Warnings: jealousy, stalking, possessive behavior, emotional manipulation, toxic relationship dynamics, psychological games, emotional coercion, mild threats, obsessive behavior, public tension, power imbalance, petty sabotage, social exclusion, boundary violations, controlling behavior, angst, dark romance themes, reader caught between lovers, Paige and Azzi won’t let go
Summary:
You’re done being their secret.
Paige and Azzi used to have you behind closed doors—no labels, no public claims. So you walk away. You find Lila, sweet and open and ready to actually choose you. But Paige and Azzi refuse to let you go quietly.
They watch. They sabotage. They mock Lila. They corner you in hotel hallways and create group chats just to fight. And they don’t care who sees how badly they want you back—even if they’d rather burn everything than let anyone else have you.
Notes: i’m sorry this genuinely sucks but pt.3 of mine to know will be out in the next 1-2 days.
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The gym still smells like sweat and victory.
Your hair is slick to your forehead, jersey sticking to your skin as you bounce on your toes and fist-bump your teammates. The scoreboard’s final buzzer is long over, but the adrenaline is still there.
Paige is smiling at Azzi, the two of them close enough that you can see the tension in the way they look at each other. It’s the same tension they direct at you when the three of you are behind closed doors.
But never here. Never on the court.
“Good game,” you mutter when they look over. Paige gives you a nod. Azzi’s smirk is sharp as ever.
“Good game,” she repeats, voice low enough only you can hear. “Don’t wander too far tonight.”
it’s not really a question. It never is.
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Ted’s Bar is the usual post-win spot.
It’s too bright in here, music too loud, everything sticky with spilled beer and celebration.
You’re leaning against the wall by the dartboard, nursing a Gatorade. No drinking for the athletes, but Ted’s doesn’t card that hard if you want it.
You’re bored, you’re also annoyed.
Because Paige and Azzi are at the bar, talking to Caroline and KK. Laughing. Not with you.
They don’t want to claim you. Never have. Not in daylight.
But let someone else even look at you? That’s a problem.
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Tonight you don’t care.
Because she walks up to you.
Lila.
Cute cheerleader. Shy.
She wrings her fingers when she talks, glancing up at you through her lashes like she doesn’t know she’s the prettiest girl in the room.
“Um, congrats on the win,” she says.
You smile. Real, unguarded.
“Thanks. You cheering had something to do with it.”
She blushes so hard you want to kiss it off her cheeks.
And you decide, in that moment, that you’re done.
Done with waiting for Paige and Azzi to claim you.
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You don’t even look at them.
You focus on Lila.
She laughs at your jokes. She keeps glancing at your lips. When you brush her hair behind her ear she gasps a little.
You’re so lost in her that you don’t see Paige and Azzi at first.
But KK does. She coughs and shifts on her stool, eyes flicking nervously between you and the bar.
Caroline mutters something about “Oh shit.”
Because Paige is watching you.
Eyes cold.
Azzi’s hand is tapping on the bar in a steady rhythm, jaw tight.
But they don’t say anything, they can’t.
Not with the whole team here.
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You leave Ted’s with Lila’s number.
You’re texting her before you even get back to the dorms.
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Over the next week, you drop all contact with Paige and Azzi.
No late-night texts. No sneaking into their room. No hooking up after practice.
Instead you’re walking Lila to class. Sitting with her in the dining hall.
Holding her hand.
Kissing her behind the bleachers.
it’s not lost on anyone.
Paige and Azzi don’t say a word.
But they don’t have to.
Because every time you sit at team meals, they move.
You drop your tray next to Azzi, she gets up and goes to the other end of the table.
You try to sit by Paige in film, she mutters “move,” so quietly only you hear.
KK and Caroline give you looks but don’t say anything.
You don’t say anything either.
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It’s petty.
But you’re petty too.
When Lila comes to watch practice, you wave to her. Blow her a kiss.
Azzi bricks three shots in a row after that.
Paige fouls you harder than she needs to on a drive.
