm serious, did you find anything? Who is behind this?"
"Nah, nothing for you to worry about," Satoru waved his hand dismissively, grinning. "More importantly! Let's head back and have dinner! My treat!"
You weren't that oblivious. You noticed things too.
"What do you want tonight? Sukiyaki? Sushi?" he hummed nonchalantly. "Or shabu-shabu?"
You gave him the stink eye. "Is that all you think about? Food?"
Both hands behind his head, Satoru proudly remarked, "As a responsible husband, it's my duty to feed my wife, no?"
"News flash: temporary wife."
"But still my wife, regardless," he shrugged. "I overheard you earlier. Being Mrs. Gojo is convenient, yeah?"
You ignored how a part of your jolted at the emphasis he placed on that word, grunting. "Nah, it's meh."
Call it a feeling or hypothesis. It was similar to how he treated his students. He always said the dumbest things, but it actually served to make them feel at ease.
Then it occurred to you, could this be actually his attempt to change the subject?
"You can't cheat your way out of this." You shot him a pointed look. "You know something. Tell me."
"Hmmm? And what would I get in return?"
"Don't make this difficult. I'm on this assignment too!"
"Nah, if you call me by my name, I might consider it."
Hah. You should really read a parenting book one of these days. Taking on your husband was more or less the same as facing a kid.
"Satoru," you tested, the name rolling out of your lips far easier than you thought. Somehow, using his given name felt like some sort of a leap of faith.
He stopped right in his tracks, turning to you. His glossy lips quirked into a meaningful smile, and you felt funny.
"Wasn't that difficult, was it?" he winked, and you covered the strange heat creeping onto your face by rolling your eyes and huffed.
Needless to say, he still didn't tell you even a clue. You finally gave up, thinking that if he insisted on not disclosing it, then so be it. You trusted him on this, even as he turned your help away, and you hated admitting it because well...
You’d trust him with your life. He knows how to handle this better than anyone.
Being a a woman in Kamo clan is, in fact, not any better than in Zen'in—you're regarded more as a commodity than a human being.
"When will you bear the child of the bearer of Six Eyes?" in your father's eyes, you were but a tool to tie the Gojo at his hip, and your worth probably wasn't even twice of Noritoshi's. You had known he would ask this when he summoned you to Kamo ancestral home, and you weren't that naive—you had asked Satoru to join you too. But your father had insisted him to stay at the foyer, while he dragged you into his chamber.
Just because you had seen it coming didn’t mean you liked it. "Is that all? Do you really make me come here just to ask me that?"
And what came next was like a crack of thunder.
"How insolent!"
You shuddered, hating how his voice still had control over you. You wanted to stay deviant, but you couldn't keep yourself from shaking. You thought you would have to endure this shit just like you did before, until—
"Now, now... That's my wife you're talking to. I'd watch your words, if I were you."
You had never whipped your head so fast.
There stood Gojo Satoru, your husband, in all his glory. He was smiling but it was clear that he was displeased, evident from his cutting remark, and most notably, how he had unveiled his striking cerulean eyes for all to see. Truth to be told, you didn't expect him to barge in here at all.
"Gojo-sama," your father bowed his head, displaying utter respect towards him, contrasting the blatant disrespect he showed towards you just now. Satoru paid him no heed, as took big strides towards you and seized your arm, prompting you to rise to your feet.
"What is this? Why are you yelling at her?" His voice lacked its usual hint of amusement or teasing, sending a chill down your spine.
"Gojo-sama, I apologize for my tone towards my daughter earlier. I was just trying to educate—"
“My wife. She is my wife now—it would do you better to remember that,” Satoru asserted firmly, putting emphasis in the way he addressed you, his gaze hardening. "She is an adult. There's nothing left for you to educate her." Pausing, he added, "And the way I saw it, you were just unnecessarily rude."
"Gojo-sama, there were just certain things in our clan that—"
"Please, don't call on us again," Satoru interjected decisively with a light yet firm voice. You could swear your heart was somersaulting at the sight of him staring down your natural enemy. "I'm sure you're aware, but your daughter—as you put it—bears my name now, and she will get the respect she is due. I will have a word with anyone who fails to treat her accordingly."
Somehow or another, Satoru whisked you away from that hellhole, your hand tightly clasped in his. Your relieved sigh didn't go unnoticed by him, as he looked back to you.
"Have you gone soft?" he teased, eyeing you with a playful snort. "Did you forget who your husband is? You've got nothing to fear. Not even him."
"Thank you," you murmured. Your heart was still pounding and your mind blanked, rendering you unable to engage in your usual banters.
His clear blue eyes widened a touch, blinking at your display of vulnerability, Then, he wore the most innocent expression, even sporting a silly smirk—the hardness from earlier gone. "I was really cool, huh? Totally made you swoon I bet."
And in MONTH THREE, you realized, as he laced his fingers with yours, as his laughter filled the air, as calmness swelled on your chest, and as you loudly snorted at his remark, that—
You felt warm, so warm, in fact, and maybe—
"Pfft, you wish."
—maybe... being with him isn't so bad after all.
MONTH FOUR, and you finally found out that it was Geto Suguru.
Everyone knew that your husband and the criminal used to be the best of friends. You saw them during your high school days, and heck, you used to think that Geto was the better man.
You could only imagine what he must feel.
. . .
When he got back to your shared house after the whole ordeal—after he ended his best friend with his own hands, Satoru honestly didn't expect that you would be waiting for him.
"You okay?" you asked him, brows furrowed in concern. It was probably one of the very few times you had displayed emotions other than contempt towards him.
It felt strange because he was used to your jabs, and he was not sure what sort of expression he should pull now, because truthfully, now he felt empty. Blank. All he comprehended was that he had killed Suguru, that he was gone, and that was something he must do.
It would be just like any other day if hadn't just committed a murder. On someone he held dear.
"Of course, who do you think I am?" Satoru swiftly replied, sounding smug—or at least tried to. "I'm the strongest. I’m unscat—"
"No, not that." You frowned, meeting his gaze squarely. "After everything."
Satoru struggled to choose how he should react, partly because most of his energy had gone after walking Yuta back and reassuring him earlier, and by default, the two of you should be hellbent on hating each other and wishing for this contract to end soon.
"Aww, are you worried about me?" he quipped with a touch of sarcasm just because he had to, to show you that it wasn't enough to ruffle him.
Because he is still the strongest, even when alone. Especially when he is alone.
You let out a sigh, looking away. "Can't I?"
"Whoa, that's sweet of—"
"Don't fool yourself," you stated in straight-laced manner, meeting his gaze with a composed expression. "You're not okay. You might be Gojo Satoru, but no one will be after doing what you just did."
You might be Gojo Satoru, but no one will be after doing what you just did.
Despite himself, his smile fell, and his chest burns. What is this? Were you sympathizing with him?
Does that mean that you don't see him as the entity... that was the strongest?
Before now, Satoru remembered you as the most uncooperative Kyoto girl he had ever met. Your first meeting in high school sealed your fate as the two of you could hardly get along. You didn't mince words, you didn't take shit from anyone else—heck, sometimes when he thought of you, what came up to mind was an impenetrable diamond.
