that single comment haunted him up until this very day... because, shit, yeah, you did mark him up, didn't you? he didn't ever plan to get tatted by anyone else except you; your work is absolutely beautiful, and he gets to be in your company for hours. damn, that did something to him, because now every time he looks at his tattoos, he thinks of you.

he's ashamed at how many times he spilled himself into his hand that night with a muffled moan of your name.

"you with me, blondie? want me to keep going?"

it took him a moment to realize he got lost in his thoughts for a bit, his breathing finally under control. he nodded rapidly, tongue swiping over his bottom lip as he runs a hand through his hair.

"y...yeah," he's out of breath, he doesn't even know why, "just...was a lot for a second. you're all good now, 'm usually not this sensitive."

"mm, you sure?"

your hand ran over his side, a gesture meant to soothe him, but it just makes him suck in a breath, his head tipping back on the chair. you're mesmerized, a soft smile on your face as you watched his abs move and ripple under your touch, biting your tongue as you watch the conflict flicker across his face.

he's so cute.

your eyes dip down and you see it, the heavy outline of his dick filled out against his leg in his sweats. as if sensing you looking at it, it gives a cute little jump under the fabric as if saying "look at me, hi, hey, look at me!"

he's so, so cute.

you gave a little shrug, drifting back down to where you paused tattooing. "if you say so, big guy. let's get back to it, and don't forget..." the way your eyes seemed to practically glow as you leaned in close, adjusting your grip on the tattoo gun feels dangerous, looking up at him through your lashes. "you can tap out for a break, 'm not mean, jin. i don't wanna break you yet."

it's embarrassing how he whined when the tip of your tattoo gun touches his skin again, barely covered by the hum of the machine. each movement of your hand was purposeful, the lines clean, steady, perfect.

as you traced over the outline of the stencil transfer, your thumb on your free hand traced slow, unconscious circles on his side. the tiny gesture meant to be soothing was dangerous, intimate, and infuriatingly arousing.

enjin was so fucking relieved you were currently focused on what you were doing, and not on his face. he didn't need you to see his eyes flutter shut, the faint pink tinge on his cheeks and ears, the way his teeth dug into his bottom lip. if you could, you'd be teasing the hell out of him, looking so disheveled over a simple tattoo.

but none of that fucking mattered when his dick was right in your face trying to say hello.

"easy, big guy," you purred, god, you sound so good when you talk to him in that low, calm voice when you really get into the zone and, shit, are you talking to him or his dick right now, he's so screwed, backing off a moment to wipe off the bit of ink and blood on his skin. "you keep that grip up on my chair, and you'll rip the armrest off."

embarrassed, he lightened up his grip, not realizing he was digging his nails into it. "sorry, doll, getting lost in thought," he muttered, sighing deeply to try and get his shit together. no, seriously. he needed to get his shit together, you were only on the outline and he was already dying.

"mhm? some thoughts those must be."

it's back to silence, a few deep breaths and he felt…better, calmer. the music in the background helped distract him more, fingers tapping against the armrest of you continued to work in smooth movements, getting back into the zone once you felt him relax back into the chair.

you adjusted your hands once you got to the smaller circles, bracing the free one right on his hip to stabilize yourself better. your hand is so soft, so warm—no, so hot, burning against his skin, unless it was just him? fuck, he couldn't tell, all he knows is you were burning him in the best way possible with your hands.

as you worked, you could feel how his body twitched under his touch, giving a teasing little squeeze as you worked the needle around the curves of the design. you were so focused on the ink and how the black pigment settled into his skin, eyes sharp with intense concentration. but your mind was absolutely swimming with messy, perverted thoughts…none that you were ashamed of either.

you knew what kind of client enjin was. you knew how he usually took ink, and this?

this was different.

this wasn't your usual, talkative, loudly laughing, fake-crying client who couldn't get enough of freaking you out when he fake gasped to make you think you messed up.

no, he was quiet.

so, so quiet.

and the clear visual of his dick print in his sweatpants gave away why he was quiet, sure, but seeing the actual behavioral change, the fact that you could practically smell his arousal mixing with that intoxicating combination of his cologne and the cigarette he had before he sat in your chair was making your head swim.

so who can blame you when you get a chance like this to tease the guy who usually does the teasing and poking? of course you're gonna take full advantage of it.

and he noticed.

you were taking your sweet time, humming to the song playing on the speakers as you continued moving the needle with that practiced precision and overwhelming confidence, eyes taking note of every little reaction he gave with each pass of the machine.

when you began outlining one of the bottom two circles of the design that was more on his pelvis than stomach, you couldn't stop yourself from cooing at the small, choked moan that escaped him, your eyes immediately darting to his face as you lifted the tattoo gun from his skin.

"mm? yeah? right there? sensitive, isn't it?"

that tone in your voice, that teasing, cooing tone…

the shift in the air is palpable, the semi-professional, playful atmosphere has completely evaporated, now replaced by something heavy, thick, and hot.

your eyes flicker to the spot you just touched with your tattoo gun, humming with a tilt of your head before shutting it off and setting it to the side.

"enjin, as your favorite artist, you're getting a mandated break."

picking up the gauze again, you wiped the area you just worked on, touch lingering longer than it needed to be, and much firmer against the sensitive skin, causing him to groan, his hips lifting off the chair just a little bit.

"you're cruel, boo," he hissed, looking at you with hungry, lidded eyes. "so, so fucking cruel."

when you giggle, he has to bite back another noise, the sound shooting right to his dick. this must be some kind of test, some test of willpower. did one of his friends put you up to this? some bet of 'hey, let's see how long it takes for enjin to finally pop a stiffy when getting tattooed by his super hot artist friend'?

"i'm the cruel one? really? when you're the one that's hard as fuck right in front of my face?" your gloved hand grips him through his sweatpants, and he swears he's died and gone to heaven, a stuttered 'oh my god' rushing out of him. you're actually touching him, yeah, through clothes, but fuck, you're touching him.

his attention is dragged back to you when you click your tongue, tilting your head in that infuriatingly cute manner. "how am I supposed to focus, huh? literally your dick is throbbing in my face while i'm touching you, jin."

with a laugh, you start slipping off your gloves, eyes trailing all over his body, all over the black and red ink swirling across his skin, your work, your mark, before falling back to between his legs.

