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The hope didn't survive contact with 9 p.m., for it had withered then, when Jason came home from patrol far earlier than planned, favoring one leg and radiating the specific, wounded pride of a man who has just lost an argument with a sewer-dwelling reptile. Killer Croc, apparently, has recently discovered what Jason called "the cruel beauty of a knife," and decided to test the theory out on him.

He had come home victorious, technically. Bleeding, unfortunately. Sulking, definitely.

“I got thrown into a dumpster, babe. A dumpster.”

Twenty minutes of this now. Jason recounts the injury like he took a bullet instead of a knife scrape, wringing every possible drop of sympathy out of a scrape that, if you're being honest, barely broke skin. “You’ve told me. Four times.”

“It smelled like something died in there.”

“And that’s why I let you use my expensive body wash.”

His eyes harden when they land on you, eyebrows drawing so close together his lashes nearly brush them, offended that you're not offended enough on his behalf.

You know this dance. You've known it for a while now; patching him up on the couch while he narrates the injury of the night like it’s a Greek tragedy or a near-death experience, refusing to admit he’s fine. These are all things you’ve grown accustomed to. You know Jason thinks that admitting he’s fine means you stop fussing over him. And you don't stop. You never do. Not because you're fooled —because you know exactly what he's doing— but because some stubborn, soft part of you simply doesn't want to not fuss over him, logic be damned.

So, with an ice pack applied, dramatics acknowledged fully and bruises kissed better in the vague, non-medical way Jason insists actually helps —somehow you end up riiiight where you are right now. 

As of ten minutes ago, the two of you, apparently, stopped being nurse and patient and became this instead: tangled together on the couch in the most anatomically improbable cuddle in recorded history. 

You’re laying over his chest on the opposite side of the couch (the one he insists is the foot side and not the head side), while he has folded himself around you —arms, legs like a koala. The wound on his thigh, you notice, has suspiciously stopped bothering or pulling at him entirely the second it became an excuse to hold on tighter. He’s clinging onto you, like if he somehow lets go and his humongous, tight muscle legs aren’t wrapped around your ribs and arms and head, the knife-dumpster incident might happen all over again and this time he won’t survive it.

You kind of hope someone from his family breaks into your house and walks in on this right now. Dick for example, would never let him live it down.

“Jace, you're huge and you’re going to suffocate me,” you mumble into the soft cotton of his shirt.

“Good. Then you’ll finally understand my pain.” He whines and punctuates it with a kiss to the crown of your head, entirely too pleased with himself.

The TV throws blue light across the ceiling, across both your faces —some Hulu movie you swore was on your watchlist, though at this point you'd both fail a basic quiz on the plot. Under your ear, his heartbeat runs slow. Slower than it ever seems to anywhere else in the world. Slower than it has any right to be, for a man who spent his evening being launched into municipal waste by a seven-foot crocodile man.

You shift, testing the grip of his koala-limbs, and he only tightens them.

“Nuh-uh. Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere, I just want to check your leg.”

“My leg is fine as long as you don’t move.”

You ignore him, sliding down anyway, working yourself loose from the tangle of his arms —and the increasingly alarming attempt his legs make to get you in a headlock— until you're settled near his knees, running your eyes over the bandage like you don't trust your own patch up handiwork from twenty minutes ago. Jason watches you with exaggerated suspicion, visibly bracing for whatever indignity comes next.

Instead, you rest your head against his stomach. His muscles don't jump the way they usually do when you catch him off guard; he just breathes, slowly, letting you settle. You run your palm along the back of his thigh, over the fabric of his sport shorts, absent and easy, more habit than intention.

"See something you like down there?" he tries, aiming for smug, because, despite all the softness you are alarmingly close to what’s the start of a raging erection. He mostly lands on pink, however—the blush climbing his cheeks giving him away before the sentence even finishes.

“Nah…I’m checking for more injuries.”

Jason clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes before setting them onto yours. “Real romantic, doc.”

You press your thumb lightly behind his knee, testing, and feel him go still.

“Jason?”

“It’s fine. Nothing’s wrong there.”

But his voice has changed. Gone careful. And when you glance up, he’s not looking at you with his big, green eyes anymore and you hate it he’s found something fascinating on the ceiling and he’s looking at it, over your head, cheeks colored cherry red and he's clearly decided there's no point pretending otherwise.

You don't tease. Not with words, anyway. You just lean your head a little and there! You press a kiss to the inside of his thigh, then up, up up, until you reach the soft, thin and ticklish skin just inside his knee. Then, you place another kiss there, soft, unhurried, a little wet, barely anything at all, really.

Jason however, makes a sound like the air’s been knocked clean out of him, which—fair and square—you knew would happen. He’s the most sensitive on spots where his skin is thin and his veins peak blue beneath it. 

Kissing those most sensitive spots, however? That’s exactly what makes him feel loved. It’s the kind of affection that doesn't have to be spoken out loud to exist so soundly.

It’s proof. And Jason likes proof.

"Okay," he says, voice wrecked in the quietest way you've ever heard it. "That's—oookay. Mmh.” You kiss him again, same spot on the other leg. “Baby! That's nice."

“What?”

“Nothing.” He breathes in, slow, and his hand finds your hair; not pulling, not pushing, just resting there, warm and a little unsteady. “Do that again, baby. A little higher maybe?”

Who are you to say no?

Dick Grayson—The back of his neck/his traps

Dick is the one who takes care of you. That’s just how it’s always gone, since the very beginning.

He’s the one who notices you haven’t eaten before you do, he’s the one who has a bandaid produced from some pocket dimension in his jacket before you’ve even finished saying ‘ow,’ and he’s the one who somehow always knows which version of ‘I’m fine’ you actually mean and which one he needs to push back on.

You’ve never really had to learn how to do it back, he’s never given you the opening. It is a rare thing for Dick Grayson to let the role of the caregiver slip from his hands, it’s even rarer that he finds himself in a position where he needs to be taken care of.

Which is maybe why it takes you three days too long to notice that Dick Grayson —the most relentlessly, exhaustingly, perfectly fine person you have ever met— has stopped sleeping entirely.

It’s small at first. He’s a little slower getting out of bed. A little quicker to laugh at something that isn’t that funny, like he’s testing whether the sound still works right. Gone are his power-naps throughout the day. Coffee at 2 p.m., which never used to happen, followed by coffee at 6 p.m, which really never used to happen.

Bludhaven’s been ugly lately; you know that much. You’ve seen the new set of bruises and wounds he tries to angle away from you in the bathroom mirror— but Dick doesn’t come home tired the way other people come home tired. He usually shakes it off by the time he’s through the door, replaces it with that easy grin like he’s swapped costumes rather than just taken one off.

Tonight he doesn’t manage the swap. He just stands in the kitchen doorway for a second too long, staring at the kettle like he’s forgotten what it’s for.

You don’t ask him what’s wrong. Not yet. You’ve learned that with Dick, straight questions get you straight deflection —a joke, a subject change, an ‘I’m good,’ promise delivered with enough charm that you almost believe it every single time, even now. So instead, you do something you’ve never really done before: you decide to take care of him first.