Which was why he chose you. You were someone he could trust. You were pretty in the eyes and certainly wouldn't bore him either. His reasons were purely based on logic. And after four months with you, Satoru came to a conclusion that you indeed fulfilled all his expectations, if not more.
And he felt comfortable, or dare he say, secure even. He felt like he had gained a friend, who could see past his bravado and wouldn't judge him for it.
"You're..." you sighed, casting a sympathetic glance at him, your forehead slightly creased. At that moment, Satoru couldn't help but think you were incredibly endearing, fretting over him. "...an idiot."
"Heh." I really am, aren't I?
"I never knew him well..." you chose your words carefully, hesitant. "Did you try to convince him, before this?"
He barked a bitter laugh. "I did, we even made a scene in front of freaking KFC," he remarked with a scoff. "He didn't listen to me, until the very end."
You wanted to tell him “You have done everything you could” but the words faltered on your tongue. You couldn't bring yourself to say it when you saw the faint quiver of his lips, the slump of his shoulders—the very sight of a boy grieving the loss of his friend.
Your heart pricked too, somehow, seeing that expression on him. And you once again realized that your silly, exalted husband was just as human as anyone else who made him think he wasn’t.
"And you know what he said in the end?" Satoru's tone was flippant, as if asking the most normal thing around, but carried a trace of grief, evident in the slight drop in his tone if you squinted. "He said he didn't regret it, not even a bit."
"I'm sorry," was all you could manage.
Satoru's smile was lopsided. Now that he had finally accepted it, something inside him finally bleeds, and it freaking hurts. The pain gripped his chest like a swirling inferno.
But then, you boldly clasped his hand in yours, gently tracing soothing circles on its back.
"What?" he peered at you, feeling a ghost of a smile forming.
"Consider this emotional support."
And he chuckled softly. Despite the lingering ache, despite the gloom he was sure he would carry for the rest of his life, he felt the pain was more bearable with you by his side, somewhat.
How?
You blamed it on the alcohol, because it was MONTH FIVE and you were kissing Gojo Satoru, daringly.
"We shouldn't do this," you rasped between kisses, breathless, as your own sinful hands plucked the buttons off his shirt. The intoxication might have played a part, but the intense heat coursing through you made it hard to think straight.
Satoru crashed his lips against yours again, consumed by blind lust. "Yeah, we shouldn't," he replied simply. His breath was hot as he trailed his lips down your jaw and neck next, savoring the softness of your skin.
You two had attended a banquet for the elite, and you were unbelievably beautiful. Standing by his side as his wife, you drew admiring glances, with everyone marveling at what a remarkable couple you made. The Gojo heir who was born with the legendary Limitless and the Kamo heiress, as lovely as her clan's name was powerful.
His deft hands roamed the curves of your body, exploring every inch of you. The warmth of his hands tickled something inside you as you closed your eyes to sink into this very moment. Next you knew, his bare body was against yours and you were stripped out of your evening dress.
Lust flickered in his honored eyes, as he took in the sight of you in your undergarments.
"You're really pretty, you know," he whispered. The intensity with which his eyes scanned your form made you nearly squirm. "Shame we don't always get along."
"You're one to talk," you retorted, a hint of exasperation in your tone, as you willed all other thoughts away. Thoughts like what comes after this. Thoughts like—
Is it heaven or sin, if you feel both at once?
His thumb tenderly caressed your plush lips, a hint of a smirk on his beautiful face.
He has long been thinking about your body. He was but a man, after all. He just didn't expect that you wanted this too.
There was always this tension, only this time, neither of you could hold it back anymore. Perhaps it was impulse—hell, most certainly it is, but there was another thing, something more that even Gojo Satoru still didn't dare to say out loud.
"Eager, are we?" he taunted when you leaned in, yearning for the touch of his lips on yours again.
You huffed. “Shut up and kiss me.”
A rush of heat flooded your cheeks at the slip of those words. You were about to rectify it, taken aback by your own boldness, but then he drew you close, silencing any further protest with a gentle hush—
"Too late, sweetheart," his husky voice entered your ears, lips curling into the most wicked smile, and you were in a trance. And Satoru was once again convinced, that choosing you as his wife was the rightest thing there was.
If the two of you went with this, then there would be consequences. Things would become more complicated, harder to sort out.
But, he decided, as he captured your lips in another heated kiss, everything else can wait.
MONTH SIX, and you were dreading the day of your divorce.
You brought this upon yourself. Whenever you reminisced about that night, you wanted to smack yourself in the face and bang your head against the nearest wall.
This marriage has a time limit. And you were doing it out of convenience in the first place.
You weren't supposed to… goddammit—fall in love with him.
But what's done is done, there is no going back in time. Awkward exchanges and lingering stares had been gnawing at your insides these days, and you were sure Satoru too must have noticed them too. You two used to be more relaxed with each other, and he'd even flirt with you, but weeks ever since that night of drunken passion, you almost reverted back to your high school personas—ignoring each other.
This was tough. You didn't like this. And more than that, you were faced with a more pressuring matter...
Gojo Satoru, with everything he possessed, could have any woman he wanted. This arrangement with you was temporary in the first place, soon he would forget you and flit to the next woman.
The thought made your heart ache, because you had involuntarily gave your heart away to him. Siiigh… What a predicament you put yourself into, huh?
With just a month left together, maybe you should just make the best of it.
. . .
If you thought that things were any better with Satoru, then you were sorely wrong because he too, was debating with himself often nowadays.
Days spent with you were fun and fulfilling. You irked expression somehow had made its mark in his heart. You were pretty, fit to be by his side publicly and preferably, behind the closed doors. With you, he didn't feel the need to carry this facade of being strong—he could be a clown tripping over his own trap and you would amuse him with your deadpan expression.
And ever since that night, he was constantly reminded by how soft your skin was against his. It almost drove him crazy now that he was deprived of it.
How was it the last month already? He wasn't ready to let you go yet.
When he got back home later after his class ended and found you in the dinner table setting the food, all he could muster was, "Hey. Haven't eaten?"
You whirled around to face him in surprise. "Oh... you're back. Just about to. Want to join me?"
Of course he would. And yet as the two of you sat down, it was so painfully awkward Satoru felt like he was dying inside.
Why couldn't he pull off a smart line or two? Where did his suaveness go? He was smoother than this, surely, with his colorful history. One night of passion was supposed to enhance the relationship, not to derail it. What happened to you both?
The salt was near his side when you reached to grab it and bumped into his hand. "Uh-oh."
Turning towards you, he found your spooked expression and your adorable eyes widening in surprise. "S-sorry..."
It was just freaking salt! Salt! Why on earth were you apologizing?!
Enough, he thought. This utter madness of being jumpy with each other. He'd start from his side.
Does he want you to keep being his wife even after all this ends? Yes.
Why? All reasons already listed above.
Does this mean he likes you? Apparently and supposedly, yes. Because if it isn't then he doesn't know what this funny feeling driving him mad is.