Geno asks if you’re good.
You smile and say “Yeah.”
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One day after practice you’re at your locker.
Paige corners you.
Azzi is standing behind her, arms crossed.
Your heart hammers even though you’re trying to act like you don’t care.
Paige’s voice is so calm it’s scary.
“So,” she says, tilting her head. “How’s your girlfriend?”
You glare at her. “What?”
She lifts an eyebrow. “You know. Ella. Emily. Jessie. Whatever her name is.”
You slam your locker shut.
“It’s Lila,” you snap. “Don’t forget it.”
Azzi’s mouth curls, but there’s no humor in it.
“Oh,” she says quietly, voice ice. “We won’t.”
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You shoulder past them.
Your phone buzzes.
Lila’s waiting outside.
You text her: Be right there.
You don’t look back.
But you can feel Paige’s stare on your back.
You can feel Azzi’s breathing change.
You know they’re seething.
And for once, you don’t care.
Because Lila actually wants to claim you.
And they never did.
But you know it’s not over.
Not with them.
Not by a long shot.
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It’s been a week since that locker-room confrontation.
The team is on a road trip now, cramped bus, hours of forced proximity.
You’re in your seat by the window, earbuds in, pretending to watch game film on your phone.
But you can feel them watching you.
Paige two rows behind. Azzi across the aisle.
Lila texted you an hour ago: “Miss you. Good luck tonight. ❤️”
You smiled at your phone. Didn’t bother to hide it.
KK saw. Coughed. Looked away.
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At the hotel, it gets worse.
Team dinner in a private room.
You sit next to Jana
Paige and Azzi on the other side of the table, stone-faced, not even pretending to laugh at the small talk.
You don’t care, mostly.
But you can feel them.
It’s like being under a microscope.
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After dinner, everyone heads to their rooms.
But Paige is waiting in the hallway.
Azzi leans against the wall next to her.
You stop when you see them, shoulders tightening.
They don’t say anything for a beat.
You try to step past.
Paige’s hand closes on your arm.
It’s not gentle.
She leans in. Voice low enough that no one else can hear.
“So I’ve been thinking—”
You roll your eyes immediately, yanking your arm back.
“—surprising,” you bite out, dripping sarcasm.
Her eyes flash murder.
But before she can snap, Azzi’s voice cuts in, low and cold and precise.
“Why’d you drop us?”
You freeze.
Azzi’s not even looking at you. She’s looking at the ugly carpet in the hotel hallway like she’s trying not to hit something.
ft. gojo satoru, ryomen sukuna, and choso kamo
summary: in which you ask them to get an std test before you let them hit
warnings: this is entirely crack, blame @getopied and @lemonjuicie for encouraging me
FRAT!JO
He's whining about it. Acting like you just asked him to cut his dick and balls off and swing them around over his head.
"You want me to get a what?"
"An STD test, yes."
You think you're being very reasonable here! Gojo's sort of notorious around campus. He may be your boyfriend now, but you can't just ignore his past as much as you trust him.
"I'm clean, I promise, babe. You think I'd ever do that to you on purpose?" His hand comes up to cup your cheek, and he's staring at you with those soft puppy eyes you love so much.
It's almost enough to get you.
"Nope. Not falling for it. Get tested or you can't hit it. You never know what people don't tell you."
"Oh my god, babe—"
"Aht. Do it or don't. But you're not touching my pussy until I see those papers."
He's at the clinic as soon as it opens the next morning.
TRUE FORM!SUKUNA
"Suki, I need you to get an STD test before I have sex with you…"
The look Sukuna gives you would be enough to have any other person dropping dead on the spot.
"What is this 'STD?'"
You stifle a laugh. "A sexually transmitted disease."
"I do not have one of those, woman. Do not ask me to debase myself in such a way again. Now come here before I lose my patience."
"Suki, how would you know you don't have one?"
He snarls and crosses his two sets of arms over his chest. "I have never deemed another being worthy of indulging in."