You run the bath before he can talk you out of it. Water hot enough to actually do something for the knot you can see sitting between his shoulder blades, the lights low, the ridiculous lavender thing his sister-in-arms-slash-honorary-sister got him as a joke gift finally getting used for its intended purpose. When you come back to find him, he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, chin in his palms, staring at nothing in the specific way that means he’s a thousand miles away and hasn’t noticed yet that his feet have stopped thudding on the floor.

“Hey,” you say, quiet, and watch him startle back into his body. “C’mon. Something’s ready for youu.”

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know.” You take his hand, slowly lacing his fingers with yours. “Get up.”

He doesn’t fight you on it, which tells you more than anything he’s said out loud in the last three days. Dick always has a comeback loaded, a joke to buy himself room to wriggle out of being looked after and yet, tonight he just follows you, quietly sighing, into the bathroom, and lets you peel his shirt off like something in him has finally run out of the energy it takes to perform being okay.

You settle him into the water and kneel by the tub, sleeves shoved up, lathering shampoo in your hands before running your fingers through his damp curls, rubbing soothing circles all over his head and working the tension out of his shoulders with your hands the way he’s done for you more times than you can count. He exhales, slow, head tipping forward, and for a second the exhaustion in his face isn’t hidden behind anything at all.

It’s just there, plain, the way he never lets you see it.

His neck is where you always end up, working the pads of your thumbs into the muscle where his traps meet his upper spine, the one spot that undoes him faster than anywhere else on his whole ridiculously overworked body. You feel it the second you find it —the shudder that runs down through his shoulders, the way his breath goes long and unsteady, like something’s finally been let out of a room it’s been locked in for days.

You lean down and press a kiss right there, at the slope of the back of his neck, soft, lingering half a second longer than the ones before it.

He makes a small sound, almost startled, like he wasn’t expecting to feel that at all after everything else, and his hand comes up out of the water to find your wrist, holding on like an anchor.

“Dick.” You keep your voice as gentle as you can make it, mouth still close to his skin. “What’s wrong?”

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer as much as he won’t even look at you. You can feel him working through it though— probably thinking about the joke he could make, the deflection sitting right there, ready to go, easy as breathing. You watch him choose not to reach for it.

“I don’t know how to say it without it sounding stupid,” he finally says, voice rougher than you’ve heard it in a long time.

“Try anyway?”

His shoulders drop another inch under your hands, like just being asked —really asked, and meant and kissed to absolute persuasion— has already taken some of the weight off. “It’s Damian, Jason, Bruce, Tim, Steph—just…everyone. I feel like I have to substitute for all of them.”

You don’t let go of him nonetheless. You stay right there, thumbs still working slow circles into his shoulders, and for a while neither of you says anything else, you just listen to the water lapping faintly against the edge of the tub, his breathing evening out under your hands one long exhale at a time.

Then, of course, because he’s Dick Grayson and staying vulnerable for longer than four consecutive minutes seems to be physically painful for him, he turns his head just enough to catch your eye, and you can already see the grin rebuilding itself.

“Okay, my turn.”

“Your turn for what?”

“You’ve been standing there hunched over a bathtub for ten minutes.” He twists further, water sloshing, and catches your wrist properly this time, tugging you down so your face is level with his. “That’s a crime against your own back. I should know, I know all about backs.”

“Dick—”

He kisses you before you can finish the sentence —unhurried, easy, tasting faintly of lavender bath stuff he’ll never admit to liking and it’s a genuinely excellent distraction technique, you’ll give him that. When he finally pulls back an inch, his voice has dropped into the low, warm register he uses when he’s trying to talk you into something.

“C’mon. Get in. I give a great massage, ask literally anyone I’ve ever met.” He says between kisses.

“That’s not a real reference.”

“It’s a very real reference. Everyone would vouch for me.”

“No one would not vouch for you right now, they’d tell you to go to bed.”

“Semantics.” He’s already shifting, making room in the water, doing his best impression of a man who is definitely not one bad night’s sleep away from falling asleep sitting up. “Come on. Let me take care of you too babyyyyyy. I’m very good at iiiiit. It’s, like, my whole thing.”

You almost laugh, because he is doing the thing—the classic Dick Grayson maneuver, charm first, deflection built in, hand it back to you before you can look too closely at him. It’s smooth. It’s always smooth. And it would probably work, if you hadn’t spent the last ten minutes with your hands on his shoulders, close enough to see exactly what’s sitting under his eyes.

So instead of getting in, you kneel back down at the side of the tub, take his face in both hands, squeeze his cheeks between your fingers and just look at him for a second.

“Nuh-uh,” you say, gentle, echoing something that sounds suspiciously like a line he’s used on you before. “Not tonight.”

“I’m serious, I’m an excellent masseuse, I have—”

“Dick.” You press your thumb lightly under one eye, where the tiredness has gone faintly purple, soft as a bruise. “Look at you. You can barely keep your eyes open.”

“I can absolutely keep my eyes open, I am extremely awake, I—” He punctuates this by yawning, spectacularly, mid-sentence, which rather undercuts the argument.

You just raise an eyebrow at him.

“Okay, that was bad timing,” he admits, and finally, finally, some of the performance drops out of his voice, leaving something quieter underneath. “I just don’t love the idea of you doing all the work tonight.”

“I know.” You kiss his forehead, then, soft, right where the tension always shows up in small wrinkles. “That’s kind of the point of tonight, though. Let me have this one sweetheart.”

He studies you for a second, some last flicker of protest sitting behind his eyes, and then it goes out of him all at once, shoulders dropping back into the water.

“Fine,” he mutters, but he’s smiling through his pout when he says it, “But can I eat you out later?”

“No, you’re gonna sleep later!”

“I’d sleep better if my girlfriend loved me, though!”

Bruce Wayne—The middle of his chest

You have stopped waiting up on the couch since a long time ago. Nowadays, you just leave the bedside lamp on low and let sleep take you when it wants to, trusting the soft click of the study's hidden door, then the shower running two floors down, to eventually end with the mattress dipping under a weight far too careful for a man his size.

Tonight, it takes longer than usual and you know better than to ask. Pressing Bruce for an answer he doesn’t carry within him has only proven to be futile, anxiety inducing even, and you’ve long exchanged your worry for the sake of his nirvana.

You're half into a dream when the door finally opens, and Bruce —no cowl, no cape, no careful mask of ‘fine’ on his face either, for once— comes to a stop at the foot of the bed like he's not sure he's allowed to be tired yet.

"You're late tonight honey," you murmur, not really awake enough to make it sound like an accusation.

"Traffic." His voice is low, wry, worn thin at the edges. "Terrible this time of night."

You don't call him on the lie. You never really have to. The new bruise darkening along his ribs when he finally peels his shirt off does that for you, blooming an ugly constellation of yellow, green and purple over what you're fairly sure used to be a much worse midnight-blue, days-old and reopened.

"Sit down," you say, already reaching for the little tin of arnica cream on the nightstand that has, over the years, become as much a fixture of this room as the lamp.

He sits.

Bruce doesn't narrate his injuries the way some of his kids do. He doesn't perform pain, doesn't dramatize a scrape into a saga. If anything, he goes the other way; quiet, frozen body, giving you nothing, because admitting it hurts and hurt overall are a tactical disadvantage he can't simply afford. You've learned to read him in the small things instead: the too-careful way he lowers himself onto the mattress, the exhale he thinks he's hiding, the fact that he lets you touch him at all instead of waving you off with some line about a five-minute recovery in the cave.