With that sorted out, then he only had one more thing to confirm. He put down his spoon and crossed his arms together. "Tell me the truth. Do you like living with me?"
His question obviously took you by surprise. "Huh? What brought this on?"
"Just give me an answer."
"You're so pushy," you grumbled, lips pursed, and he felt like you were finally back to your usual dynamics somewhat. Good.
"Sooo, the verdict? Do you enjoy being with me or not?"
Because to him, it was a resounding yes and more.
Ignoring the warmth that surged to your cheeks, you rolled your eyes. "Surprisingly, not bad, yeah," you admitted, mustering the courage to meet his gaze. "You're annoying, an idiot, a bit crazy—"
"Hey!"
"—but eventually you're still... manageable," you added, feeling your face truly start to sizzle. But covered it up by looking down and playing with your fingers as you still had more to go on. "What I want to say is... I'm glad that I agreed to this—with you—because I can’t imagine it with anyone else."
An unfamiliar tingling emotion rushed to his chest as his face too started to heat up, letting your words sink in. Is he blushing? Oh God. He sure is. And so did he feel hella giddy.
Then it’s sealed.
Suddenly he procured a piece of paper from his work uniform and showed it to you. You first saw his lazily scrawled signature before it dawned on you.
The contract. You almost forgot that you made him sign that looming piece of paper. You were almost dismayed, thinking that he would end this right then and there, but then—
“Well, then… I suppose we no longer need this.”
Riiip~
Your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when Gojo Satoru tore out your contract right in front of your face, and then the most brilliant of his devilish grin adorned his handsome face, and he took of his blindfold to see you far clearly than ever. Heavens, you are cute, he thought.
“Soooo~ seems like you’re stuck with me from now on!”
You gaped, awestruck at the blatant meaning of it all, feeling how your heartbeat started to pick up the pace, when he pulled the rag out of your feet once more by tilting his head to the side, looking at you with a winning smile.
“Let’s start over! What did they say again? Ah, yeah. Here’s to the first day of our lives!”
never knew he was so hot
Matthew Lillard as Tim LaFlour Senseless (1998) dir. by Penelope Spheeris
just saw the movie....want this tortured baby so i can heal him 😭
Late Night Mends
Pairing: Kid (Monkey Man) x reader
Word count: 2.1K
Warning: 18+ MDNI, mentions of anxiety, injuries, not a lot of spice, some fluff, not proof/beta read lol, does not contain spoilers for Monkey Man.
Note: Absolutely am in love with Dev Patel, he adores the world and fandom love! Also special mention to my friend @mittos who helped with this prompt/story ideas. Go and see Monkey Man if you haven't already! And if you have go and see it again! Also jaan is a Hindi term of endearment. Also can we take a moment for Dev Patel's side profile?! Comments, and reblogs are always appreciated as well! I hope you enjoy!
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It was late, extremely late. It had been a slow night but it was quickly becoming the latest it had ever been without his tired, bloody presence. It made you uncomfortable how late it was becoming, he never took this long to show up after a big match. You bit your nails as you couldn’t help but think about the possibility of where he was and scarily, what condition he was in.
It was a risky field that Kid was in, especially when he was the losing dog for the overeager, sweaty crowd not to bet on. He took the punches and rarely complained about it, you’d only ever been to one of his fights before and never again. It was too painful to watch, you’d bitten each of your fingernails right down to the beds, and you swore that it gave you a few grey hairs. If you had any, each of them could be traced back to being his fault, you were sure. You loved him, truly adored him, but he certainly knew how to stress you out.
You’re sitting down waiting for him to arrive. You don’t even realise that you’ve put your hand up to your face to bite your nails but now you know that you must’ve as you’ve been subconsciously biting them as you look out the window waiting, lost in your thoughts. You could think and use that as a distraction but no, the more you think or gaze off, the more you think about him, worry about him and overanalyse every little thing to be analysed, including what would need a magnifying glass to do so. You sigh and rub your face tiredly and also as another poor attempt at a distraction to take your mind away from him.
It was a ridiculous thought, nothing could distract you from him, Kid lived rent-free in your mind 24/7, no matter what you did or wanted. And now was his prime time for filling your head.
You rub your face some more and then look up, you can hear the door quietly open and the sound of gentle footsteps start to make their way to you. You look up as you try to glimpse the start of his lean shadow to confirm that he’s really, really, finally here. The light switch turns on as you see his arm stretch out and then he’s standing there in your doorway.
You look up at him as he stands, he just looks at you for a moment. His gorgeous doe-eyes are wide, he looks exhausted and defeated but there’s a small smile on his face as his eyes meet yours. Ever since you’d known Kid, he had always been a man of few words, which seemed to balance out just how expressive his handsome face was. You liked that though, that his eyes truly were the window to his soul. You did like his voice though as well, you’d have no problem with him using it more. Sometimes he would talk though, about his sweet mother, the stories of Hanuman that his mother had told him and that had vividly stuck with and inspired him still.
You quickly take him in, there’s sweat in his hair, a cut in his cheek, and his knuckles are bloody as always. You bite your lip as you look at him, chewing over your words so you don’t come across as either a scolding lover or treating him like a patient.
“Your hands…” You finally say as he steps closer to you and you can see that he made some attempt to cover them with a bit of cloth but the blood is all over his right hand.
“It’s fine.” He says in a soft whisper, his voice is melodic as always but a little hoarse and deep. He looks down at his hand he tries not to flinch when you take his hand and it’s further proof that no, it really isn’t fine. You sigh and move his hand to check his fingers, it causes discomfort but based on the movement you know it’s not broken at least. It was genuinely impressive that he was still alive, still functioning and not just with everything he’d been through as a young boy, but with the amount of beatings he’d taken at the club. That he’d somehow avoided major damage to his body, that his handsome looks were still intact, and also his teeth. That was a big surprise you had to admit.
“Sit down.” You look at him with a look of concern, one that he doesn’t like. “Come on, I’ll clean it up.” You say softly. He runs his right hand, his good hand through his damp but perfect locks and he sighs, sitting down, waiting for you to fix his wounds and to feel your tender touch.
You’d had the first aid kit ready to go, sitting on the floor waiting for his entrance. You always used it, he always needed it. Your medical background certainly helped, some nights you’d crack a joke that that was the only reason why he was with you. The first time you made that joke his eyes widened at first, and he immediately stuttered to try and reassure her that that wasn’t the case. He didn’t realise that it was a joke. You’d kissed him to reassure him and he kissed you back so sweetly. Now when you made the joke he’d just look at you and give you a small, precious chuckle. You just want to make him smile, make him laugh, bring him joy, and make him feel safe. He deserved that at the very least, especially with his gigantic hug.
His hand clearly had taken the worst of it, you hold it gently in yours, and his hand twitches for a moment. He’s spent most of his life being devoid of affection. He craved a gentle touch, to feel seen and safe in the company of another. He’d started to find that with you, in the way you looked at him, how you carefully held his hand in arms when cleaning an injury and wrapping it up. You somehow had never noticed it, he figured it was because of how attentive you were to his injuries, to him, and his lips quirked up into a secret smile you’d miss over the irony of you not noticing this because of how attentive you were being to him.