Disregarding the odd sweetness of his words, a shit-eating grin forms on your face. "So, you're a virgin?"
"I should eat you alive for that comment."
"Kinky. I like it. Come show me."
Sukuna trundles over to you, tall form looming over you as his eyes twinkle smugly.
"Sorry. I'm not allowed to fuck you until I get tested."
Well. That backfired.
CHOSO
"Choso, I can't comfortably have sex with you until you get an STD test…"
Choso's lips detach from you neck, dark brown eyes glossed with tears at the thought of having to keep his hands off your body.
"What?"
"You heard me, Cho. I'm sorry." Your fingers idly fidget with the loose strands of your boyfriend's hair as he stifles a whine into your shoulder.
"Wait—" he suddenly shoots upright and stares down at you with wide eyes. "Stay here!"
You watch in stunned silence as Choso sprits off toward your bedroom. He comes back a few minutes later with a stack of papers in his hand, shoving the pages toward you like they're miraculous.
"Is what you need in there? Shoko ran a bunch of tests on me after I came to Jujutsu High…"
Choso remains posted up at your side, watching you with big, pleading eyes as you flip through the papers. You eventually land on a blood panel in which Shoko seemed to have tested him for every disease known to mankind.
"Well…alright. You're clean, I guess."
"That means I can touch you, right?"
"Yes, Cho," you laugh.
"Amazing. Thank you…thank you…thank you…"
He spends the next five minutes kissing all over your body.
all written content belongs to @cherrys-wrld. i do not own the original characters or the official art used above. do not feed my work into ai, repost, translate, or copy it.
masterlist
perm taglist: @killakuna @fricks
gojo/sukuna/choso/jjk taglist: @nyapinkypie @poepard @loverboykirstein @dawnsoblivion @satorusrealm @dollhousesinner @sugurusbadhabit @suguruss1ut @sgarcubes @imagineadream @getopied @satorusdollie @slut4gojo @clementinehatch @gyusheadphones @neovisions @littleevilme13 @lvsttastic (if any of you don't want to be tagged for silly shit like this, please lmk :3 my feelings won't be hurt)
˖ ࣪૮₍ 𝓟.𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐑 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𓂃 ⭒ is your toxic ex who's now making your student life hell.
⤿ ꒰ satoru knew that his sweet girl couldn't last without him. he just had to make you realise that :: college au :: smut :: age gap ( 40s / 20s ) :: toxic dynamics :: kinda yandere behaviour :: dumbification :: p in v :: m.masturbation :: phone sex :: thigh riding :: rough sex :: degradation :: praise :: creampie :: overstimulation :: financial disparity :: mean!toru ꒱
♡ ₊˚‧ beta read by my pookie baby @aves1018 <3
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ was your scandalous little secret. all heaven smiles and devil eyes. blue. bright and brutal in the same way he carried himself. he was as charming as he was cunning. the right mix of taboo and terror that made your little heart flutter whenever he cast you a glance over his rimless glasses as he set your perfect-score down in your table. muttered a “that's my girl” to your ear when brushed by him to leave the class. spanked your thigh under that skimpy little skirt when no one was looking— but anyone could see.
being professor gojo's favourite was something dangerous. something fun, something frightening, and the infinity in between.
he took care of you. showered in you in spoils. took you back to his apartment after stressful hours and fucked you into his leather couch until you left pretty red scratches down his back. with the same nails that he paid to manicure. you were always seen. always praised. you lacked nothing when it came to being in his arms.
but you couldn't do it any longer.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ was twice your age. in his forties with silvers slipping between his white strands. creases setting in the corners of his eyes. his tongue tasted like aged wine. his hands laced with experience you could only dream of. but with all the pros of dating an older man— came the deep, dreary insecurity.
insecurity that you wouldn't be enough. that you weren't permanent. that you were just a little taste but not the one that'll quench his thirst. really, what did a man with his qualification and achievements need from you other than something to pass the time?