You press your palm flat over the worst of the bruising, feather-light, and watch something in his shoulders finally loosen. Your hand there, on that specific spot, is doing more for him than the mask ever could.

"Why didn’t you call Alfred?"

"Alfred's asleep."

"Alfred's never asleep."

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile, gone as fast as it came. He's watching you work with the same unreadable focus he gives everything —case files, nightly cityscapes, you when he knows fairly well you’re not looking at him— there's something in the careful movement of your hands in the dimmed light, he's trying to memorize.

He hopes, faintly, because hope has proven to be a poisonous, dangerous thing for someone like him to have, that he never has to spend a night where this is not in his routine anymore.

And then, as he’s watching you a little more, he wonders if you’re sick of him. If this is something you really want to do, if allowing himself the novelty of letting you take care of him is a thing that is pushing you away and you refuse to speak of it so as to not hurt him. 

He fears, on a basis that borderlines casually, that you have grown scared of his reactions, thus the reason you have mellowed down from how worried you used to be when he first met you.

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, mind flowing with every thought imaginable and contingency plans that involve even you, he has to admit, that for the worst part of it—it’s easier to be Bruce like this, with his face half lit, and someone who loves him enough to offer him something that counts as mundane with the life he’s chosen to lead. 

You finish applying the last of the cream and don't pull your hand back right away. Instead, you let it rest, flat, right over the center of his sternum, over the place where, absurdly, for a man built out of scar tissue and armor plating, he seems to feel things the most.

He goes so still under your palm, stiller than the bruised ribs. Stiller than you've ever managed to make him with the stethoscope of a worried question.

"Bruce."

"Hm."

"You're allowed to just be tired, you know. Just here. With me."

He doesn't answer, not right away, he has to sigh first, long and deep like that will clear his lungs out of every horror he’s had to fight tonight. When he does answer, though, his voice has dropped into something quieter than the Batman voice he ever lets anyone hear, it’s something that belongs only to this room, this lamp, this hour, you.

"I know."

And you know, that despite what he says, he feels the opposite. 

But you care too much for him to press further.

You care so much, in fact, that you decide to ignore the inanimate pain that settles inside your ribs at the thought of ever hurting him, just to throw yourself onto his lap, ever so softly. Or, perhaps, as soft as you can manage.

“You okay?”

“More than,” he says, and means it as much as a man like him can mean anything spoken out loud at two in the morning, ribs taped, guard down for maybe the only ten minutes of this week.

“You get quiet like that and I never know if it’s a case, or the ribs, or—” You don’t finish it. You don’t have to. Some sentences he’d rather answer with silence than a lie, and you’ve learned not to make him choose between the two.

“It’s not you,” he says instead, low, like the words cost him something to hand over. “It’s never you.”

Again, you don’t ask him to explain further. Bruce hands things over in pieces, on his own schedule, and pressing for the rest of it only sends him further back behind his own eyes. 

So you just nod, and let your palm stay where it is, warm against his sternum, over the drum of a heartbeat that hasn’t slowed down since you settled in his warmth.

“I love you.”

Something shifts in his face — small, almost nothing, it’s not relief, exactly, as much as it hurts. It’s closer to disbelief that the offer’s still on the table to say he loves you back, after everything.

“I know,” he says “I love you too.”

And although it doesn’t sound like he fully believes it but rather like he wants to, you know how much he means it.

It’s in his eyes, doe and kind, despite the way his eyebrows are slightly furrowed, and it’s in the way his hand has found the small of your back, just so he holds you steady onto him.

You slowly lean closer, pressing your lips to the soft skin at the center of his chest —right where your hand had been, right over that too-fast heartbeat, right in between a four clawed scar. 

It’s not a stitch, or a bandage, or even the muscle ache balm, but it’s just what it is.

It makes his breath falter and audibly loosen inside his lungs. His other hand comes up to rest against the back of your head, guiding you just a finger’s worth of space back, so he can look you in the eyes—the light glittering little specks and sparks over your irises. 

He knows his have none; he often wonders why you want to hold eye-contact with him in spite of it, but when you kiss the same spot from a moment ago again, even slower this time and he gets no warning but the goosebumps that run up his back, he thinks, maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to think of an emotionally exit plan in case nights like this cease to exist.

Tim Drake—The side of his ribs

Tim has exactly one weakness, and you find it completely by accident on a Tuesday.

He’s stretched out on the couch, laptop balanced on his knees, three different browser windows open —and those are the ones on Safari only— that are probably three different crimes he’s solving simultaneously, and you’re just trying to steal the spot next to him without making him move. You climb over his legs, lose your balance slightly, and catch yourself with a hand flat against his side to keep from faceplanting into the cushions.

Tim makes a sound you have never, in the entire time you’ve known him, ever, heard him make.

It’s somewhere between a yelp and a laugh, high and startled, and his whole body jackknifes sideways so fast the laptop nearly goes sliding off his knees. He catches it on reflex (Batfamily reflexes don’t clock out just because you’ve been tickled) but his face has gone a genuinely spectacular shade of red.

In hindsight, you should’ve seen it coming, but this is the moment when it clicks in your head!

Tim is… ticklish?!

You stare at him, one eyebrow raised, lips slightly thrown open as you’re clocking his whole face. He simply stares back, betrayed, blushing harder than before.

“Timothyyyyyy, did you just squeak?”

“No.” He squints for a second, suspiciously studying your face for any sign of sudden realization, or the early and immediate construction of an evil masterplan against him. He shrugs, too casually when he finds neither.

“Tim.”

“I did not squeak. That was a completely normal, dignified reaction to being startled.”

“You squeaked.”

Hmmm… something in him isn’t fully convinced you are not plotting against him.

“I have never squeaked in my life.” He’s already shifting the laptop further away from you, arm coming down defensively over his side like you’re a known threat now, which is fair, considering. “This conversation is over. We’re not doing this.”

And he’s right, okay? You, as in the two of you, are not doing anything! You, as a person on your own though? Oh you are absolutely doing this.

It takes you the better part of a week and some forced silent treatment that probably hurts you more than him, maybe, to actually get him to admit the specific location of his ticklishness and its overall existence; Tim treats personal weaknesses with the same operational security he treats safehouse addresses, and for a while your only intel is a single data point: somewhere along his ribs, left side, and a truly wounded look every time you bring it up. He starts flinching preemptively whenever you reach for anything near him, which honestly gives you more information than he probably means to.

Tonight, though, he’s not thinking about defense. He’s curled up against you on the couch, laptop finally, blessedly closed, head tucked against your shoulder and cheek squeezed perfectly over your tits in the exact way he likes it. Ah, yes, the rare unguarded quiet that only shows up after he’s been awake so long and he’s stopped pretending he isn’t exhausted. His guard’s down. His arm isn’t over his side. He’s just there, warm, half-asleep against you, breathing slow.

You’ve never been able to resist a soft target.