“You were later than usual.” You say as you clean his bruised and bloodied knuckles.
“I know.” He whispers as he looks up at you, he’s tired but there’s a small smile on his lips as he knows the scolding is incoming, just what degree is it going to be from you tonight, is the question.
“I was worried, my fingernails are almost as bloody as your knuckles because of how much I was biting them.” You say as you try to clean his hand gently, noting how his hand occasionally twitches in response.
“Would’ve been quite a match.” He whispers before he looks at your hands, noticing your nervously bitten nails. His cheeks heat up as he can’t help but feel a little bit of guilt about causing you to worry so, he’s spent so much of his life without someone who cares about him like this. You sigh and roll your eyes at his response.
“You’re going to be the cause of every single grey hair I have in this lifetime.” You say as you treat the knuckle wounds, making sure you’re gentle. “All I do is worry, you spend every night getting beaten, thrown off tables. It’s going to be too much one day. Something will go wrong. Then what?” Kid can’t help but look up at you, it’s a conversation that’s happened more than a few times. “What if it’s your spine or something? I won’t be able to fix that-” “It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m okay, jaan.” He says as he looks up at you, his big brown eyes are widened and he’s looking at you with his sad puppy dog eyes, he feels bad for making you worry so much.
You sigh, biting your lip as you try to stop yourself from saying anything else. He’s too sweet and so you nod and finish cleaning and bandaging everything. After a moment, you cup his cheek as you look at his warm eyes and you go to get him some water to drink. He watches you and continues to as he drinks the water. You two have become quite good at playing a game of watching each other, almost like it’s a sport to observe the other.
He looks at you, tilting his head which tousles the gorgeous locks he has a little. You sigh and run a hand through his soft brown curls, damp with sweat but somehow miraculously not blood. His hair has always been absolutely perfect. You feel bad for essentially venting your anxieties at him right as he’s come from a long night of work at the club.
“I only scold because I care.” You say but you’re not sure if it’s him or yourself that you’re trying to convince more as you say the words, but it’s true technically. “It’s a form of doting really.” You say as you look at him as he adjusts in his seated position, looking up at you with his wide, doe-eyed orbs. Even if it was a form of doting, you could never stay mad at him for long when having to look into those gorgeous eyes. They’d melt away any troubles and you’re sure if awards were given out for best brown eyes, he’d win. You hated that he did this, that this was how he had to get by. That he had to take these awful, unhealthy beatings but you love him anyway.
He was freshly bandaged now, he moved his hand up and Kid started to slowly caress your cheek, he traced some invisible line so gently with the pads of his fingertips as he looked at you. His doe eyes were filled with adoration and peacefulness as he concentrated on your beauty. You let him, it was soothing and sweet and you had no reason to even consider stopping this. You were his and he was yours.
Your eyes glance down at his fingers, and then you put a hand up to cup his cheek and look into the most beautiful eyes you could ever imagine seeing. After he feels your touch his eyes quickly close and he inhales. He isn’t sure if he’ll ever get used to the feeling of your fingers on his face, of how your hair feels against his skin, or your breath, but he knows for sure, that he’ll at least never tire of it.
His fingers glide down do your mouth and he traces your lips as he looks at them. He tilts his head and before he can even move, you’ve moved your head to press your lips together. There’s something about how gentle his hands are with you, how they feel even after everything that has happened to him and that he does. How it just takes a glance at you for him to melt into a puddle.
You put your hand back into his hair and run it through his curls as he kisses you back and the kiss deepens almost immediately. He cups your cheek gently as your lips move together in sync and you can’t help but start to tug his locks a little and his hand moves to your waist to hold you close against him. You continue to play and tug his hair as his lips move down your chin and jaw and he kisses your neck. You gasp out and tug on his hair a bit more as you feel his breath tickle your throat between his passionate kisses. You struggle to not let out a giggle as he does this and you feel your cheeks heating up as you tilt your head back so your neck is as exposed as possible for him while he kisses your throat and makes his way to your collarbone.
He always gets like this, and so quickly. He just needs a little touch, the reassurance of you being there and he feels an all-consuming need to make up for the years of loneliness, the lack of affection, the lack of physical contact outside of a fight he was guaranteed to lose. He has you in his arms and it’s something right for once, if it was a game this would be a victory, some kind of peace.
withering tree, grief lasts.
gojo x reader
summary:
after a particulary long and challenging battle, you're left with a fatal injury and decide to die peacefully at the place you realised you loved satoru.
cw: angst, you die bro, lots of hurt, grab tissues.
word count: 1.1k
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you watched from a distance. the relieved sighs, smiling faces, conversations with ease laced into them. you watched and smiled as you realised this would be the last time you'd be filled with such comfort. you didn't want to partake in the celebrations, so you leaned against an old tree, under the creeping shadows and watched from a distance.
there was no hope, no chance of life after the injury you had sustained; you made peace with that fact with tears in your eyes and a reluctant smile for solace. you knew of no other way to spend your final few moments than on this hill, under the same tree where you realised your feelings for him.
a bitter smile crept up on your face. him. the man you yearned for, for so long. the one who had always felt the same. all of that wasted time pining, waiting desperately for one another when the feelings had always been requited. if you had known then, how it would've ended, how you didn't make nearly enough memories together, you would've confessed much earlier, despite your doubts and anxieties.
now, you’re back where you started, rotting away, alone on this hill, as he enjoyed himself without your presence needed.
the idea that he was happy was enough to grant you peace when you died.
atleast, thats what you believed. you couldn't see the frantic white hair running from person to person asking if they had seen you. he could feel a piece of his heart breaking with each 'no' he had heard.
everything felt like one big joke. there was no way you didn’t make it out alive, he did everything he could to ensure your protection. but his sanity started to deteriorate as everyone has claimed they hadn’t seen you, leaving few possibilities to your location.
you had always taken it upon yourself to check on everyone you cared for, so it made no sense as to why no one had spoken to you.
his head ached as a single question thrummed against it. were you dead?
the thought made gojo's whole body tremble, his breath quicken and his mind hammer.
without you, he felt like an open wound, weakened and useless. what is the strongest without a will? without a reason. you were his reason, and he'd tear the world apart looking for you before he accepted your death.
taking a moment to breath and look around, when he finally saw it and realised. memories rushing back and bringing a pained smile to his face.
"i was here when i realised, 'toru." you had told him when you first got together. you told him how, every so often after you realised you had fallen in love with him, you'd come to this hill to empty your thoughts. seeing the sky and the stars at night and thinking of him, seeing the world below and realising that, whilst there are countless of people who had the potential to make you happy below this tiny hill, there was only one person that would ever complete you as well as he did.