and to top it all off? his possessiveness knew no bounds. it was quiet, not violent, but sharp. the kind of thing that left you paranoid whether you were toeing a line or not. he didn't approve of your friends. couldn't handle your classmates. hell— he failed the boy that sat next to you all semester just because you flashed him a smile.
so with all facts considered? you were gonna leave him. it was for the best rather than drag you both down a love that was doomed.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't too bothered when you told him it was over. it was in the car. he saw it coming. knew you were reaching a limit. he still snapped at the waiter who dared to laugh at your little joke that was meant for him.
but sure. you wanna break away just because he loved you so much? not an issue. he could see the tears in your eyes. the tremble in your fingers as you took the bag that he bought you as he dropped you off at your dorm building.
no. he wasn't too bothered. why would he be? you'd always be his. and little miss daddy-issues-and-academic-insecurity needed his validation to function.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ started in class. a week after you left him. your assignment was handed in with shaky hands rather than confidence. and he was more than happy to mark you down. why should he glance over your little mishaps anymore? you didn't need his special treatment. so, yeah, he didn't bat an eye as his hand sharply pressed your assignment sheet your desk as he passed. not even casting you a glance. looking on ahead as you crumbled at your B-.
“try harder next time. you're better than this.”
he said it so easily. as if he was always capable of seeing you as nothing in those cutting blues eyes.
it seemed to be a trend. he'd hand you back your assignments. they weren't what you expected. and when you slipped the spot of top ranked student in his quantum physics class?
well, he didn't bother looking up at you as you stood before his desk. hands gripping your newest assignment. almost hesitant to hand it in.
“how's that even possible?” you asked, soft.
“awww baby.” he only tilted his head. pinched his brows at the centre. looked at you with that soft look that was oh, so condescending now. “people change. you know that better than anyone, huh?”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ knew that his validation meant everything to you. now you weren't his top student, weren't the object of his praise. no more mouthed “atta girl”s or treating you to your favourite restaurant after another stellar score.
you were struggling to get by. scraping to get back to your straight a's. to achieve even a hint of his favour.
you never did. it was a downhill spiral. and everyone knew what an asshole professor gojo could be. so of course no one batted an eye when he belittled you in class.
“guess I expected too much,” he'd sigh after calling out your marks for the last test. he didn't have to. but you knew what he did.
as he leaned back in his chair with his arms behind his head. cutting that stare that you'd grown to flinch at over.
“so much for star student, huh? try better next time. know you can do it.”
he knew you could.
but knew you wouldn't. not now that you were spiralling.
not when you weren't his favourite girl anymore.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ caught you outside at the steps that day. night time. you probably spent all afternoon in the library studying to make up for the embarrassment. for your sin of slipping in your grades. he knew you would. knew how you operated.
knew you'd be all teary as you walked down the steps with your hand tight on your book bag. trying to ignore him.
“awww baby. what's wrong? you crying?”
you didn't flinch when satoru caught up to you. when he cradled your face in that way he knew you loved to be comforted. bit back a grin as you resisted the urge to press your head into his palm and fall into his arms.
“oh c'mon. you crying over me? didn't say anything bad. you know how I operate.”
all low and gentle. in that voice he used when he used to tutor you and you just couldn't grasp what he was saying. like you were his silly girl. his sweet girl.
long fingers slipped around your jaw. gripped on your cheeks and squished them as he tilted your head up. towering over you but leaning over so that his white strands tickled your tears.
“don't look like that, princess.” he muttered. pressing a firm kiss into your lips and smearing your gloss. not tender, but taunting. not comforting, but still charming enough to have you whimpering and clinging to his shirt.
and as he pulled back, a grin split his lips still hovered over yours. half-hung lashes batting at your falling tears.