And while you’d love to start tickling him until he feels absolutely tortured, you don’t exactly want to risk a fight or flight response that will end up with you having a broken nose caused by instant reflexes. Because one! You should never, ever, creep up on one of the bats when they’re half asleep (they have ninja starts in their fucking underwear for all you know and you have watched Tim throw one to the TV when he got jumpscared by a loud sound once) and two! You’re pretty sure you can’t actually trigger a response from Tim, because no matter how soft he pretends he is, he is guarded around you, has been for like—a week— and he will play-wrestle you until you tap out!

Which you will, because you love it and it kinda was the reason you fell so hard for him in the first place?! Yeah yeah, I know.

So, plan ‘B’ for how to torture tickle Tim Drake, includes something even more sinister than just jumping him in his sleep. Something he will not be able to resist.

Once you have secured he is a little softer, but not entirely out like a light, you shift and bend carefully, until your mouth is level with the strip of skin where his shirt’s ridden up slightly at his side, and you press a slow kiss right there, against his ribs. To make it overkill you flick out your tongue and run it on him, while trying to sink your teeth into the skin you’re sucking into your mouth.

Aaaaaaaand Bingo!!! Tim comes alive like he’s been electrocuted.

“No—” It comes out somewhere between a laugh and a shriek, and a moan and he’s twisting away, curling in on himself, all long limbs and zero coordination, trying to simultaneously escape and swat you off with uncoordinated flailing and have his free hand cup his shorts, because you know and he knows, he’s instantly hard. “That’s—come ooooon—that’s cheating!”

“Don’t care.”

You kiss him again, same spot, then everywhere around it, blowing air out of your throat to make farting sounds and he collapses into helpless laughter, breathless and pink-faced and utterly undone, batting weakly at your shoulder with a hand that has zero actual follow-through behind it.

“Okay —okay, truce, truce, I surrender—”

“You can’t surrender on this, Tim.”

“No no, I can.” He’s still laughing, gasping around it, curled half into your lap now like the only way to survive is to make himself a smaller target, and when he finally goes still again, it’s with his face tucked against your collarbone, ears still pink, glaring up at you with absolutely no actual heat behind it.

“You’re the worst,” he informs you.

“Hehehe. You love it.”

“I really, deeply do not.”

But he doesn’t move away. If anything, he settles in closer, arm looping loosely at first, then securely around your waist, guard fully down now that the ambush is apparently over, kissing the middle of your chest and the expanse of your breasts hungrily even over your tank top, bucking his hips right over your thigh—and you file that reaction away for future reference, the exact spot, the exact sound, filed right next to all the other things about him you’ve slowly learned nobody else gets to see.

Your shirt is off before you even finish thinking about it, however. 

~All rights reserved: @/strawberry-nugget, 2026. Please do not copy, over write or steal my work // Likes and reblogs are so appreciated but if you you liked this you can let me know in the comments <3

A/N: Batboys headcanons except i know ball lmaooooo if i get completely deranged and include alfred in pt2 what are you going to do about it huh?

uhhh let me know if you could catch the parallels in this, it would make me really really happy, also if you want me to give you more headcanons my askbox is open!

"Not at all. If you'd like, the bakery down the street is open. Do you want something?" His pace has slowed a bit, as if he knows your exhaustion is kicking in.

"Maybe next time. I just want to take a nice hot bath and go to sleep."

"What about dinner?" Always the practical thinker. You hum as you debate the contents of the fridge, and what will take the least effort.

"Nevermind that, I'll take care of while you're in the bath. Perhaps we'll eat in bed tonight...just this once, of course." He smiles at you as if the two of you are partaking in some grand act of rebellion. You press a kiss to his lips, relishing in his confused yet satisfied blinks.

"Well then, we better hurry on home!"

Valko - would you sit and keep me company?

"Will you sit with me?"

Valko pauses whatever he's typing, glancing over at you with an amused smile. You almost expect him to comment, to tease you a little, but he simply shuts his laptop.

"Of course." Despite his sharp canines, his smile is soft, settling next to you on the couch and wrapping an arm around you. His body is warm, and just the weight of his arm calms you.

"Good?" He whispers, as if not to disturb your peace. You hum, not quite in the mood for speaking.

His face buries into your shoulder, tugging you a little closer. You sink into it, instantly relaxing once his cologne envelops you. Valko had a way of doing that, of making you feel so comfortable, so yourself.

"I love you." You murmur quietly. It's not the first time you've said it, but he always smiles like it is.

"I love you too." He presses kisses all over your face, until you break out into laughter and find yourself tumbling to the floor, Valko underneath you.

"Any particular reason tonight? Do I look strikingly handsome today?" His teasing tone carries a hint of genuine curiosity. You're quiet for a while, adjusting his glasses so they don't sit crooked on his nose.

"I just...love being around you. Is that so wrong?" Your smile probably doesn't come off very carefree, hence why his face softens and his arms tighten around you.

"I love being around you too." He rests his cheek on the top of your head, squeezing you twice as if to really solidify his sincerity.

"Do you think we could just...spend the rest of the night like this?"

"I don't see why not! But...can I grab some chocolate milk first?"

Sylus - i'm not scared, I just reach and you’re right there

Your eyes fly open, heart seized in a panic. Blood is rushing through your ears, but everything slows down the moment your hand finds a warm arm.

Sylus is asleep, but he stirs almost immediately at your movements. He catches your hand, squeezing it gently.

"Everything alright?" His voice is husky from sleep, though no less caring. Your anxiety loosens as you lay back down, sinking into his hold.

"It was just a nightmare." You whisper. Sylus hums in response, his arms tight around you.

"Want to talk about it?" He pulls back to study your face, as if to make sure you aren't hiding how you truly feel. When you smile a little at his inquisitive gaze, he smirks, taking the opportunity to bite the tip of your nose.

"Ow! What was that for?" You swat at him, laughing as you rub your nose despite the fact it doesn't really hurt.

"I enjoy taking bites out of you, didn't you know?" He kisses your nose in a mock apology, really just an excuse to get closer to you.

"Are you feeling better?"

Sylus can read you like a book. Despite what seemed like an attempt to change the subject, you know it was a ploy to make you smile. Now, in the lighter air, he checks in.

"Mhm. I don't normally have nightmares. Well, not when I'm here at least."

"And why is that?" He's genuinely asking, which makes you smile. Such a smart man, and yet your feelings sometimes slip through his fingers.

"Because I'm with you. And I know that nothing can hurt me if I have you by my side."

"When do you think I should pack, then?"

"Never." James makes a face, but you only roll your eyes and circle back to the dresser. "But if you must, in secret after I'm asleep."

You make an amused scoffing sound. It turns into a laugh when a ball of socks sails across the room to land in the drawer in front of you again. There's the smile James was waiting for.

"You're unbelievable," you chide, picking the socks up to return them to your suitcase. "If I only get a couple hours of sleep because you made me stay up all night packing, I'm going to be so annoyed with you."

"You could sleep in," James suggests, then grins at your droll look. In truth, he has had whims of taking something from your suitcase that you can't go without and hiding it away so you're forced to stay, or turning off your alarm in the middle of the night so you'll miss your flight, but really he's only teasing you. It has the dual benefits of entertaining you both and conveying the degree to which James will genuinely miss you.