"i thought you'd be here." he said, standing behind you, causing you to flinch at his sudden voice amongst the quiet you had got to used to. “i couldn’t celebrate without knowing where you were, because i knew you’d be miserable without my company.” he said jokingly and dramatically before noticing your lack or a response.
you sat with your hand over your injury, trying to cover the damage, refusing to ruin his mood yet your efforts of protecting him were futile.
he called out your name. "are you hurt? talk to me please." satoru begged, as he rushed down to where you sat, leaning on the same old, withering tree he recognised from your confession. he kneeled down in front of you, your eyes lacking life as his own were full of despair.
he noticed your wound and his eyes widened, panicking, he tried to help but both of you knew nothing could be done.
"i always knew i'd die here-"
"you are not dying, do you hear me?" he said in disbelief, trying to convince himself more than you. but most of all, he tried to convince nature to spare you from such a fate when you had years to come by his side.
"'toru look at me! i'm not leaving this hill alive, okay? i love you so, so much it hurts and- and i need you to understand-" you tried to reason but he cut you off once more.
"don't you fucking dare try and say goodbye. you can't leave me alone, i-" he tripped and stuttered over his words frustratedly as he continued to convince himself this wasn't the end. "i can't do this without you." he mumbled, voice laced with despair.
you lifted your hand up to caress his face and brush hair out of his eyes. you never liked seeing him cry. there was no feeling in the world that could compare to the one in which you saw the one you loved the most in pain because it feels like there is nothing you could do. watching him, feeling useless knowing that if you could take all the pain away from him and endure it yourself, you would without half a second of hesitation. but you couldn't, and that feeling felt like poison.
"please let me talk, satoru. no interuptions, just let me talk to you." you spluttered out weakly, your face, movements and voice were losing life with each passing second and deep down, satoru knew this, so he nodded, his face leaning into the touch of your hand as he gently cupped it, trying to drag out this last few moments. "each and every second with you has been more than what i have ever deserved. you're too fucking good for this satoru and you don't deserve it at all but i will always be here with you when you need me, when you're sick of me and when you feel alone because even through death you can't lose me. i can't tell you how much i have appreciated loving you and being able to love you." you smiled, going silent, though your eyes still looked into his own.
he leaned towards you, forehead against yours, pressing a gentle kiss against your lips as your tears mixed with his own for the final time. your eyes fluttered shut, your breaths becoming fainter and fainter with each second.
gojo pleaded you to keep yours eyes open, cradling your body closer to his own that shook as broken sobs were elicted from him as he lost yet another piece of himself.
he looked up at the darkened sky, thinking of you. thinking of everything he should’ve done differently. blaming himself for your final breath.
he’d come back to this same hill everyday, though he’d never look at the same sentimental tree as he did before.
no longer would it be associated with love, but grief of the one he lost.
note: cant proofread through the tears
kawaii 🩵
nice boys and sour hearts | satoru gojo x reader
wc: 4.6k cw: minor swearing, he refers to u as 'momma' once (its normal i promise) n i think thats about it post suguru defection, shoko typical smoking ; no established relationship b ur def more than friends
i didnt want this angst to be too intense so i made it super duper fluffy. hopes it tastes like strawberries to u cs it does in my head ; another one of those fics i whipped up to meet the weekend deadline b i’m actually proud of this one not proofread!
satoru hates arguing with you.
it bites at him; twists his heart from the inside out in such a gut-wrenching way that he can hardly stand seeing your nose wrinkle in frustration and your eyes narrow with impatience, let alone hear the words coming out of your mouth, dripping with venom and irritation directed at him. he's never been used to being on the receiving end.
it tastes sour; bitter on his tongue in a way he's never been accustomed to. his tastebuds only recognize the sweet taste of fruit syrup, powdered sugar, or warm chocolate as home; he never indulges in the bitter, like the black coffee the kid he took in seems to like so much. but he'll take the silly sour lemon drops with sweet cream in the center, only because they remind him of you. you, so sweet when you love but sour when you're annoyed, which happens to be now, in this instant.
of course, he'll tell himself he doesn't mind. that sweet and sour have always gone nicely together. like strawberry lemonade on hot summer afternoons when the both of you have had enough of being stuffed into a clammy hot classroom with your musclebrain teacher. sometimes its the three of you, maybe even the four of you if you get lucky with the pixie stick trade offering (a healthier alternative to a cigarette, you both agreed on). but nowadays, it was only ever the two of you. the bitter had chosen his own path, and tangy was locked up in the infirmary sun up to sun down.
but right now, you're upset with him. and he absolutely despises it— to him, it's abhorrent. a strong word, but it's only fitting. but he can't help it when your conversation lingers in his mind, spinning itself a web of self-doubt and hurt and anger as he slips his gym shoes off and redresses himself by the school lockers, running a hand through his hair with a forced, annoyed exhale.
it was nothing big, really. or at least, that's what he thinks. you'd been in the gym after school, watching as he messed around with the basketball, seeing how long he could go dribbling by himself with a bump of his knee there, pushing it to the floor with his hand and watching it bounce back up with mild interest. he had no one to play with, but at least the ball would come back up no matter how much he pushed it down.
it was small. barely worth fussing over.
he had already been irritated. it was hot out, because summer was coming around. sweat beaded on his neck and rolled down his chest, seeping into his shirt as he wiped his forehead and made another shoot at the hoop, landing back on his feet with a soft thud as the basketball rattled around the rusted metal ring and fell through the net for the nth time that afternoon.
a hum of approval comes from your throat, followed by a loud whistle of contentment from him as he watches the ball bounce on the floor. he hikes his sunglasses up his forehead, bringing an arm up and wiping away the sweat on his cheek with his sleeve as he turns to look at you.
"that was pretty good, yeah? i think i deserve a celebratory smooch. lay some sugar on me, momma'." he laughs, loud and arrogant. you just give him a pointed look at that, but he ignores it as a sign for something wrong and only acknowledges it as your dramatic endearment. like speeding up at the sight of a yellow light in hopes that you'll make it instead of slowing down at the warning.
his shoes made squeaking sounds on the gym floor as he made his way over to you, swiping his shades off his face and sliding them onto your forehead, nestling in your hair as he grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped the sweat from his jaw. you have his uniform jacket on your lap, the yellow button glinting in the dying sunlight filtering in through the windows, reflecting off indiscernible flecks of dust in the air.
you had watched him with quiet contentment, observing the languid way he moved, graceful like a dancer moving in water. but then, you seemed to remember something; his lips pressed into a thin line, tilted to one side in anticipation. it made you hesitate— he always knew when you were about to speak before you even opened your mouth. he had come to notice, and appreciate, little things about you like that.
"were you smoking with shoko?" you had asked him. he tilted his head, eyebrow cocked up as he made a face. "no, i wasn't. why d'ya ask?" he huffed, watching from the corner of his eye with mild disinterest as the basketball, still rolling from his previous goal, bumped into the wall. cocky as ever.