"you gonna be good for me, right, enjin?" you don't look at him, gloves in the trash before you pushed away your rolling cart with your tools on it, giving yourself space to move closer.

he didn't expect you to start tugging his sweats and boxers down, commanding him to lift his hips a bit with a little 'c'mon, hon, up,' before pulling them down enough for his cock to pop right out, tip already sticky and wet from pre-cum.

"oh, jin…" that soft, cooing tone only makes the whole thing worse, a thick spurt shooting out of his tip and all he could do was groan in embarrassment. "s-stop talking to me like tha—aaah, fuck meee…"

you couldn't help yourself, hand wrapping around his impressive length and giving a little squeeze around the base. nice and thick, heavy in your hand too, with the prettiest happy trail that ended where his waistband was. sweet thing, shaved a bit of the top off for you to have easier access to smooth skin for his ink.

using your other hand, you trailed little circles into his tip, absolutely in awe at how hard he was, the head was flushed an angry red and he just wouldn't stop spilling pre all down his shaft.

"jin, you should've said something," you murmured, pout on your lips as you wrap around hands around his cock and start pumping slowly, using the precum to ease the glide. "didn't know you were this hard, we could've taken a break, it looks like it hurts…"

each stroke you give him is slick, you palm dragging over his length sinfully. he chokes on your name, bucking up into your hand when your thumb brushes over his tip to spread more of his precum.

"f-fuck, baby, you're k-killing me—" "shh, jin, keep your hips down for me, baby, jus' like that, i got you."

just hearing you say that nearly makes him black out, one of his arms thrown over his eyes while the other grips the arm rest for dear life, uncaring of how the fabric squeaks under his digits.

you talk so sweet, but you're mean, so fucking mean to him with how you grip him tight in your hands before pausing to drag your thumb right over the underside of his cock head.

he tries to keep his hips still, he really does, but that's just cruel. a noise that sounds like a mix of a choked groan and a whimper pours out of him as his hips spasm upward, desperately chasing the pleasure your insanely hot and insanely soft hands are giving him.

but he's immediately jolted back into reality when one of your hands drags down the sensitive skin on his side, nails scratching him and leaving behind pretty, red lines that you know he's going to be staring at in the mirror for hours later.

"down, 'jin, don't make me say it again, be good for me, before i make you sit like this while i finish your fucking tattoo," you hiss, and he knows you're serious, he knows you'll do it.

"y-yeah, yes ma'am, sorry, i got it, fuck, 'm sorry," he moans, voice guttural and strained as he moves his arm to watch how you touch him, eyes fluttering from the sheer pleasure you're giving him.

the wet schlick, schlick, schlick of your hands only serves to make the burning heat between your thighs grow stronger, because he's this wet just from his own precum. it's so nasty, so pathetic of your usually cocky client, but it only makes you wetter to realize he's like this because of you.

"all worked up like this from me putting my mark on you…you're so cute, enjin," you sigh dreamily, hand around his dick speeding up.

you want to see him fall apart, want to see him break for you, knowing that he trusts you enough to do his tattoos, to create permanent art on his body, to use him as your own personal canvas…and knowing he trusts you enough to touch him like this.

it's something you could get high off.

he's twitching in your hand, and you bite your lip every time you see him hold back, doing his best to keep his hips still just like you asked, like he's trying to be good for you.

"s-shit, i can't, fuck, 'm gonna cum too fucking fast," he whimpers, head falling back onto the chair, "you're hands are t'soft, doll, christ, please, gonna make me cum—!"

he's so gone for you, it's absolutely adorable.

with a soothing shush, you only speed up your hand, the one on his side sliding down to swirl circles into his tip with your thumb, loving the way he nearly screams your name from the onslaught of pleasure.

"mhmm? you're so pretty like this, jin…c'mon, make a mess for me, lemme see how much you like when i mark you up with my art. cum for me, enjin."

but right as he's about to cum, make a mess of your hand and himself, your brain realizes something once your eyes latch onto the sight of his abs flexing as he starts babbling your name…you can't let him cum like this, or else he's gonna get cum all over his fucking raw, unfinished tattoo.

you move so fast he barely can process anything except the wet, hotness around the tip of his dick, before blinking to realize you've popped the tip inside your mouth.

"o-oh, shit—"

his hands are in your hair, pushing you down half way on his cock, moaning pathetically into the air when he feels you choke, throat spasming around the unexpected intrusion as he finally, finally spills himself inside your warm mouth. he pumps out hot, thick ropes as those choked groans continue with each pulse

"thank you, thank you, thank you, oh my god, you're s'fucking good to me, babyyy—"

after the last throb of his cock, he falls limp, a heavy breath leaving the poor guy as he tries to regain his senses. you actually might've made him get a glimpse of what heaven was like, and he doesn't know how he's supposed to continue living on this mortal plane .

he's absolutely fucked.

when you pull off him after a little struggle to swallow the cum that flooded your mouth, you immediately cough, taking a second to recover. you knew he'd probably push you down a bit, but fuck, he's thicker than you realized.

"g-god, jin, you almost killed me with that thing, be careful," you joke, wiping at your mouth as you look up at him, expecting him to still be a little fucked out and regaining this thoughts.

but he's sitting up, eyes wide as he stares at you. "i'm okay, don't worry, just wasn't expecting—"

"you swallowed it."

"…huh?"

his hand grips your wrist tightly, pulling you closer until you both are practically sharing the same air.

"open your mouth."

you don't even get a chance to pull open it before he's doing it for you by shoving his fingers in your mouth, other hand tugging on your tongue as he literally inspects your mouth, uncaring of how your drool is coating his fingers, starting to drip down his wrist. he snaps out of it when you whine, eyes a bit glassy as you look at him with pinched brows.

now you're the one who's flustered and fuzzy brained.

"holy fuck…you swallowed my cum, all of it, just like that? shit, baby girl, c'mere."

he's pulling you into a deep kiss, not hesitating to take advantage of your stunned state to slip his tongue inside, wet little smacks from each time he pulls away just to dive right back in.

the taste of you is sinful, the faint sweetness of your bubblegum you threw out still lingering, and he can taste the saltiness of his cum still lingering in your mouth.

pulling away just enough to breathe, he's staring deep into your eyes, that pathetic, neediness gone and replaced by a deep, burning hunger, mouth curling into a sadistic little snarl.