He sighs, flopping around on the bed until he's lying on his stomach watching you with big eyes. "What am I even supposed to do while you're gone?"

James thinks you probably roll your eyes again, only where he can't see. The next time you come back to drop more socks into the suitcase you stop to comb a hand through his hair. "Don't you have plans with Sirius tomorrow?" you ask.

"S'not the same. I'm going to come home to a cold bed."

"I bet he'll stay over if you ask."

"But"—well, that's probably true, actually—"I'll be thinking about how far away you are."

You press your lips together, a mixture of fond and amused. "We'll be okay, James."

He props his chin on a hand, looking poutily into your suitcase. "How many pairs of socks do you need, anyway? Will I ever see you again?"

"I might be overpacking," you admit. "It's only a weekend."

She had decided his brother needed a little love in his life, and she’d do everything she could to make that happen. Which was how Enola and Tewkesbury found themselves crouched behind the half-open door to the drawing room, trying to peer inside without being too obvious.

You were arranging the files, while Sherlock stood across from you, inspecting the papers you were yet to organise. You had both been quiet for a long while, which made Enola smirk.

"Something's about to happen," Enola whispered.

Tewkesbury leaned closer to her. "How can you possibly know that—"

"Be quiet, they'll hear us!"

Sherlock had turned to look out of the window by the time Enola turned her eyes back to him, his hands clasped behind his back as he watched some birds flying past the window with grass and pieces of cloth in their beaks — a nest was being built nearby.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you," he then said.

You glanced up at him. "If it's about the files about Mr. Bradshaw, I heard there’s been a shift in the investigation, I’ve already reorganised them so you can continue from where you left it."

"It isn't about the files." He turned, walking over to you. He seemed to struggle with his words for a second, but then, “I… I believe I have feelings for you.”

You blinked, your eyes widening slightly. “…What?”

He nodded. “I’ve had them for a while.”

You stared at him a moment longer, before scoffing. “Very funny, Mr. Holmes.”

He sighed. “I’m not trying to be funny. I’m very serious about my feelings.”

“Mr. Holmes—”

He interrupted you. "I'm aware of what I said. Or what I've implied, over the years. I'm aware it probably reads as contradiction."

You swallowed. “You said romantic relationships would be a danger to whoever you’d care about.”

He nodded, looking at your hands for a moment before carefully taking them to his. “They still are. I haven’t worked that part out yet.”

Enola was grinning now. “I knew it,” she whispered to Tewkesbury.

Sherlock sighed, turning his face towards the door slightly. "Enola. I know you're there."

A beat of silence, before two pairs of brisk steps scrambled away from the door. You grinned, looking down for a moment.

“Now, where were we?” Sherlock asked, smiling softly at you.

You laughed. “I believe you were announcing your love for me, Mr. Holmes.”

His smile widened into a grin, something you had never before seen him do — and that was when you truly knew your relationship would turn into a beautiful one.

---

Tags: ask to be added to this character's taglist!

“H-Hey, Satoru! Wait-wait a sec!” The words spilled from your lips in an unintentional desperate plea, the halls fully swarmed and packed with students squeezing past one another. Dozens of conversations mulled around you, voices mindlessly buzzing and bouncing off the walls as you paced towards the white haired man.

Satoru had been anything but clear as of recently, a new push pull dynamic he’d adopted that had you more confused and thrown off than ever. You thought you were going crazy.

One night he was taking you out, looking at you like you were his dream girl who hung the moon in his sky, and the next he was treating you like some clingy puppy that he had never even asked for in the first place. The hot and coldness of it all had given you whiplash trying to keep up with him.

But of course, of couuurrrse, you believed him when he said it was stress. That finals and exams had him so busy, but of course he liked you! He was just new at this whole communication thing and needed time but please Y/N, I like you so much please im trying.

You believed it all.

After all, why would you not? Especially when Satoru was Satoru and you were you.

Sure, you knew you could be a lot, knew you could have more than afforded to shut up every now and then and not chimed in with your over the top unnecessary eager commentary, but regardless, the point still stood. Satrou Gojo, one of the hottest most pined after frat boys on campus that everyone treated like a myth, like an untouchable legend, talked to you, was nice to you, even took you out and seemed happy to do so.

Maybe for once, the rumors could have been just rumors!

Plus, the last few times you remembered being taken out was high school, and they never showed you much interest past the first date once they learned they couldn't get in your pants. Gojo hadn't even tried!

“Sorry-excuse me,’cuse me, sorr- oops, my bad, imsosorry- Satoru!”

He'd been oddly silent the past few days, completely unresponsive to your texts. But with finals coming up, surely he must've been cramming and just far too busy to respond.

He hadn't sat next to you like usual in lecture, but he showed up late, so maybe he didn't want to bother you?

But he didn't wait for you after either, gone before you could even leave your seat. You couldn't deny how it stung, but always chalked it up to him being too busy or in a rush.

You could visibly see his shoulders tense from behind, the slight tilt of his head as it hung forward in what you could only assume was annoyance, a brief mental preparation to deal with you. A pang bloomed in your chest, unease pulsing through you.

He slowed down just enough for you to catch up, but didn't stop. Slightly out of breath, you fell into step next to him, cheeks flushing and heat creeping up your neck from his clear uneagerness to see or talk to you. You nervously swallowed. He could be intimidating when he wanted to be.

He didn't greet you, didn't look at you, just waited for you to speak.

You awkwardly cleared your throat to speak, a small and meek “hi,” being the only word to squeeze out.

“I’ve got class.” Short, quick, dismissive.

His blunt uninterested response sent doubt pummeling through you, the gifts in your pocket weighing heavier and heavier with the possibility of rejection more realistic than you initially thought.

He would draw you in, perfect words to butter you up and make you feel foolish for ever questioning him, and then he'd get like this. Not mean per se, but just so uninterested in you that you wondered if you had made it all up. You weren't dating (yet? So you were hoping) but he had kissed you on the most recent date. Didn't that mean something?

You'd been so ecstatic afterwards, but with no solid friends on campus, you had no one to tell or squeal to. You carried everything alone, both good and bad. Gojo knew that, the whole frat knew that. It's what made you the perfect choice.

“R-right, yeah! Um- can you stop just for a second- i wanted to-” and he loudly sighed, piercing blue eyes rolling into his head as he stopped to turn to you. He didn't say anything, just stared expectantly at you like you were completely wasting his time. His gaze on you was irritated.

The eye contact had you jittery. Not the usual nerves you'd get when you turned your head just to find him already looking at you, so anxious you’d somehow mess things up with the hottest guy ever, so desperate to be good enough for him. No. It was the on edge, antsy type that had you replaying every dumb thing you've ever said to him, the doubt pooling at the very bottom of your stomach that felt like a heavy black tar. It felt like a test you knew you’d fail when you had studied so hard to do good. You just wanted him to like you the way you liked him, and god, did you fucking like him.

Don't fuck this up, y/n, this is the best thing that has ever happened to you.

Nervously swallowing and cheeks blazing, you gave an uneasy awkward smile before rummaging through your tote bag and pocket, muttering a tiny but sincere “sorry,” when his foot started to impatiently tap against the floor.

A small pit formed in your stomach, feeling slightly mortified and very embarrassed. The feeling was similar to a child showing off their very mediocre work to an overly critical parent.