“just try harder next time, yeah?”
before he patted your cheek and you left you stranded on the stairs.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ knew that you needed him in more ways than one. not only did he soothe that insecurity in your heart but he also sealed the hole in your wallet. and now? he knew you were struggling. you didn't order out as much. didn't have the luxury to. you walked back to the dorm. lifts must be costly. you sure as hell didn't have your nails done every other week. he missed the acrylics and blue you'd insist on. but hey— you made your bed.
didn't mean that he didn't feel sorry for you when he spotted you at your favourite cafe. probably ordering a tea like you did now. not your favourite sweet treat and hot chocolate.
yeah. it was pity. definitely not the need to remind you what you were missing— as he called to the barista from behind you. “get the lady a hot chocolate and a strawberry crepe, please?”
as he leaned over your stiffening form, arm grazing yours as he slid his black card over. murmuring a soft, “I've got you, sweetheart,” to your ear when the barista turned.
you let him sit with you that day. spoke to him properly for the first time in months. even if you couldn't hold his eye contact. even if you thanked him a hundred times and over.
while he gave you a gentle look, inwardly? he was grinning.
bingo.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ knew he had you slowly wrapping around his finger again. that's why he had no shame when he leaned back in his couch that day. remembering your weight in his lap. swiping through his folder that he refused to delete. full of your pretty body, your slutty expressions and your messy thighs.
that's why he didn't feel bad as his hand wrapped around his hard dick that slapped back on his tummy, smearing some pre on his abs.
why he groaned your name without care as he squeezed in his angry tip. remembered the way you'd whine as he rubbed it on your little clit. how you'd cry out as he kissed it in your cervix.
fuck. he remembered how your thighs would quiver for him. how that smart mouth of yours would reduce to a babbling, stuttering, slutty whimper of his name as he ragdolled you on his cock.
his hand sped. his other swiping to your contact. you hadn't blocked him. it's your fault for the voice note you'd receive. of his harsh grunts and his rasped gasps accompanying that wet shlick shlick shlick.
of his voice, groaning your name low like it was both his sin and salvation.
“sweetheart, fuck. look at what you do to me— fuck. still work me up so fuckin' much even when you aren't mine. miss your pretty pussy. miss my sweet girl so soooo bad."
he'd whine. he remembered how much you like that. liked hearing him lose himself as he slammed all the way in and rutted as he frothed you up.
now? it was all over his hand. and he made sure the voice note heard just how much he wished it was in your sweet little cunt instead.
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ expected you to not answer him. but you still didn't block him. still didn't report him. you wouldn't. you loved him too much. loved the thought of him. did you think that while you touched yourself to his voice note?
he knew you did. knew you didn't get yourself that. knew you probably sat there playing with your cute clit and whining his name all pitifully as you tried so desperately to cum the way he'd make you squirt back then. back when you were his.
you know what else he expected? you to storm into his office and accuse him of marking you down purposefully. your mid term marks were sent out that morning. he made sure of it. made sure you'd have to face the man, your ex, who sent you a five minute long voice note of him fisting his big cock to you.
“such accusations, sweet girl.” satoru drawled, lazy, as he leaned his head on his hand and his elbow on the desk.
“if you think so, I'm not opposed to you sitting with me while I mark your next assignment. I've got the next stack set for this afternoon. wanna come confirm your claims?”
his brow arched. his diamond eyes invited you. his velvet voice dared you.
and you did. of course you did. he expected that too.
his fourth expectation? that you'd find your way in his lap. with that skirt he loved so much. with your thighs slotted over his knee and his hand cradling your ass while his other graded papers.
you were soaking through his pants. he could feel it. the same way he felt you tremble as he flipped to your assignment. squeezed your ass and bounced his knee to grind up on your cunt.
“those poor panties must be so drenched, huh pretty?” he crooned to your ear, squishing you down onto his bounces and grinds. enjoying your whimpers. your whines as your hands fisted on his shirt.
“look at that,” he pouted, dragging the edge aside of your panties aside so that your clit ground perfectly on the fabric of his pants. “such a slutty student. think this is gonna get you extra credit?”
swat! his fingertips came down in your clit. his leg bounced again to force your needier grinds.
he grinned. cruel and cold on your ear as the sharp strokes of his red pen sliced through the air.