(he wouldn't even look you in the eye when you were being dead serious.)
you reach a hand into his jacket, fishing around for something in his pocket; that gets his attention. who knows what trinkets and candy wrappers he has in there? and he'd hate for you to send him to his yearly checkup early again; the nurses always try to coddle him, and he has half a mind to charge for battery. nevertheless, he almost mistakes what you pull out for a lollipop stick. but it's not— it's a cigarette; a white papery hit of cancer with a dead cherry. certainly not a wise idea to keep that in his pocket among the other very flammable wax wrappers and the occasional flower petal, but who were you to judge? you, who's lips pucker like they've just tasted lemon juice when he eyes the unlit cigarette, utterly unamused.
he knows that you know it's his; the subtle glistening of pink around the end points to the gloss on his lips; he can practically taste it on his tongue. he wonders if you'd put the cigarette to your mouth too if you could have a sample of his lipgloss; then again, you could always just ask for a lip-to-lip taste, and he'd indulge you without a second thought.
you twist the cigarette butt between your fingers so that he can see the remnants of faint strawberry pink on the edges. he just rolls his eyes with a loud huff, leaning his weight back on his heels and shoving his hands in his pant pockets.
"yeesh. you're such a goody two shoes, y'know? how come shoko's allowed to smoke 'n i'm not?" he drawls, an arrogant lilt to his voice as he sticks his lower lip out. you can see a matte spot where the gloss had been transferred to the cigarette paper. you just sigh exasperatedly (he feels like a kid when you do that) and lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees. his jacket bunches up in your lap.
you tap the cigarette to his chest a few times; it makes a soft thumping sound against the fabric, and for a moment he's grateful of the noise; it sounds just like the way his heartbeat picks up with each touch, but you don't hear it. he wonders if you ever will. maybe one day, when there isn't so much distance between you and he has the opportunity to tuck your head to his chest, right over his heart.
"it's not that i care about the lung damage, idiot. why were you smoking?" you asked, voice softening. and he absolutely hates when you do that, because it always pulls on his heartstrings and brings a flush to his face, the way you treat him. he thought that if you did it enough, he'd be sent to the doctor for heart palpitations instead of a sweet tooth.
he doesn't answer you at that. how could he tell you, when he knew all that'd result from it was a thorn in his side? you, being the rose. so beautiful but awfully prickly and unfairly sour like a lemondrop with a sweet inside. then again, he'd much rather have your interrogating care than lose you, like what had happened with the reason he was trying out smoking in the first place.
then, it happened— your voice went unbearably soft, like puffy white covers and featherlight pillows with silk covers on a saturday morning, looking out the window to see pink tulips against a cloudy blue sky as the sun streamed in. it almost made him want to clutch your hand over his chest and see if you could feel the way he was reacting. no doubt, it was filled with such patient tenderness; all-encompassing sweetness it made him want to cry. so he coughed to cover it up, averting his gaze and bringing one hand to his face to absentmindedly smooth down the strands of damp white hair hanging over his eyes.
"thinkin' about suguru again, are you?" you asked gently, tucking the cigarette back into your pocket—yours, not his—and reaching out to take his hand.
his lips parted ever so slightly, gaping like a goldfish. he knew he looked silly, and he should've been okay with that— because being vulnerable with you, out of everyone he ever knew (with maybe the exception of one) was easier than breathing; came more naturally to him than his gravitation to a challenge. the same could be said for sweets.
(maybe he'd have to re-evaluate his proclaimed taste, then. since you were more sour than sweet.)
but this time, he wasn't okay with it. it had been hard to talk about what had happened with suguru one year ago since— it formed a nasty lump in his throat, bitter like black coffee and the wrong mix of herbs. it made him feel weak. reminding him of his shortcomings, which, in his mind, shouldn't even exist in the first place. but you never had a problem ripping his problems from the shielded cavity in his gut, bringing them under the operator's light to dissect and solve like a surgeon. forget about forcing him to the doctor's— at this point, you should be the one in the white coat, not shoko. he thinks about what you'd look like with blue gloves on your delicate fingers for a moment too long.
"what's it to you?" he snaps back after what feels like three years of his life. his fingers tighten around yours for a moment before he pulls his hand away abruptly.
the frown that lingered on your face from then on had been burned into his memory.
and, well, that was his mistake. it spiraled from there— because he knew what it was to you, and he hated that. hated that you could see straight through him like a cloud blue stained glass window; without rose colored lenses like the ones he always wore (the ones he rocked, he thinks).
a crack of thunder overhead jolts him from his thoughts; he couldn't even get in there to dust the spiderwebs away before being jerked back into reality. he clicks his tongue in disappointment, watching as the skies pry themselves open and rain begin to fall in the way it only did over heavy summer showers. he wishes the sky would stop its weeping, but even the strongest has his limitations.
but it doesn't matter. he has one of those cheap plastic umbrellas he'd bought from a convenience store one day in a late march many moons ago, during the brightest blue spring of his life. and so, he didn't understand why he was lingering at the door, swinging the umbrella around his fingers by the hook on the handle, watching as the rain fell with increased fervor. there was no plastic button to keep the folds tied up, so it floundered around with each swing like a tulip bent by monsoon winds. maybe on the coast of some faraway land with windmills and fields of flowers. he wonders if he'll ever get to see the world with you someday— a fleeting thought that crumbles instantly when he conjures your pretty face in his vision, clear yet distorted like a reflection on a glazed pond, rippling water from the dragonflies that skipped over the surface.
you were definitely still angry with him, because you hadn't showed— normally, you'd walk home together. sometimes with shoko, if she didn't leave early. angry words echo in his mind, the image of your downturned lips swimming in his bright vision as he watches the rain streak down the window panes by the lockers. there's a fog settling over the grass outside that's sure to leave dew after the storm. he wonders when that'll be.
"why can't you ever take me seriously? can't you see i'm worried about you?"
"of course i can. but i don't need your damn concern!”
...
he'd been sorely mistaken, that was for sure. loosing his cool and snapping at you wasn't exactly something he took pleasure in, either way. he leans back on his heels, tapping his foot impatiently as he holds the umbrella like a cane against the floor. infinity could probably do away with the rain. another reason as to why he's not even sure why he's waiting here, or why he's holding an umbrella. perhaps to keep in case he has to offer it to some poor, shivering and cowering young maiden lost beneath the shading of a bus stop behind a curtain of rain droplets, with a charming grin and a wink.
maybe.
a shuffle behind him catches his ear; he turns his head, an unamused expression on his face as his eyes drift over the empty room to land on you. the shadows beneath your eyes are prominent, and your hair is unkempt. there are sleep lines on your face; you probably fell asleep in a classroom somewhere, which is why you delayed.
it was evident you weren't expecting to see him, though— with the way your eyes widened a little before they dropped again, nose bridge wrinkling slightly as if you'd caught the scent of something unpleasant. your eyes left his, and he felt a little disappointed as he watched them wander toward the window, where the current downpour was prominent. he didn't like the way it made his chest pang when your attention was anywhere but him, so he raised his hand lazily, tilting his head to catch your attention that he so clearly craved.
"yo. got an umbrella?" he calls, tapping the tip of his budget cane on the floor. the thud is the only sound for a while as your gaze wanders back over to him; reluctant.