"either you wrap up this tattoo for me, or we're gonna see how fast i can get an infected tattoo by fucking you on this damn chair."

you swallow thickly with a nod, reaching for your materials so he doesn't fuck up your hard work…well, what little of it there is since you didn't even get halfway through…but you can feel his stare burning into you, silently waiting for the second you finish to get his hands on you.

You giggle nervously, your cheeks burning hot as Enjin stares at your bare tits like they're her new favorite toy.

Before you can even think of a comeback, she leans up on her elbows and pulls you closer by the hips. Her mouth finds yours first, a brush of lips that makes your stomach flip. She tastes sweet, cherry gloss and shared cigarettes. She deepens the kiss slowly, testing how shy you really are.

"Mmm, you've been waiting for this," she whispers against your mouth, nipping your bottom lip gently.

You whimper, hands shaky as they land on her shoulders. She takes the opportunity to press her thigh against your bare pussy, making you gasp.

"Ah! Fuck, Enjin, warn a girl..."

She laughs and trails her kisses down your jaw, then lower. Her mouth closes around one of your nipples, sucking soft at first while her tongue swirls. Your back arches without you meaning to, another gasp slipping out. She switches to the other tit, sucking harder this time, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm.

"Your tits are so pretty," she says, pulling back with a wet pop. "I know you wanna fuck but I could just cum from sucking on them."

"Shut up," you mutter, but there's no bite to it. Your pussy is already aching, thighs pressing together.

Enjin just grins wider and flips onto her back, tugging you with her. "C'mere then. I wanna taste how wet you are."

She manhandles you easily, turning you around so your back is facing her. She takes you by the thighs and pushes you until your pussy hovers your face.

"W-wait, I don't want to crush you," you whine, keeping you up with your palms, scared that you might be too much for her.

"Shut up," she mutters, you have your pussy right in front of her face, she can't concentrate like that. "I don't fucking care if you crush me. And your ass and thighs are perfect to grab, so stop bein' annoying and sit."

You take a deep breath and obey here, letting your dripping pussy rest on her face, as well as your body against hers.

You part her thighs so you can see her too. The view is filthy and perfect. Her folds are shiny, big clit peeking out all swollen, just the scent of her makes your mouth water. She grabs your ass with both hands, spreading you open.

"Oh shit," you moan the second her tongue licks a long, slow stripe up your slit. She's not trying to be gentle, she sucks hard on your clit, moaning into you. The vibrations shooting straight through your body as she keeps fucking you with her tongue.

You lean forward, bracing your hands on her thighs and bury your face between her legs. She tastes so fucking good, salty-sweet and warm. You lick her messily at first, exploring, then find her clit and suck it between your lips the way she did to your tits.

Enjin bucks up against your mouth with a muffled groan. "Mmph, your tongue feels soooo good ohmygod ah!"

You never thought she would be this vocal. While you whimper against her, grinding down on her face, she's moaning and babbling whatever thought comes through her mind, mostly praises for your pussy.

"Fuuuck, babe, it's so-ah! good. I love your pussy, oh fuck!" she whines against you.

The room fills with wet, sloppy sounds, both of you moaning and sucking like you can't get enough. Her hands knead your ass, one finger teasing your entrance while she devours you.

"Enjin, please!" you gasp out between licks after she found the perfect spot. "Don't stop, don't stop mmm."

She pulls back just enough to laugh breathlessly, her chin soaked with your juices. "C'mon baby, bet we can cum at the same time."

You do exactly what she says, sucking harder, sliding two fingers into her tight heat while your tongue works her clit. She cries out, the sound vibrating right against your pussy. The two of you cum together, making a mess all over each other just like Enjin said.

a/n: i'm so wet after this

and even worse than the girls that draw hearts around you and sukuna’s staff photos next to eachother in the main office, he’s got gojo. gojo, who ships you two and nags him like worse-than a middle school girl. gojo, who shoves you two together for any school event.

“what game do you have planned for tomorrow?” you ask, leaning over to whisper to sukuna as eighth grade awards are called for each subject, timing claps inbetween your words while names are called. you smirk, “how many kids am i gonna have sent my way next time?”

“just dodgeball.” he leans down to whisper flatly against your ear, still staring down a kid giggling in the seating rows of the auditorium and effectively getting him to stop with his gaze.

“your version of dodgeball is basically to the death, i might have to have paramedics in my room on standby.” you joke, turning to smile at him so sweetly. in his mind, this counts as him making you laugh and therefore counts as a win.

he chuckles lightly, just a quick huff of his chest, but essentially the hardest he can laugh if he’s not looking at a kid getting tackled in class. “these kids will toughen up eventually, i am just teaching them to do it early.”

“were you a weak kid that needed to toughen up? i can really only picture you as a big scary dude.”

“i was actually a severely malnourished child due to my mothers impoverished state during her pregnancy.“ he says, truly not realizing how solemn he sounds in his voice even as he means it as a light hearted jest.

you blink at him, face contorted in confusion and awkwardness. he wants to hit himself.

the only thing that saves him from not saying anything stupid again is the end of the assembly, marked by gojo yelling into a megaphone and for kids to round up by homeroom.

the following week he’s still embarrassed to even look you in the eyes. he’s mulling over how stupid he must’ve looked infront of you while sifting through the equipment closet.

he hears steps echo throughout the currently empty gym before he yells out.

“gojo i’m not covering your lunch break, fuck off—” he turns around to not see the usual suspect he finds during his free period. instead, he sees you, leaning against the door in scrubs and white coat clinging to your body. he stills in his motion.

you speak before he can (if he can speak at all in his embarrassed state).

“i understand the confusion, he bothers me all the time too.” you dismiss, smiling at him with your glossed lips he probably thinks about hourly. waitwaitwait, gojo talks to you all the time ? he’s going to kill that lanky fuck. “just wanted to drop these off for yuri in your next period.” you jostle around a pill bottle in your hand, “she can get fainty on gym days so give these to her just in case to help prevent that.” he knows it’s your job and all, but your concern is honestly kinda cute.

“uhh yeah i’ll be sure to.” he nods, right as you drop the bottle on top of a stack of rubber cones by the door before you walk out. and he would just like it to be known he definitely didn’t stare at your ass as you left.

and he typically makes it easier for himself to deny how down bad he is to you, but now, after you spent a week of saved up sick days out last week, he’s kind of craving your voice. so who can blame him when he calls his 6th grade nephew into his office while he’s supposed to be at lunch.