“mm. you're gonna need it. my sweet girl's become a stupid girl in my absence.”
he laughed as you whipped around. as you looked over. saw your assignment littered in red.
and the worst thing is? as he unbuckled his belt and manhandled you over his thighs so your back faced his chest to give you a better look— as his cock slapped on your cunt and dwarfed your folds as he slid between them. as his tip rubbed on your clit in that same way that had you trembling—
you saw it.
saw that he wasn't marking you down in any way that you didn't deserve.
and as his cock plunged in and your back through in an arch. as he snatched your waist and bounced your little cunt on his cock that split you open and had you creaming in seconds. . .
he taunted you. squishing your thighs and biting on your ear. “poor girl. poor, stupid girl.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ wasn't even surprised when he got a call the next week. an internship at that institution you'd always prattle so excitedly about. poor you. you probably thought just because he had you in his lap and called you his sweet girl— just because you were his once upon a time, that he wouldn't give you a bad reference to the job of your dreams, huh?
poor, sweet, stupid girl.
he was beginning to like your tears. your eyes looked pretty when they were glossed and your lashes were all damp. as you blinked up at him after you burst into his office again. face blotched and hands clenched.
“how could you?” you croaked. “I— you know how important that is to me—”
“you were important to me too.”
“that's not the point! so what you sabotaged me because I broke up with you? what don't you get satoru? we can't do this! what kind of person would—”
you trembled so prettily when he stood. when shook his head with a sigh and slipped his glasses into his hair.
“sweetheart, sweetheart," he tutted, circling his desk and backing you into it once he got in front of you.
“you don't get it, do you?” there's that condescending tone again. the one he used because to him, you were just his dumb, naïve girl.
big hands came down on the edge of the desk that you pressed into. trapping you against the wood and his wickedness as he leaned over. towering you as always. face pressing closer. brows pinched and knitted upwards. face that mockery of sympathy.
“baby, sweetheart, my sweetest girl. here's the thing.” his lips brushed yours. you tensed. teary eyes wide and staring into his.
“I realised. I'm not a good person when it comes to you.”
velvet and diamond. smooth and cutting. like it was simple fact. a set fate.
his head crooked. glasses slipping down his nose and brutal blues pinning you from over the rim.
“y'know. if you come back to me, you wouldn't have to worry about all this. . .”
his sly fingers brushed your hair back. a kiss pressed to your temple.
“I'd take care of you.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ knew you were on the brink. knew it wouldn't take long before you were in his arms again. he just had to wait. even when his fingers ached for your skin. when his lips burned for yours. when his palms itched to just grab you by the waist and drag you back to him cause you were such a stubborn girl.
but he'd wait. wait for you to make the decision. wait for you to realise that you were always his and he was the best you ever had.
so you could imagine his grin when you stayed back after class. when you stood in front of his desk with your eyes batting at him. hesitant. shaky. when you asked him for extra credit in his class that you were now borderline failing. but most of all, when you offered your pretty body to him without him even uttering a word.
this is what he meant. what he waiting for. for you to make the moves. to miss him. to want him.
he fucked you into your dorm bed that night. with your face shoved down and your fingers clinging to your pillow. ass clapping and brushing with his brutal thrusts that smacked his heavy balls on your folds. cock splitting you open and spilling your creamy mess all over the wrinkled sheets.
his hand in your hair. his voice rough in your ear.
“like that, sweetheart? want it like that?” he grinned, feral and cruel as you mewled when he angled right. shoved into a sweetspot and ground so filthily until your eyes rolled back as you drooled his name into the pillow.
“missed how I fucked you— right here?”
“r-right there! please!”
“uhuh? righhhttt here?”
he drawled. hand smacking down on your ass and leaving a sting, before he reached around. pinching and pulling on your spasming clit. as he slammed! all the way in. jamming his hips with yours and rutting on your messy, creaming folds. so a lewd, clickclickclick muffled from your overly-stuffed cunt.