"no, i don't. i didn't expect it to rain so hard today." you responded quietly, stepping over to him with a small sigh. almost a little resigned, he thinks. he can't be sure, though. he never is with you. doesn't know whether to expect his candy to be sour in the center or the other way around; but maybe he likes a bit of uncertainty every once in a while. (not with you, though. if it means arguing? never with you.)
his sunglasses are hooked around the collar of your shirt. he doesn't know why it takes him so long to realize, but when he does, he has to clear his throat in an effort to hide the heat on his face and do away with the blush. "here. take mine. i don't need it," he says curtly, offering his umbrella to you. he wants to snatch the shades from your shirt, but he doesn't want anything to go wrong, so he just eyes them warily, careful not to let his gaze slip past into anything you'd be pissed at him for.
you eye him, eyes narrowed as you raise an eyebrow, but you don't protest. your fingers brush against his for a brief moment when you take it, shaking it a little before opening the door and stepping outside, opening it up. it looks like a little clear plastic mushroom cap over your head; you're short enough to constitute as the stalk in his eyes. it's a little funny, but he has to stifle the laugh bubbling on his tongue lest you think he's making a mock of you.
he follows after you, slipping past to stand at your side with his hands in his pockets. you can't help but feel a little curious despite your prolonged anger (you like holding grudges, he knows), so you sneak a glance upward to satiate your wonder. you don't expect him to look as breathtaking as he does.
the clouds are light overhead; they're not a heavy blanket of gray anymore, and a small strip of light manages to push through, shining on satoru's pale white hair. you can make out the edge of his undercut against his neck when the wind picks up a little, the color of fluffy white clouds on a lavender sunset with the sway of yellow flowers beneath an expanse of a bright sky. there's a little cat hair on the collar of his jacket; you realize with a faint flush that it must've been from when you were holding his jacket for him in the gym. somehow, the cat you have at home found its way to satoru. you hope your pet has become a matchmaking fortune teller, for the sake of your happiness.
what catches your eye the most, though, isn't the cat hair on his dark jacket or the faraway look in his misty blue eyes; it's the outline of rain water around him, a product of his infinity, you realize. he's dry underneath the downpour, and it never ceases to amaze you. it's like there's a soft glowing halo against the backdrop of tangled wires, gray walls and pale green bushes— he looks like an angel boy, school bag hooked and hanging over one shoulder.
eventually, you manage to peel your gaze away, and he notices— looks down at you, pressing his lips together and running his tongue over them. he can taste strawberry gloss.
wordlessly, you start walking. and he follows suit, rain bouncing off of him; you catch yourself sneaking glances from under the roof of your clear umbrella between raindrops that slide down the clear plastic. sometime during the walk home, he had gone off and gotten himself a drink from a nearby vending machine— the red can catches your eye, and your fingers curl around the rubber handle of the lent umbrella as you watch him drink; the bob of his adam's apple before he crushes the can up and tosses it into a nearby bush, causing a brief scattering of leaves and a downpour of collecting droplets onto the pavement.
despite the rain, the weeds between the cracks in the sidewalk still stay strong; they have deep roots. much like the way you never fail to scowl at him for littering. he catches it— of course he does. he's been praying for a sign you're not still so hopelessly angry with him that you can't even bring yourself to have a civil walk in the summer rain together. after the scowl, though, comes the smile— the one that always makes him melt in his shoes, much like the sunshine after the rain.
and there it is at last, he thinks. the hard sour coating melts away on his tongue, draining the taste of lemon to reveal a sweet, genuine center. all it takes is time. your lips curve up, and you duck your head, hiding the small bemused laugh that leaves you breathless.
"what are you laughin' at?" he huffs, glaring down at you. but there's no malice behind it— if only you could feel the wave of relief that's washed over him, a crest of white foam that leaves behind still waters reflected in the pools of sapphire in his eyes. nothing like the hit of numbing nicotine he'd shared in the shade of an alleyway with shoko earlier that day— away from the sun; away from you. hidden from both. or maybe they were the same— to him, he couldn't differentiate.
"i'm not laughing!" you protested weakly, immediately wiping the grin from your lips, and he regrets speaking up. "just.. i dunno."
you walk in silence for a little longer, content to listen to the rain lighten up overhead. satoru kicks a plastic onigiri wrapper out of the way, splashing up a puddle as a frown dampens his face when the wrapping only clings to his shoes. he's fine with getting a little grumpy if it means seeing you smile again. and even better, you laugh again— so sweet, like the chiming of bells in the wind's melody.
"please don't do that again." your voice sounds so very small when he hears it again, and he looks down at you from beneath long white lashes, the corner of his lips quirked up. the shape of them is almost cat-like, you think. he doesn't even know what you're talking about— a vague idea, at best— but he won't do it. not if it means hearing you sound so pathetically... sad. he doesn't like it. it's far too bitter for his taste. let the black betta you both used to know indulge in dark coffee and bitter cologne— satoru likes things sweet, like the cream surrounded by tea leaf matcha in the center of his mochi and fluttering feeling he gets when you run your hands through his hair, fluffing it up to your heart's content.
(as long as your heart is happy, his is, too.)
"i won't. happy now?" he sticks his tongue out, making a face. but you both know he means it— he hates breaking his promises to you. you smile when you look up at him again with a small nod, and he feels his knees wobble a little. he just hopes you don't notice. "sorry for lying. i just.. don't like it when you're mad at me. and you look at me like that," he mumbles under his breath, bunching up the fabric of his pants between his fingers. then, after a moment, "geez, you're so dramatic. quit carin' so much." he really hopes you don't stop, and it makes him feel like the world's biggest hypocrite. the strongest, but so weak for you.
"sorry, can't. the day you stop crushing your soda cans and littering is the day i'll stop caring, 'cus that won't be my satoru anymore." you tease. and he laughs, throwing his head back so you don't see the red that spreads across his cheeks, dusting his skin like powdered sugar on top of a strawberry crepe. he always wants to be your satoru, so he figures he'll keep littering. a few money fines here and there mean nothing to his undentable wallet, or the erratic beating of his heart, trapped against his ribcage in a feathery blooming of flowers he only gets from you and your pretty smile underneath the layer of lemony sourness.
you walk along the road for a little while longer. the rain has lightened, but it's still going— incessant, dripping from the leaves of trees and the knotted black wires overhead. he still has his infinity up, which means he can't pet the cat the two of you spot on your way back, but he's perfectly content to watch you do it. you scratch its chin, smiling at the way it purrs and nuzzles into your hand, and he wonders if he'd do the same if he was in its position.
he's lost in thought when you speak to him again, shoes splashing against murky puddles in the backdrop of a never-sleeping city; tokyo's bright skyline always makes your eyes go round with wonder. you say something, and he chuckles, warm and velvety. and then you realize what's been off with him this whole time— he doesn't have his shades on.
you slip them off the collar of your shirt, smoothing down the fabric before you reach over and attempt to nudge his arm. you don't think it'll work, because he still has his infinity up— and your sleeves are already getting spattered by rain that leaves darkened wet spots on the cotton. but to your amazement, your fingers make contact with his sleeve, and you watch in wonder as the rain actually falls— soaks into that little patch of wet fabric that you're able to feel on his arm. that he's turned his infinity off in that one spot so you could touch him. you spare a glance up at him, only to find his head angled away from you. you might be hallucinating, but the tips of his ears seem red.