“look, kid. i’m going to need you to do something, and i’m gonna need you to not be annoying about it, kay?”

yuji furrows his brows, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie.

“you,” he gestures to his nephew, “are going to act like you collapsed and let me bring you up to the school nurse. you are then going to be quiet when i talk to her.”

“is it cause you have a crush on her—”

sukuna tenses before cutting him off.

“do a good job acting and i will consider buying you that human earthworm blu-ray. do you hear me, brat?”

yuji’s eyes light up at the mention of the dvd.

“is this impression good enough then?” yuji leans and clutches at his side in fake fatigue while moaning dramatically for help, then immediately straightens up with a smile like he’s waiting for a rating. sukuna shakes his head and genuinely wonders how he’s related to this—in sukuna’s words— pea brained doofus.

he dials your number on his offices phone, sitting tense in his chair while he shh’s yuji. yuji nods and salutes as sukuna continues to roll his eyes.

yuji could’ve sworn he saw him smile when you pick up. he continues to watch sukuna fiddle with the curled wire of the phone as he explains yuji’s apparently dire situation. he can just barely hear the muffled sound of you saying ‘just bring him up and i’ll check him out.” over the speaker of the phone before sukuna hangs up and fixes his hair.

sukuna walks out the door and desperately tries to ignore yuji’s terrible post fainting impression behind him as his nephew follows his step to your room.

just before they step into your room he whispers to yuji as he leans over.

“if you can bring up me being single i’ll take you out for ice cream, brat.”

The soft music rolled from your barely opened room, the door slightly ajar to the acoustics of a night vastly different from his. This is how you’ve always gotten ready for what you looked forward to: your music playing quietly along your room’s walls as you padded around searching for the best outfit, the best accessories, with the world melting away at your side as if its presence did not matter because it did not matter—you had better things to attend to, better business to make of what glimmers you can adorn for the night.

Jason stayed on the couch holding the burning freeze of the ice pack to his bruised face, eyes closed to the ritual of your symphonic sound. From where he sat, a near distance away from your arm’s reach, it felt as if the warm reddish-pink hues and the melodic jazz of what he assumed to be the used Nina Simone CD you purchased earlier that week forged some barrier, some intangible distance that he dared not cross. The disk spurred on, the delicate fabrics of your closet feathered under your thoughtful gaze (for he can see clearly in his mind’s eye how your brows furrowed in contemplation), and an unspeakable wave crashed over him. It was this overwhelming uproar of desire to hide away in the smallness of his swollen, splitting lip, to disappear into the pooling blood embellishing his skin, to draw the curtains and retreat under the covers—to call if a life and be done with the sorry mess of it all. You a blushing warmth and he a bloodied cold. In some wired entropic experiment played out in this apartment’s stage, it was only logical that he vanished into some corner of this space, into some balconied edge of your life.

The pull towards a smallness grew and settled deep within him, beckoning him like some siren song antithetical to the calming reach your presence from another room provided. Yet, for all the horrors and violences he has faced, for some reason the streak of disappointment that would paint over the glimmer in your eyes, that would sullen your perfect smile and weigh heavy on your orchestral voice—it was all a sight too much for Jason to bear. It would be easier that way, he thought, easier to flee and vacate your home and life, to rid himself of his bloodied apparition that haunts you whether you indulge in that gruesome truth or not. He ruined your night after all—and isn’t that a crime deserving a hefty punishment?

He felt himself sinking into the depth of your couch as his body pillared in refusing the crashing of his mind’s wanderings. Leaving, of course, would make this all easier: climbing out the window he entered routinely from and pushing his body north toward some forsaken safe house scattered around the city, offering him a sham place to rest his tomb of guilt, even if it was for one night. In leaving, sneaking through the front door possibly, he would be spared from your ache and your sullen expression that would overtake your form, and he would avoid shouldering the sole responsibility for this onset of grief at another failed night out together.

Yes, leaving would make this all easier, but what of his life has been easy up to this point? Even getting into a hapless altercation with some jerk that wanted to boulder the risk of hurting him on a night he had already promised to you strayed from his easy task of laying low and out of trouble. Not even loving you has been easy solely because of his own lingerings, his own mind’s temptations naming him villain as you slept peacefully in his arms. Every glance and touch and smile you offered him in those quiet moments of your life shared with him made his heart ache for what kindness had your eyes marked him as, for what damning truth had your soul mischaracterized him for. Your love—gentle as a well-missed summer breeze caressing his being on the turn of autumn’s leaves; beautiful kisses remembered on warm skin—crept so easily into his heart before it was his own faulty wiring that wrenched him small, cornered, and undeserving. Was there, after all, a place for a love this gentle for vanished men? It was a bloody thing, this guilt, and while it was mostly confined to the bruises now blooming along his eyes, lips, and jaw, the guilt had marked him into threaded smallness, some lump craving a disappearance as if it would ease any heartache of yours to come.

He moved from his upright position to lay down on your all-too-small couch, letting his head pillow along the armrest as the rest of his body shrank into the curves and grooves of the worn material. He tried to stay as silent as he could hoping that his stillness would maintain the shining illusion that your night had not been altered. Of course, an enemy to all that which is easy, Jason’s shuffling to find some semblance of comfort in his growing kingdom of small things carelessly knocked over one of your knitted throw pillows, its plush landing onto the floor somehow carried over the jazz harmonies into your room alerting you to his presence.

“Jason?” you called out to him from your room, your voice melodic in its own beautiful, rhythmic cadence—music for his tainted ears. “Is that you?”

“Yeah,” he offered back without hesitation, his voice attempting to masquerade the bruises forming on the terrain of his throat. How he wished to vanish now, to retreat into the crevices of the world and disappear from this disappointment that will mark you. He kept his eyes closed and concealed, unable to witness the pending ruination ticking into reality.

You moved towards him, your footsteps coming closer and closer before the door of your room creaked into its open embrace to the rest of your small apartment.

“Jason? Are you okay?” you questioned as you approached his shrinking form on the couch, one arm tossed over his eyes to hold the barely noticeable ice-pack in place (intentional on his part, hoping that he could conceal the truth as long as possible) while the other rested limp on his torso. You kneeled beside his place on the couch as your hand brushed against his bicep, gently urging him to look at you as if the gesture of your hand resting along his skin alone could melt his defenses and wither the moat he’s hidden himself behind—and, as it has now, it often did. Jason moved his arm from his face, grabbing the ice pack in his slow and labored movement, revealing fully what crimes and mistakes and faults have done upon his features.