“fuck—” satoru rasped. eyes wild and dilated as his fingers bunched your hair tighter. shoved your face further into the pillow. “take it. take this cock like you were born to. like this slutty cunt missed it.”
he missed your squirts. missed your sobs. missed the way your hand tried to scramble back and grip on his hair as he pummelled your pussy all raw and rough into the ruined sheets.
his eyes fluttered back as you squeezed him again. as you struggled on his name and squirmed beneath him.
“s-sato— sat— hngh.”
“say it, sweetheart.” he grit, twisting your head up. slamming his hips faster. bouncing your body on the bed and slamming the headboard into the wall. making your cunt all puffy and his cock all creamy in your cum.
“say my name. say you missed you. tell me whose pussy this is.”
“satoru— toru! toru torruuuu.”
“and don't you ever—” he whined, cock plunging deep as the knot within him snapped. as he frothed him up the way he's been missing. lashes fluttering and eyes rolling back. a filthy, wet, thrust smacked on your bruising ass emphasised every word.
“— ever. fucking. forget it.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ thought you would have came back to him after that, but he guessed you were more stubborn than he gave you credit for. that's fine. you just needed one more push. one more and then you'd be back where you finally belonged: in his arms.
so, yeah. he was responsibly fucking pissed when he saw you chatting up the campus fuckboy. hell— when he heard rumours that you two were a thing.
but he calmed himself down. enough to not snatch you by the wrist in the hallway and shove you into a wall. kiss you until your knees trembled. shoved his tongue into your mouth for all to see until he lost his job. that what you wanted? wanted him to be ruined for you?
calmed himself down enough to wait until the day ended. so he could back you into an empty corridor's corner. his hand on your jaw. tilting your face up. so that you could stare into the eyes of the man who had you squirting all over his cock just a few weeks ago. the man who was always yours no matter how much you tried to admit otherwise.
“you know he's not me, right?” he spoke, that nonchalance breaking for the first time in these wretched months you've been apart from him.
he leaned close. didn't kiss you. not your lips, but your temple. as he stared you down. cold. calloused. a warning cracked in those brutal blues.
“he'll never treat you like me. never know how to handle a sweetheart like you.”
his voice shook. breath thinned.
and for the first time since you left him, satoru shattered.
not pitifully, not pathetically, not violently nor catastrophically—
but sharp. and soft. and the kind of breathlessly that made you think his lungs were giving out— as he slumped over you. free hand trembling on the wall right beside your head. still holding your face. cradling it now.
“guys your age won't treat you like I do baby. not like you deserve.”
his thumb brushed your lower lip. he whispered. raw and wrecked.
“won't love you like I do. I love you sweetheart. I fucking love you. don't leave me here.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ really underestimated your stubbornness. your resolve. he was almost proud when you shoved him off and he let you go. when you walked away from him.
fine. he just had to wait a little longer. a little longer and you'd come back to him.
next week. a friday night. a phone call.
he didn't blink when he saw your name. when he answered. when he heard your soft, choked sob.
his voice melted into tenderness. soothed your cries. asked you where you were. came and picked you up, because he always would. you'd always be his sweet girl, after all.
satoru warned you about that guy. so he wasn't surprised when he pulled up to the street that you were dropped off on. in the middle of the night. cold and alone. all teary eyes and trembling knees. wasn't surprised when you scrambled into his car and clung to the jacket he gave you.
he listened. as he always did. listened as you cried and ranted and raved about how that guy broke your heart several times tonight. then kicked you out of his car and left you stranded. like you were nothing.
he took you into his arms. as he always did. took you into his arms after he cradled you into his apartment. held you close as you clung to him. hiccuping into his chest and sobbing into his shirt. apologising, crying, apologising, sobbing.
apologising.
begging.