“Sorry,” you huffed a fake laugh, pulling out the small container from your bag and the keychain from your pocket.

“I-um, I made these for you, since you know, you said you loved cookies, uh on the date, they're um your favorite..” and your words trailed off as you held out the tin, slowly beginning to feel smaller and smaller as he kept his hands by his side, no show of trying to take it from you. A small sticky note on the top read, “Hope you like them! :D <3”

“Oh! A-and, hah, I saw this and, and I thought of you, especially since you said you really, um, really liked that show.” nothing. “J-Just as a um, thank you, for the other night. W-Was a lot, o-of fun.”

You held both hands out, praying he didn't see the slight tremble of your clammy hands holding the items as you stood there feeling like an idiot. The thumping of your heart picked up, eyes looking anywhere but at him, bowing your head just slightly so you wouldn't have to see him look so repulsed by you.

Had you somehow misread everything? Like actually? This entire interaction felt like some humiliation ritual.

“Um, if, if you want, o-of course, no.. no pressure,” You pathetically added, already trying to lessen his blow, already trying to minimize and justify his cold reaction towards you.

He let out a small snicker, hands finally coming up to grab the items from your unsteady hands. You hid the sigh of relief that you wanted to let out, so easy to please and already feeling happy again that he accepted your gifts, as if it was a nuisance for him to do so.

“Wow, thanks. You do too much,” he dully noted, a small closed lip smile gracing his pretty features before he turned on his feet to continue his trek to class.

The comment made you freeze, staring at the spot he stood in, a “thank you?” not even having the chance to leave your tongue. You didn't think he said it with mal intent, but the words ‘too much’ always seemed to find its way back to you.

“Oh wait!” Gojo's voice broke you from your thoughts, and you immediately turned to face him, eyes wide and excited like a dog hearing the word ‘walk.’ Maybe he'd talk to you some more, or want you to walk with him! Or maybe-

“Party this Friday night at the house. You should come by, all my friends will be there.” The words made you deflate. A party… at his frat house… the idea made your stomach twist with nerves. You knew no one, had no friends to go with, and you were absolutely horrified of embarrassing yourself around him- even more- than what you felt like you had already done.

“Oh! Um, haha, I don't think your friends like me- um- very much, haha,” you stated, hand coming up to push your fallen hair behind your ear, a small wince on your face as to not make it a big deal.

His friends, and Gojo at first too, had been relatively mean to you starting off, relentless teasing about your looks, your interests, hobbies, lack of knowledge you had despite trying so hard. You had been so caught off guard when he told you he liked you.

“Psh, they're just playing! See you at 10pm,” he yelled back, already walking away, arm coming up to carelessly wave. You sighed to yourself. You knew you would go. You really wanted to see gojo.

Friday night was a mess. A good mess at first, at least. Cars parked up and down the street, people packed in like sardines in and outside the house, music so loud all the neighboring dorms and frats could hear, and god did it reek like sweat and musk.

The two shots - okay maybe three - you took right before for liquid courage seemed to do the exact opposite as you maneuvered around a couple making out, small “excuse me’s” falling from your lips every second in a measly attempt to find gojo.

The small revealing outfit you had on, at least, seemed to match the vibe, relieved when you saw girls wearing far less. The only con was that your favorite knee high boots would most definitely get stepped on, but at least you were taller now as you searched for the stark white tufts of hair.

The house thrummed from the vibration of the speakers, bass so heavy your teeth rattled. It was dark, the only light illuminating the rooms were colorful shades of blues, purples, reds, and greens shining and flashing everywhere. The party felt like everything you weren't, but for a split second you were almost proud of yourself, going so far out of your comfort zone it felt like you were on a whole other planet. You imagined how fun these parties could be if you had any friends, and before you could let the thought get you down, you let your tipsy self imagine what it would be like to experience these with gojo by your side, excited that you were about to.

Like the rest of the house, the kitchen was packed. Unable to find Gojo had you seeking out another drink and the multitude of bottles of liquor that covered the surfaces were calling your name. You felt confident, wanting another drink to keep your courage and vibes up, grabbing a red solo cup and creating a concoction that would be far too strong, but you were here to let loose right? You were at a party!

Further encouraged and emboldened when a girl passing by stopped to compliment you, you smiled to yourself, feeling the tension roll off your back and a new found self-assurance bloom within you.

Bodies flowed and worked around you, not shoving into you or looking at you like you didn't belong, but moved in rhythm near you, like you had every right to be there and fit just fine. You relaxed into the music, earlier shots of vodka giving you a nice buzz that warmed your skin, made your cheeks tingle, and more importantly a soft happiness that weighed in your chest that comforted you like a safety blanket. Pouring the liquor into the cup with a mixer that admittedly was way too little, you knocked over a different cup, relieved there was barely any liquid that spilled over.

Quietly giggling to yourself, you spun to grab a roll of paper towels, quickly drying up the small mess you made, already sipping on your drink that made you wince in disgust. It was perfect. You hummed along to the music, hips swaying while lights blinded you, walking over to the metal garbage can to toss the wet material. Looking inside, you couldn't help but notice the tupperware that looked exactly like yours.

Furrowing your eyebrows, you leaned in a little closer, tiny fractures cutting into your heart as you realized it was yours, still packed to the brim with your cookies, sticky note still stuck to the top. Next to the cookies, the keychain you had bought him.

You froze, just a moment before scooting back, not wanting to get caught staring into the trashcan as you processed everything. There was a dull ache in your chest, energy immediately depleting and inklings of shame and embarrassment circulating through you. Your mind worked through the different possibilities, seeking out any excuse or reason as to why your items now lay forgotten in the trash.

You felt the build up of tears, blinking them back with a shaky breath as you chugged your mixture that was mainly liquor, a hopeless attempt at suppressing the sadness you felt. You shivered, turning your head to gag at the disgusting taste. Surely all the alcohol would calm your nerves.

Maybe one of the guys had done it? And not Gojo? You were positive this was all some sort of misunderstanding, no way he would just do that right? He told you he liked you- it wouldn't make any sense.

You began your trek around the sea of people, legs a little more unsteady now, eyes slightly glassy, contents of your stomach filled with a majority of alcohol and barely any food from your earlier nerves. All you wanted to do was find him, figure out an explanation that you were positive you'd be more than willing to accept, and spend the rest of the night by his side having a good time. The cookies weren't hard to bake and it's not like the keychain cost that much- it was fine, you were fine.

A little more intense this time, you made your way through the frat house, a sigh of relief when a glimpse of that notorious white fluffy hair came into view, a black backwards baseball cap sitting perfectly on his head. When your eyes finally landed on gojo, albeit still a little wobbly and throat tight, you couldn't help the smile that automatically formed on your face, hoping he'd feel the same. Why wouldn't he? He did invite you after all.

He was surrounded by his friends and then some, everyone dialed in on what he was saying. You anxiously stepped forward, waiting for the right time to get close to him and say hello. You wondered if he'd hug you and say ‘hi baby,’ like he sometimes did. The thought made your heart flutter inside its ribs like a bird in a cage.