You looked at him with a mix of shock and worry with how your posture straightened slightly and your breath hitched briefly, but his mind could only read this as the disappointment he expected the moment he entered the threshold of your apartment. Your brows furrowed as your hands came to hesitate into a caress of his face; your eyes widened, your mouth slightly open to the bruised creature he returned to you as. He couldn’t bring himself to fully look into your eyes, but he knew from how your fluidity and buzzed excitement of the night waned that he had singlehandedly undone you. The waves of his mind and smallness calmed and he knew it akin to the end of time.

“I’m sorry,” Jason remorsefully said, shame clinging to the only string of words that his mind could conjure, that his voice could bear the weight of on his tongue. You looked down at him from your place on the floor, the contact of your divine eyes meeting his was almost too much; the beauty that enveloped you, like some diamond cave glimmering brightly in the depths of some forsaken cave, distracted his mind, stunning him and his heart into a dumbfounded silence. He softly bit his lips, forgetting the injury sustained at its site. The slight taste of blood landed on his tongue, and he confused its rusted salt with love.

He shuffled, freeing himself from your hands’ gentle caress in attempt to sit up as if the position would remedy the guilt weighing heavy on his chest: “I just- I didn’t think. I didn’t expe-”

“Jason,” you said in such kindness that felt unbelonging to him, cutting his stuttered mess of words cleanly in two. Your hands came to rest on his thighs, and his hand—habitually, instinctually, as if destined in its path the way nightly constellations map the season’s sky—came to yours. You continued, grounding and calming, like waterfalls in springtime marshes: “Shut up.”

He needed your firmness, especially in moments like this where his mind taunted him, stretched him into a desire for disappearance. He felt your eyes upon him, the soft blinking of your lashes a lighthouse calling upon his return.

You reached to hold his face once more, “Look at me.”

Following your words like a command meant for some wounded dog devoted solely to your kindness, he did. You appeared to him as divinity, like light withstanding the darkened shadows of Gotham; the beauty you possessed, especially in how you had readied yourself for an evening of unbridled laughter and smiles, a barrier of joy in a city that worked to jostle its stability, was unearthly in its angelic chorus ushering you to him.

Under your gaze, worry draping the corners of your perfected face, he found himself at some crossroad of big and small, of love and guilt. Your hand carefully caressed his bruising wounds, the warmth of your skin against his, uncomfortable at first, melted into the cool in some minute and ancient practice of healing neither of you were aware. He shuddered at your hesitant touch before leaning fully into the love your palm carried.

“Your face is cold.”

“The ice,” his words slurred.

Your fingers traced a path along his bruising blackened eye, almost excavating the ruins of his skin after being pillaged and stormed. You studied him with worry never ceasing against your features, unyielding along your form in contrast to the adornments and style you spent the evening preparing. He ruined not only the night, but you—plaguing your manicured beauty with his ailments and trappings of blood, dirt, and grime.

At the warmth of your gentleness against his cooled skin, it was as if all he can bring you was pain: bloodied knuckles that you would stay awake into the early morning patching up, unsavory gashes to his torso that you would cautiously hold in sleep, split lips that now threaten you with ruin. If loving you was not easy for him, as he rationed in his perverse labyrinthine thinking, loving him had to be a newfound layer of hell—one which his presence here, your hand upon his cheek, had doomed you to.

The call to vanish rose within him again, louder than before as if the shadows inhabiting the darkened corners of your barely illuminated lamp-lit apartment yearned for his disappearance just as much as his cells screamed. But your steady hand stayed firm along his skin beckoning him into visibility, into submission. Your thumb now hesitated along the rust-blood stained contours of his split lip.

“I’m sorry,” Jason started again.

“Don’t.”

“I know you were really looking forward to tonight.”

“Jason.” You said firmly, softness grasping each syllable of his name. You spoke his name like it was a reaffirmation of life and present-ness: a call to look into your eyes, your voice some kind of siren song that doomed him from ever hiding. Your hand rose to move rebellious strands of hair from his face, you as well rising with this gesture to let your hand fully meet the forest of his hair as you moved fluidly to sit beside him on the shrinking couch.

“Who cares,” you continued. “We can order takeout and watch a movie here. I just wanted to spend time with you. That’s all I ever want. I don’t care how.”

Your fingers lightly brushed through his loose locks and Jason felt himself undone. He met your eyes once more, unable to find anything of hatred or disappointment in their diamond-shine, anything that would prove the voice in his head correct. No, instead all that was verily there was a softness you always looked at him with, a profound gentleness that witnessed and made him whole, and not stretched or split at the seams. His head moved, almost out of its own volition, to rest on your shoulder, your hand remaining in the garden of his hair to play at the soft curls, to compose harmonies through the gentle pull of his scalp.

it’s fairly empty when the three of you step foot in through the doors, blue lights illuminating your path inside. the entrance is lined up with tanks featuring all kinds of fish, their scales almost luminescent underneath the dark lights. “no tapping on the glass, you’ll distress the fish,” was the only rule jotaro had to give before letting jolyne run off to one of the tanks.

she’s practically entranced as she looks into the tanks, following the smooth glide of one of the fish from one corner of the tank to the next. “we might have another marine biologist in the family,” you murmur, watching as she reads through the information board next to the tank.

“wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen, would it?” he notes, almost sounding proud of the possibility. it wasn’t a secret to either of you that as much as she tried to act unaffected by his absence, she craved his approval more than anything.

“which are these?” jolyne turns to look at her father, breaking the two of you out of your hushed conversation. she pointed towards a fish with a black body and a yellow ring around its eye. while the information board was right next to the display, she wanted to hear her father explain. wanted an excuse to talk about something he’s passionate about.