you don't linger on it before you're tugging on his shirt with a frown, getting him to look down at you as you unfold his glasses and offer them over to him. he takes them quickly, and you don't miss the way the rain stops falling onto his arm again, back to bouncing off the invisible shield that protects him from everything (but you, it seems). he slips his dark shades back over his eyes, obscuring oceans of pure blue that seem like they've trickled in from the purest snowcaps on the distant mountains dotted with old red tori gates and shrines with scrapped paint. but you can't stifle the smile that spreads across your lips this time— giddy and fresh and filled with youth, blossoming like sakura petals in a spring that seems so far away yet so close with his presence by your side.
you don't say anything for a while. you're content to watch the rain wash down the pavement and into the gutters, past cute little coffee shops and parks with ponds as the droplets from the sky scatter the water in part of a never-ending cycle; watering the surface of the earth and bringing life that would soon spring up as shroomcaps and fresh dew on the clean cut green grass. you wonder what satoru sees through his lenses— though, you already know. you've worn them plenty of times before, when he insists on having your perfume cling to the frame for long missions he's sent on alone, when he can't have you hold his jacket, or his hand, or scold him for sneaking a smoke when you're not watching. that, and the extra lemondrops he keeps in his pocket; gifts from you that he's fought hard for.
you're more prepared to not feel any interference of his infinity this time when you reach over, and this time you don't go for his sleeve—yanking him close to you by his hand and forcing him beneath your umbrella. you feel the way he freezes up for a moment, but his fingers fill in the gaps between your own like its the most natural thing in the world, palms pressed together in a little breathless hug that leaves no room for the humid air.
"don't waste your infinity on the rain, dumbass. you'll fry what little is left of your brain." you scold him, and he just grumbles and scoffs angrily under his breath, cursing you as he hunches over and ducks his head to fit under the umbrella to negate his height. his hair brushes against the plastic roof of the umbrella, and his lanky limbs are still awkwardly sticking out, but his fingers tighten around yours and his thumb rubs over your knuckles, still a little damp from your earlier encounter with the rain, and you can't help but smile a smile bright enough to wash away every last bit of cloud in the sky. his personal sunshine.
even though he still prefers sweet things, satoru's come to like the taste of lemondrops. sweet and sour go well together, after all. just like you and him.
its okay if it doesnt taste like anything to u as long as u enjoyed it :) thanks for reading !! the black betta in question is suguru btw my (riaki) stuff. don't repost and/or plagiarize !
Gojo Satoru.
(that's all I have to say)
mhm
I want my baby back; I wanna love him, hug him, take care of him, give him all tge forehead kisses and cuddles he wants. IS THAT SO MUCH TO ASK. I WANT TO KEEP HIM ALIVE, I DON'T CARE IF HE'S DEAD!
Rain
Pairing: Junpei Yoshino x F!Reader
Summary: Having a crush on someone who's so popular, it feels impossible to make that person love me back. But an accident confession changed my mind.
Wc: 870 words
One-shot with Junpei :)
Today is the same. Getting bullied, punched, kicked... ah, I can't even think of the rest of it. It's already gotten to the point where the teacher doesn't care about it anymore.
I felt dizzy. My vision was still blurred with dirt and tears. All the bruises and wounds are still hurting. What did the teacher say again? I couldn't hear it.
"That's for today. Get home safely and finish your assignments." I heard the teacher say when I came back to my senses. The bell is ringing. It's time to go home. Let's get this over with and-
"Jun, come follow me."
"Huh?" I hear a familiar voice calling me. 'Jun' is a nickname that only someone gave to me. It can't be her...
"Let's go!" She takes my hand. Dragging me along to follow her. So it's really her.
While walking down the hallway, I can't help but feel people glaring at us. 'Why would she want to be with him?' or 'Those pretty hands will get filthy because of that trash.' I want to let go of her hand, but as if she knows, she's just holding it tighter and whispering, 'it's okay.'
I was wondering where she would take me, but it was answered when we were in front of the infirmary door.
"W-why are we here?".
It's impossible if she wants to treat my bruises and wounds. She's a popular student who has plenty of guys crazy about her. Gifts, love letters, and confessions are already like daily life for her. I know that deep down, I love her too. But I can't. I already know how it's going to end. Why would a school beauty, want to be with an outcast like me?.
So why...?
"Come sit here and let's get your wounds treated," she said softly. "The nurse isn't here, so I'll do it for you."
While she is doing it, she looks so focused. Every touch is as if I was made out of glass or something that needed to be handled with extra care. I can't help but feel heat rising in my cheeks and ears.
Ah, this little gesture makes me fall more in love with her.
After cleaning all the supplies she used to treat me, she closed the door and joined me in the hallway.
The hallway only echoed our footsteps. I glanced up at the window. I knew it was going to rain as the weather forecast said this morning. Luckily, I brought an umbrella.
And I was right; it was already raining by the time we made it to the front door.
"Ah, it's raining." She's smiling, watching as the water droplets hit the ground. "I forgot to bring my umbrella. How clumsy of me.".
I changed my mind. It's not every day I get to spend a quiet day with her like this, right?.
"Yeah, they're relaxing."
We watched the rain for some time. By the time I take a side glance at her, her face is peaceful.
"I love you" I said it quietly, hoping that she wouldn't hear me.
"I know," she says, chuckling. " I love you too, Jun.".
I froze in place. Did I hear it right? She loves me back? Is this a dream?.
.
"Jun, you were dozing off" Her face was just an inch in front of me. I can even feel her hot breath.
"b-but" I can feel the heat in my cheeks, and my heartbeat goes faster.
"It's hard to believe, eh? What, do you think i didn't notice the way you looked, talked, or treated me?".
"Oh..." I burried my face in my palm. i was too obvious. Why didn't I think before acting? Stupid, stupid, stupid... i'm so stupid .
"Woah there, don't hide your face from me, pretty boy." She said while grabbing my palm to take a look at my face. "Look at you, looking so beautiful but wanting to hide it from me." She gives me a seductive smile. "I'm not beautiful, i'm just some trash that--" She places a finger in my lips to shut me up. I just gave her a sigh before gently pushing her finger away and showing her my scar on the forehead.
"Look," She was quiet for a moment. I'm sure she will change her mind now.
"It doesn't change anything. Whatever happens, past or future, you'll always be Jun, who I fall in love with. " She traces a finger over my scars, It's just some soft touch as she was afraid to hurt me.
I felt some tears fall from my eyes. But it's not the same as this morning,
It's tears of happiness.
She gently wiped them away and gave me a reassuring smile before turning her focus back to the rain again.
"Let's go on a date tomorrow. We're going to see a movie together." She said it as she interwined her fingers with mine, without looking at me.
Dear Rain,
Can I be a little selfish?
Could you last a little longer?
jurassic world: rebirth
when will i see any fics with jonathan bailey???
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