Maybe he'd even compliment your outfit, or your hair and makeup. You eagerly bit your lip, too excited to be embarrassed at your spiraling thoughts of being somewhat wanted by him.

“Bro and then she gave me a fuck ass keychain, dude!!” he broke up his commentary with a laugh, a little too forced for it to be genuine, but a laugh nonetheless. “Said it reminded her of me, like, she just can't get any weirder bro. God and don't get me started on the cookies. She said it was her thanks for taking her out, but she doesnt know its all a bet to get into her pants- shes a fucking virgin for sureeee, threw that shit out as soon as i got back,” and he snickered and grinned like he had won the best prize. Like he had formed the best, most elaborate plan and you had played your part perfectly. You really, really had.

His friends, who you recognized as toji and maybe sukuna, chuckled, all chiming in with terms of agreement and encouragement, adding on all sorts of lies and theories about you, like maybe you were secretly a whore putting out, your innocent act a devious little facade. Geto, who had always been kind to you, was there too, perched against the side of a couch, not joining in, but silent and accepting.

You flinched, physically recoiling back when you heard them laugh about how you were too much, too pathetic to see right through anything at all, a fucking stupid girl for thinking someone like you could have a chance at him. Everything you had told yourself, every insecurity that had coursed through you, all confirmed. Others really did view you the way you saw yourself.

“Bro and when I kissed her, swear i almost gagged-”

You drowned his voice out, the music. There was a ringing in your ears that wasn't there before. Frozen in your spot, fingers beginning to shake, throat burning so badly you weren't sure if the alcohol you had downed was about to make a surprise appearance or not.

The bodies around you blurred as the pit in your stomach grew, humiliation washing over you as if you’d just been doused with a bucket full of ice water. You didn't run, couldn't, feet glued to the floor as you were forced to listen to the group of the hottest guys on campus who didn't even know you as a person, didn't take the time to learn you, ridicule you and make fun of you. You guessed it didn't matter, because Gojo had.

Each breath was labored and jagged, chest tightening and skin prickling with such an intense heat that you felt constricted in the already sparse clothes you wore. The way the fabric dug into you, a certain stitch that scratched you, the zipper that rubbed against your skin - it felt like you were suddenly aware of every unpleasant feeling in addition to the shattering of your heart.

You wanted to go home, wanted the floor to swallow you whole- felt so unbelievably silly standing there watching the guy you liked- fuck, the guy you had fallen in love with- paint you out to be some weird nasty creature who was undeserving of his attention. Sure, you had felt that way initially, but he had been so kind to you that you had been so blindsided, unknowingly setting yourself up to fall right back into your constant cycle of heartbreak and misery.

Built up tears finally broke the surface, some beginning to stream down your face and others just dropping from the sheer amount that had welled up. It wasn't until gojo turned his head, eyes landing directly on you and smile completely dropping that your legs became unstuck.

Your breath hitched, crackling sob breaking through as your saliva grew sticky. The extra drinks sure to make you vomit after this. You spun so fast you lost balance for a split second on your heels, immediately righting yourself and pushing through the sweaty bodies blocking you in. You didn't say sorry or excuse me, just pummeled through, desperate to get outside so that maybe you could finally breathe. You felt like a pig in makeup, and the thought made you cry harder. So beyond embarrassed, having dressed up and done your hair and makeup, mortified that everyone else thought you looked just as ugly and silly. You had to get out of here, the air was too thick and stuffy as the walls closed in on you.

Your name fell on deaf ears, sprinting out the front door and down the porch steps, surroundings a blur from not only how fast you were moving, but the alcohol that coursed through you. You knew the gifts were stupid, sure, but everything else? The kiss? He wanted to gag? All the times he called you pretty, beautiful, yes, it was more than plausible that it was a lie, but why did he say it all then? That's right, because you were supposedly just a fucking bet.

Who would willingly want to be with you?

Gojo called your name again, louder. You weren't the only one sick to your stomach. He cursed, heart dropping to his ass as the overwhelming suffocating feeling of guilt bloomed inside of his chest, heart quite literally constricting at how shitty, how fucking disgusting, he felt. It spread throughout him and he would've thought it was dramatic if it didn't feel like he could currently drop to his knees and heave. The entire situation was beyond fucked up, everything a misunderstanding and completely not at the same time.

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he repeated, hoarse and panicked as he immediately trailed after you, abruptly leaving the conversation mid sentence, not caring how he looked when all the guys stared at him in confusion. He lost sight of you for a moment but knew you'd only try to leave, escape the perfect hell he had just created for you.

Why the fuck did he do this? How the fuck was he gonna make this up to you, and why had he let himself get involved in this shitty idea anyway? He knew he should've called it off, he knew he had fallen for you.

Muttering insults as hands came out to grab at him, others trying to talk and some pulling him in for a dance. He didn't look, didn't care who they were, practically throwing and shoving their hands off him with only you in mind. He would explain everything to you, lay himself bare and expose the ugliness and insecurities that festered inside of him.

He had been projecting this entire time, exhausted from maintaining such an ugly facade of the frat fuckboy, desperately trying to fit in with everyone else that he stupidly agreed to the bet just to feel some type of belonging and companionship. All at the expense of you.

He didn't think, that was his issue. So caught up in this fake lifestyle that he knew the act wasn't just pretend anymore, his morals slipping by the day as he settled into this new once foreign character. They were all fucking assholes. All of them.

Fingers tightly clenching your almost dead phone, you bawled, frustration making you grit your teeth in additional annoyance when the sidewalk wouldn't stay straight. Accidentally stepping off the concrete, your heel caught on the edge, sending you falling onto all fours on the pavement, too drunk to care about the pain that shot up your wrists and knees. You let out a guttural infuriated noise, a mix between a squeal and growl, feeling so much more than just pissed and heartbroken. You furiously smashed your palm against the concrete as if it held the blame.

“Fuck, hey, shit, are you okay??”

Gojo's palm rested on your back and in the blink of an eye you stumbled up, whipping around to face him seething and disgusted as tears continued to stream down your cheeks.

“Don't fucking touch me,” you spat backing away from him as if he had physically struck you, and at this point you thought you would’ve almost preferred that over the gut wrenching feeling in your chest. There was a physical pain that tore throughout you, your heart feeling like sharp talons had ripped it out and stomped on it like an attempt at snuffing out a flame.

If you had it in you, you would’ve laughed at his expression, so devastated and hurt and torn as if he wasn't the one who caused all this, as if he wasn't the one who could've prevented everything. He had the audacity to stare at you like he was scared of losing you.

“Please, please y/n, i can explain, I am so sorry, please,” and it was as equally pathetic as it was infuriating. gojo pathetically begged, arms awkwardly reaching towards you as if you were the solution.

You paused, tongue loose and words slurred, staring at him bewildered as you threw your palms up. He wasn't who you thought he was. Or maybe he was exactly who everybody said he was and it was your fault for thinking otherwise.

“I thought you liked digimon??”

He swore, hands coming up to drag down his face. You saw. Saw your cookies and the keychain you bought him in the garbage.

“That wasn't me, I swear, please believe me, I swear- I-I got back from class, one of the guys saw and- and started laughing, they took it from me before I could even say anything. They tossed it, and I swear, please believe me, I was gonna grab it after, I-I love Digimon, I loved your gifts, please.”