“pomacanthus paru.” jolyne’s head tilts to the side. oh shit, too much of a smart ass. jotaro clears his throat, bending down to be face to face. “that’s a french angelfish. the young ones clean up after the other fish and they tend to mate for life with their partner.”

the little girl looks between you and her father, giving you both a toothy grin. “like you and mommy?” you merely raise a brow, waiting for jotaro’s response.

he nods, gently tugging on one of her pigtails, “yeah, like me and your mom.” your heart does a little flutter in your chest. you’ve missed these moments with your husband, of actually spending time with him without any imminent danger.

the three of you walk over to the manta ray displays, a few people lined around the edges of the open tank to attempt to pet them as they swim past. “tell me something interesting!” jolyne prompts, rushing over to wash her hands at the station nearby.

ever the walking encyclopedia, jotaro responds, “just like your fingerprints, scientists are able to identify them by the pattern of their underbelly, additionally they have to keep swimming with their mouths open to keep oxygen-filled water passing over their gills.” you rinse your hands off before following them to the tanks, running your fingers through a few passing by.

“they’re all slimy, huh?” you let out a small laugh at the small wrinkle on her nose, watching her fingertips barely graze the surface. she nods, “but they’re so so cool, we should come here every week!”

husband!gyro zeppeli who pretends to be asleep when you wake up, yawning and stretching like he hasn't been admiring you for the past hour. He takes you in his big arms, placing you right on top of him, kissing your face repetitive times even after you complain.

husband!gyro zeppeli who makes breakfast with you, humming an old melody he can't name while he heats up some water for coffee and you cut the tomatoes. He takes your hand and spins you, wrapping his arm around your waist and sitting you on the counter while he feeds you bites of your own toast.

husband!gyro zeppeli who takes a huge umbrella and some towels and goes to the beach with you. That's how you spend your mornings, bathing and tanning in the warm Italian sun, with Gyro spending most of the time in the water. You know better than accompany him, because if you put a feet in the cold water, he's already lifting you and taking you deeper so he can throw you around while he giggles.

husband!gyro zeppeli who gets tanned easily, his skin turns a soft caramel color just after two weeks of going to the beach.

husband!gyro zeppeli who also knows how to sit beside you in the towels, napping quietly or talking in whispers while you tan. He would love to cuddle in the sand, but last time that happened, he had your hand print in your back all summer.

husband!gyro zeppeli who, when you had enough beach, takes you back to your home, sharing a shower together where you wash each other's bodies. He has so much care of your curls, detangling them and applying shampoo exactly how you taught him. You're as careful as him even thought he doesn't really care and somehow always has the most luscious and shiny hair ever.

husband!gyro zeppeli who cooks for you, usually pasta. You both know at some point of your lives you'll have to learn how to cook something else, but you don't even care for that at the moment.

husband!gyro zeppeli who keeps you in his lap while you eat together with a glass of wine, once again feeding each other from the same plate because why bother with different things when you can just share?

husband!gyro zeppeli who tried ditching his job when he came back, he tried talking to his father, saying that he cannot handle that labor and can't find himself confessing his job to you. He can't imagine the look on your face when you realize that your husband is an executioner. But his father insists that it's his duty, that his blood dictates his job and that when his father dies, there has to be someone to take his place.

husband!gyro zeppeli who cries that night in your chest, leaving you confused about his feelings. His shoulders shake as he holds you tighter, you run your fingers through his golden hair, whispering soft questions, but he just buries his face deeper against you, breathing heavy and uneven.

husband!gyro zeppeli who finally pulls back after what feels like forever, his blue eyes all red and glassy under the moonlight coming through the window. He confesses everything right there, voice cracking as the words tumble out. How his family has this duty, how he is supposed to be an executioner, carrying out sentences that make his stomach turn every single time. He keeps repeating that he doesn't like it, that he hates it, that the blood and the finality of it all haunt him even when he is with you in your peaceful little house by the sea.

husband!gyro zeppeli who looks so terrified while he speaks, thinking every word is a risk that could make you pack your things and run. His hands tremble as they cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks, memorizing you in case this is the last time. He says he tried to leave it all behind after the race, tried to build this life with you without the shadow of his last name hanging over everything, but his father keeps pulling him back.

husband!gyro zeppeli who breaks down harder when he finishes talking, fresh tears spilling down as he waits for your reaction. He whispers sorry over and over, voice thick with fear that you will see him differently now, that the man who spins you in the kitchen and throws you in the waves could never be loved by someone who knows the truth.

husband!gyro zeppeli who feels your arms wrap around him instead as you tell him that it's okay. You still love him, all of him, you kiss his forehead, his wet cheeks, promising that his job does not define the husband who loves you so openly every single day.

husband!gyro zeppeli who clings to you after that, crying out the rest of his pain while you hold him close. Your words sink into him, easing the knot in his chest until his breathing evens out against your skin. He falls asleep like that, exhausted but lighter, with your fingers still tracing soothing patterns on his back.

husband!gyro zeppeli who wakes up the next morning to you suggesting you both talk to his dad together. His eyes go wide at first, surprised and a little scared, but then he nods, pulling you into his lap right there in bed. He kisses you slow, murmuring that he doesn't know what he did to deserve someone like you.

husband!gyro zeppeli who somehow manages to stand up to his father with you by his side, ditching his job forever and not caring about what he has to say. His father is a little surprised that this is the first time he's heard about his wife.

husband!gyro zeppeli who's now free for all the burden, going back to focusing all the attention on you.

husband!gyro zeppeli and you, who are still in touch with Johnny after the race. You send letters to him ever month, telling him little updates of your quiet life, urging him to come visit you some time.

husband!gyro zeppeli who makes years pass like weeks. Even when wrinkles start to form next to your eyes, he still looks at you like the moment you punched his face in the first stage of the race (the moment that he says he fell in love with you). Even after you start forming a family, heavily pregnant with your first child, he was the most loving husband ever. When that little kid runs around the house, giggling just like him, he runs behind her trying to catch her.

husband!gyro zeppeli who, eventually leaves before you when you're old enough to expect it. Your already married daughter organizes the funeral, your granddaughter cries even more than you. And of course you feel sad, he was the love of your life, the only one, actually. But you have done so much together, all your memories were shared with him. He never left your side, until now, and you know it's not going to take long until you find each other again.

Pink, blue, black…

You huffed as you rummaged through the same drawer for the third time, hoping what you were looking for would magically appear between the mess of cotton, polyester, and lace.

The bedroom was a complete mess; drawers drawn open, half-empty because you’d carelessly thrown their contents out trying to find the piece, some bras landed on the floor, some shirts on your velvet vanity stool, and there was a pile of skirts and dresses forming atop of the bed.