He was breathless now, a fruitless panicked attempt at defending himself.

You scoffed. “Sure it wasn't too much?”

Gojo winced, hands curling. “I didn't mean it, I didn't mean it like that-” You cut him off, angrily sniffing and wiping your bloody gravel pricked hands against your black mini skirt. God you felt ridiculous.

“Yeah?? Which fucking part??” Your voice raised an octave, almost yelling but you didn't care as passerbyers turned their heads. You spewed the words, moving forward just to angrily shove at his chest, blood smearing his white shirt. Good, you wanted to stain his shit, wipe your blood all over it.

He took advantage of the proximity, quickly but lightly wrapping his large hands around your wrists to keep you close. You screeched, thrashing in his hold, weakly trying to hit him, shove him, and with his loose grip, he let you, your small fists pounding against his hard chest

“Im sorry, Im sorry, Im so fucking sorry, I like you- I like you so fucking much-”

A broken sob escaped you, a mix between a snarl and cry getting stuck in your throat.

“I didn't mean anything I said in there, I loved kissing you, you’re beautiful - fuck, you’re perfect, you’re so fucking perfect and- and you know me, the real me, I feel like I can be myself with you, please please please, im begging you, let me explain everything- from the start.” He was frantic, words rushing out so fast they blended into one. His eyes were glossy and rimmed red and you knew it wasn’t from whatever drugs he had done.

You stilled your hits, pausing in his hold. Rapid breaths mingling, chests quickly falling and rising, faded background music from the frat echoing into the night.

“Please.”

Gojo spoke it like a prayer, voiced with despair and a frenzied anguish that he knew deep down would do nothing. He would continue to beg, to plead with you, to reason, but deep down, he knew. Your chin dropped to your chest helplessly, a small hiccup squeezing itself out as you tried to catch your breath. Your eyes felt swollen from how much you had cried, but you had plenty left.

You could feel gojo guide your palms to rest against his chest, a new set of bloody hand prints against the stark white, heart thumping like he'd just ran a marathon. You slammed your eyes shut, new sobs threatening to break loose, the feeling of wanting to curl up and die had never been more prominent.

“y/n, I'll do anything, please- please, I don't-” and his voice cracked, fingers tightening around your wrists. “I don't want to lose you- Im so, Im so sorry, baby.”

Your breath hitched, lips curling and fingers twisting into his shirt to bunch the fabric beneath your fingers. The agony and discomfort in your chest was painfully overwhelming, silently wishing you'd wake up from this nightmare, wishing you never heard him, trying to wrap your mind around how and why he would do this to you. You’d never understand, would never gain pleasure from hurting anyone, let alone, him.

“What did I ever do to you?”

The words came out small, so small and fractured and so confused, seeking an explanation or reason that could maybe get the two of you past this- that maybe you must've done something to deserve it and the two of you could come back from this, but you knew it was all for nothing. For no reason at all.

Gojo's eyes flashed with guilt, anger, and shame. He wanted to recoil, wanted to throw his head into his hands and sob, but he didn't want to let you go. He knew it would be the last time. Your gaze didn't meet his.

He swallowed, throat stinging and eyes burning. He regretted everything, internally begging to take it all back like some upper power would hear him and turn back time.

“Nothing, you didn't deserve this- you did- did nothing.” The words caught as his voice wavered and you wondered if he was crying. You refused to look at those eyes. His fucking blue perfect eyes that bore into you like you mattered- it was all lies- he had lied to you for months- almost an entire semester. You dug your teeth into your bottom lip, attempting to stifle the wail you wanted to blubber out. It had been months.

Months of getting to know one another, of a build up, of a hope for something more. The silliest stupidest notion that for once someone found you valuable too and it wasn’t one sided.

A shallow gasp, an unintentional whimper, your shoulders shook as you wept.

“I wish I never met you, g-gojo. I would never-” a cry broke your words, tensing up as you angled your head down to hide your uncontrollable tears. He wanted to correct you and tell you to call him satoru or toru, but he stayed silent, let the sting burn. “Never hurt you like this.”

You shakily exhaled, not paying attention to his mindless small whimpers of “I know, I'm so sorry, I know, please.”

You gripped the fabric tighter, lifting your head to finally meet his eyes, hating how he was crying, how he genuinely looked heartbroken at hurting you, how you hated seeing him like this. His chin wobbled, breath coming out in unsteady pants and for once, he didn't look like the notorious frat boy who could conquer anything. He looked small, like a scared little boy.

Unsteady shaky hands lifted to gently cup your cheeks, gojo preparing himself for you to yank away from his touch like it burned. He sniffled when you didn’t, perfect lips shiny and slightly parted as he fully rested them against your soft skin.

“I never want to see you again.”

His composure shattered, immediately shaking his head murmuring “no’s”, thumbs rubbing back and forth over your skin and under your eyes as he repeated the same words over and over again. You pushed him back roughly with all your drunken force, which wasn't much, but enough to send him stumbling backwards to create distance.

He was alarmed, not at what you had done, but at watching you walk away, brain filling with nothing but no no no no no please, please stay, stay with me stay.

“Y/n, no please, baby, baby, y/n, please hear me out- please-” his voice was shredded, raw from drinking and yelling and begging, but he didn’t care. He’d beg and beg until he had no voice left, and when it was gone, he would find another way.

For a moment, you paused, and he thought that maybe, just maybe you would listen. But when you slowly turned to him, looking so fucking beautiful still as street lamps glistened in the reflection of your eyes, cheeks shiny and tinted pink from the tears that painted your cheeks, it all clicked. It was torturous.

“Fuck y/n, please, I-I love you. I’m so,” he swallowed to ease the scratchiness of his throat. It did nothing. “I’m so in love with you,” and he whispered the words, loud enough so you’d hear, but almost as if they weren’t meant for you, as if he was just talking to himself and unintentionally said the realization aloud.

He watched as a lone tear dropped down your cheek and it was cruel. He was cruel, you were cruel. Standing there so perfect and so beautiful while you broke his heart, and it was all his fault since he had done it first. The silence was thick as the two of you stood feet apart, wordlessly staring at each other, letting his words hang in the air. You opened your mouth and shut it, letting the process repeat as you mulled over the words in your head, wishing more than ever he hadn’t said them. Wishing more than ever you didn’t feel the same.

“I’d pick you, over and over again Satoru, every time, in a room full of people. Everyone would,” you huffed a fake laugh, blinking away your tears as you stared into his dumb perfect eyes. “I thought-” your lips quivered, chin wobbling at the humiliating admission. “I thought for once, someone had finally picked me.” The words slowly fell from your lips, laced with what one could only describe as pure heartbreak.

Gojo felt the final blow split his heart, not a clean cut, but a jagged uneven slash that cleaved it in two. He called your name, desperate and all, watching you spin on your heel and angrily walk away, your perfume hitting him as the wind blew.

He stepped forward- yelled your name again. But you didn't turn, didn't peek, didn't flinch as you sobbed, fingers constantly wiping your eyes to see where you were going as you drunkenly walked back to your apartment. Cried for yourself, mourned who you were becoming, who you were becoming with him. You had fallen in love with him too, of course you had. He was so easy to love.