Your eyes scanned the room again, trying to catch even the slightest glimpse of the intense, scarlet red you were desperately trying to find.

Your reflection stared back at you from the mirror—hair styled to perfection, black dress hugging your figure, and your lips painted a deep red color that was supposed to match the lingerie you’re wearing under the dress.

You had the bra, the only thing missing were the panties.

It was a special night, your two-year anniversary with your boyfriend, and Jason—who always makes it clear he’s not a fan of lavish and over-the-top dates—had surprised you with a reservation at this fancy steakhouse in downtown Gotham with a rooftop lounge that overlooks the city and has live jazz music playing the whole night.

You wanted to surprise him back, wearing the delicate, red, lacy lingerie set you know is his favorite, so that at the end of the night—in the backseat of the car, on the couch in the living room, or wherever he decided he wanted to take you—, you could feel his breath hitch and watch him lick his lips as he undressed you.

Besides, as stupid as it sounds, that set holds some type of sentimental value.

You bought it over a year ago, it’s a high-end designer piece that caught your eye the moment you stepped into that luxurious, ridiculously expensive boutique. It cost you an arm and a leg—you remember contemplating if it really was worth going broke for as the saleswoman talked about the quality of the materials.

You decided to buy it before you could think too much about it, swiping your card through the terminal and almost wincing when you saw the money deducted from your bank account.

It was more for Jason than for you anyway, and that’s what convinced you. It was a few days until his birthday, and you wanted to wear it as one of the many gifts you planned on giving him.

That night, straddling his lap as he laid on the couch, you saw his pupils dilate, watched him suck in a deep breath and pull his bottom lip between his teeth as he took off your dress. You decided that it had been completely worth the money.

It’s also the only set that’s made it through more than three wears—since Jason seems to have a kink for ripping fabric off of you, but apparently he’s decided he likes this one so much that he can be a little more careful with it. He almost always asks you to keep it on as he fucks you.

You really didn’t want to—it was supposed to be a surprise—but after checking the clock and seeing it was almost time to leave the apartment, you stepped out of the bedroom and into the living room to ask the only other person who could have any idea where your panties were.

“Jason, have you seen—”

Well…

There was your answer.

Jason sat on the couch, legs spread as they always are—no matter how much you scold him for his manspreading—, wearing a burgundy dress shirt that had you impatient thinking about the moment when you finally get to unbutton it.

His gaze was focused on the book perched on his lap, and in the gutter of said book—between thin, black ink-stained pages—were your panties, their red color bright against the yellowed paper.

You simply sighed, it was your fault honestly.

You started it a few months ago, Jason had taken a night off patrol and vigilante duty, and Cass had kindly offered to cover for him—watching over Crime Alley and the other places he usually took care of so he could spend time with you.

It was almost 2:00 a.m., your cheek was pressed against his bicep—because there’s nothing you love more than resting your head on your boyfriend’s muscles—, your legs shifted beneath the sheets to tangle with his, the soft cotton felt cool against your flushed skin.

Jason’s left hand was busy playing with your hair, twirling the strands around his scarred fingers while his right held the book he was reading.

He’d made you orgasm more times than you could count in a single night and you were convinced that you were completely satisfied.

Until you teared your eyes away from the ceiling to look at him, and he looked so cute and hot and sexy with his drugstore glasses perched on his crooked nose, and his brows had that furrow of concentration, and his thick lashes fluttered as he read through whatever greek tragedy he was so focused on, and his pretty lips formed the cutest pout you’ve ever seen on someone.

The sight made you feel that familiar heat between your legs—the one that appears whenever you see Jason doing practically anything.

You peppered kisses on his naked, glistening chest—still covered with a thin layer of sweat—, your fingers tracing down the lines of his abs and his prominent V-line until they reached the hem of the sheet—the only thing covering his lower body.

Jason breathed out your name, his heartbeat sped up under the touch of your lips, and he tried telling you about how he was in a really interesting part of the book, attempting to convince you to wait—but he didn’t make any real effort to stop you.

You looked up at him through your lashes, tongue darting out to trace one of the scars on his chest. You told him you couldn’t wait—and that it was his fault for making you so horny.

Picking up the pair of baby pink panties he’d tossed somewhere on the floor when he slipped them off of you, you took the book from his hand and placed the lacy garment on the page he was reading before closing it and handing it back to him. Your eyes never left his as you did so, and you had to bite your lip to hold back your giggles.

Jason’s eyes were wide as he took the book from you, his expression completely dumbfounded, and you swear that’s the most adorable he’s ever looked.

For you, Jason’s a weak, weak man. He could never deny you anything—trust, he’s tried.

And after that, you didn’t need to do anything else to convince him. He simply placed the book back on the nightstand beside the bed and rolled his eyes.

“You’re insane,” he scoffed, “and insatiable.”

You didn’t bother trying to defend yourself, it was true after all. You simply smiled in victory as your hand slid under the sheets.

Since that night, you never saw that pair of panties again—a shame, truly, it was a beautiful pink—and a few more disappeared from your underwear drawer to be found in the bookshelves.

“Jason,” you sighed. “I’ve been looking for those panties for like an hour!”

Jason looked up from his book—a dystopian novel you forgot the name of—, smirking when he caught sight of you with your arms crossed, wearing the dress he’d bought you specifically for your anniversary date.

“You look nice,” he whistled, looking you up and down shamelessly.

“Can you please give me my panties back?” You walked up to him and extended your hand out, expecting him to return your underwear.

“No,” he almost laughed, “I need my bookmarks.”

That made you roll your eyes, and before you could process it, Jason wrapped his hand around your wrist and pulled you into him so you were sitting on his lap.

“Besides,” he whispered into your ear, his voice carrying that teasing, smug tone you would never admit turns you on, “why do you need panties?”

“You know what would be a nice anniversary gift?” He continued, fingers teasing the skin of your thighs through the glossy fabric of your dress. “You not wearing anything under that dress.”

short n sexy mini fic for my baby jason todd while i work on my beach date with dick grayson one-shot 🤭

sorry if this was kinda ass, the idea was better in my head, still hope you enjoyed!!

thanks for reading!! likes, comments, follows, and reblogs are always appreciated!!

please do not copy, translate, repost, or feed my work to ai (especially this!!)

images from pinterest

A gruff voice pulls you out of your thoughts, eyes blurry from pressing them against your palms as you try to find out which idiot decided to interfere in your wallowing. Etches of black fill your vision before you realized it was a leather jacket. And you only knew one man in your town who wore leather jackets and was as tall — Jotaro Kujo. Your crush. No, ex-crush. The boy who rejected you under the cherry blossom tree was here again in front of you after you had been rejected by a stranger.

Fate loved you the way you loved pineapples. It didn’t.

"Hop one," Jotaro repeats, his arms folded as the leather scrunched against the crevices of his biceps. Sea green eyes trace over your slumped figure with an air of nonchalance that you definitely don't need right now. Maybe you were too hurt to see the way his eyes softened with guilt at your reddened eyes.

"Leave me alone."

He doesn't.

Because Jotaro was nothing but stubborn.

A few minutes pass by. You have your head on your lap, cradled by your hands, wishing the bus would just put you out of misery. Kids who were out and about on the streets laugh, the happiness tinging the air with sweetness but it doesn't reach you.

"It looks like it's going to rain," He says, the same impassive look carved on his features like something permanent. It was true; it did look like it would rain, and you knew your mother would get worried if you got caught up. Letting out a huff, you stand before brushing against the fabric of your clothes.

"Fine," you murmur, standing next to the gleaming vehicle. He hands you the helmet, a circular black one that shined against the remaining beams of sunlight that filtered through the clouds.

"What about yours?" you ask him as he grips the handlebars, looking straight ahead. He doesn't look at you, just murmuring something about how it was a short distance. After strapping the helmet on, you climb behind him, sitting at the edge of your seat so as to put as much distance as one possibly could. Jotaro looks at you through the side mirrors, "Hold on to me, or you will fall."

"No. I can fig—" The string of words is cut off with a yelp when Jotaro starts driving the bike at a speed that was well beyond the speed limit as you instinctively hug his waist, pressing your head against the leather of his jacket. Once he feels your warm arms around him, he slows down slightly.

"Fuck you, jackass," you punch his bicep lightly before laying your head against his back, the cold winds striking you like chords of music, the fabric of your dress fluttering in the air. Maybe if you had looked a little longer at him through the side mirror, you might have noticed the slight curl to his lips.

You hadn't looked around your surrounding during the ride, all your will focused on making sure you don't fall of the bike. The slow stop of the bike paired with the smooth breeze made you believe you had finally reached home except when you open your eyes, you are greeted with the sight of the local bakery — your favorite bakery.

"Get down."

"Jotaro, why are we here?" you ask, your voice as calm as it could possibly be. No, you were not angry at the fact that you were greeted by the sweetened smell of vanilla and chocolate. It was the fact that Jotaro was being a confusing man right now.

"Get Down." Jotaro turned, his sea green eyes a lot more blue in the sunlight. Oh god, did he look beautiful! He always was. It was almost like the clouds dispersed, waving way for the blue sky just so you could see him in the light. Just so you could never forget how beautiful he is. But you needed no reminder. You couldn't forget the face of the boy you had loved since you were fifteen. Even if you tried, you couldn't after all, being next-door neighbours doesn't warrant that.

"No, take me home, and then you can do whatever the fuck you —- hey!"

"Good grief." Jotaro plants his feet on the asphalt below, tilting the bike towards the ground. You squeeze your eyes, clutching onto his arms as you shout. "Fine, fine. I'll get down."

Jotaro parks the bike while you step into the bakery to find an empty booth, the owner — Shizuka — waving at you. You had been at the tiny bakehouse more times than you can remember becoming one of their most valuable customers.

The ding of the bell sweeps your attention away as Jotaro stepped in. He was everything the bakery was not. Black leather jacket draped over white t-shirt paired with black jeans while surrounded by drapes of pink silk and white cotton. He looked straight out of a magazine, his hat with gold borders sat on top.

You look away when he catches you staring, heat warm in your cheeks. After a few minutes, a ceramic plate with hanami dango is placed in front of you. Jotaro slides onto the opposite side of the booth, face as nonchalant as always.

"What's this?" you ask, though you knew the answer as well as a person knowing their own name. He rolls his eyes before folding his arms. Minutes pass by, and you were sure you would not get an answer from him, as you take the skewer.

"Your favorite," he mumbles, voice so soft you could have missed it. Your eyes widen, almost loosing grip on the bamboo sticks.

"How did you know it's my favorite."

You were not sure whether you were wafting in a dream when you saw the slight red coating his cheeks. Jotaro blushed? Maybe you were dreaming. No, you are dreaming. This was the same man who rejected you under the cherry blossom tree a few months ago with a simple, impassive No.

You ignore him, munching on the pink dumpling. Once the first skewer was rid of all the three dumplings, you huff , settling back onto the cushion. Jotaro was on his phone, eyes focused intently like he was reading something.

"Why are you doing this, Jotaro?" you ask. Why was he being kind to you after that day? Though you were neighbors, you may have met him only two times in the entirety of six months — a result of avoiding him.

"Because you deserve better." It's almost immediate, like the words were sitting on the tip of his tongue waiting to be let out. To be heard. Jotaro doesn't look at you, he couldn't. Not when he was the reason behind it. You might never know, but he liked you; hell, he loved you. Loves you. But he couldn't bring you into a life of uncertainty. A life that could hold no promises. You deserved someone better. Better than him. But he didn't tell you that instead added something more credible "And your mother told my mother about your date."

The initial shock wears off as you roll your eyes. Of course your mother told Holly. They were best friends after all. But his words stayed like the cold in the air even when the sky cleared up. What did he even mean by that?

The bike ride back home was a lot more solemn. Something had changed, but you couldn't place it. Through the visor, you could see the front lawn of both your houses, bushes covering each side with pink blossoms. Once you got down, you gave him back his helmet with a roll of your eyes. Maybe it was easier being rude to him than figuring out what the words at the bakery meant.

His mother never told him about your date. He had heard it when your mother spoke on the phone to you in the garden. He heard how your date had stood you up, and you were at a part of the city that had sporadic bus routes. He hadn't even thought much about it, immediately grabbing his bike keys as a reflex as he ran out the door. A reflex for you.

Jotaro looks at your form disappearing past the front door. It was for the best to let you go. For you. For him. But did he really believe that? Will he ever do? He doesn't know, but the words stay like a bandage on his broken heart that he himself was the reason for.