“ssshhh I've got you sweet girl.” strong arms looped you closer. cradled you in that protective warmth with one hand cupping the back of your head and the other one your hip. as he hushed your cries. assured you. squeezed your hip and whispered so tenderly.
“I've got you no sweetheart. not gonna let you go again, okay? I promise baby.”
˖ ࣪꒰ PROFESSOR SATORU ꒱ ˙˖ who cradled your head closer and pressed his lips to the top of your head.
who held your close. who promised to never let you go.
who slipped his phone out of his pocket and held it up behind your head. still cradled by his other, big hand. with his soft kiss still on your hair.
his thumb slid across the screen.
transaction completed.
the final half paid to that bum of a guy you insisted on. who broke your heart for some cash. funny how a little bit of money was all you needed to have your way.
and as satoru held your close. with his arms snuggling you to his chest, and his eyes finally fluttering shut. he relished.
because yeah. you're finally back into his arms. just needed a little nudge.
it ain't me babe - three
frat!toru x avoidant!reader [fwb]
warning - [mdni] sexual themes | sexual language | angst | yearning!gojo
series masterlist | prologue | one | two
wc - 8.7k
☀︎
the frat house after a party always looked bad in the mornings. and it was even worse when satoru wasn’t hungover.
sunlight spilled through the tall windows in ruthless bands, illuminating the wreckage of abandoned leather jackets and surf boards propped uselessly in corners. body oil smudged the hardwood like evidence of a crime nobody would confess to.
remnants of an eventful night.
this morning, though, satoru hated it.
he sat shirtless on the kitchen counter, slowly sipping his water as he stared into space, snowy hair pointing in multiple directions as a result of his deep sleep.
he debated getting a coffee but he was sure the caffeine would only make the knot in his chest even worse.
you had left again last night. as you always did.
a fact that shouldn’t irritate him as much as it did, given your arrangement.
normally, the absence didn’t bother him. he liked mornings alone, especially after a party, like quiet after a storm. the satisfaction of knowing he’d hosted something epic. people filtered out eventually and the day went on.
but this morning felt all wrong.
wrong in the way your skin had stil been warm under his hands long after the music died and he could hear the quiet of what was once the party. he replayed your moans, the way you felt, your pretty features scrunched in that way that told him you were feeling good.
and he’d never felt you leave. because you were showering when he accidentally fell asleep. you must’ve left right after your shower.
satoru dragged a hand down his face, thumb scraping over his lower lip.
he was absolutely pathetic.
what was supposed to be an arrangement that made both your lives significantly easier and better, only served as a stressor for him.
he went into it with all the emotions you didn’t want, so were you really to blame? it was all his fault.
where were you now? sleeping? studying?
it wouldn’t hurt to check, would it?
and his phone was already in his hands before he could think it over, scratching at his chest as he thought of what to say.
his thumbs hovered for a moment before typing.
satoru : you awake?
10:03am
the seconds stretched while he waited, eyes unfocused and legs bouncing.
he heard shuffling by the staircase, eyes looking up to see his long-haired friend enter the kitchen, workout clothes adorning his figure.
“you look like shit.”
satoru’s jaw clenched as suguru’s voice filtered in, lazy and far too observant for his liking. satoru didn’t bother glancing at him once more.
“morning to you too, sunshine.” satoru muttered, rolling his shoulders back as he gripped his phone even harder, the fight within him dwindling the more he thought of you and where you could be and who you were with and what you were-
“the fuck is up with you?” suguru leaned against the counter opposite satoru, an energy drink in hand and violet eyes sharp as they dragged over his friend, all too knowing, “you barely even drank yesterday, a miracle by the way.”
satoru scoffed lightly, his usual tolerance for his friends now halved by the pure emotions you seemed to pull out of him without even trying, “nothing, dumbass, just don’t feel like talkin'.”
geto scoffed, “right…”
before satoru could hear his friend out further, his phone buzzed in his hand and his entire body went still.
trouble : yeah
10:07am
he swallowed, tension loosening just a notch but irritation tingling beneath his ribs at your casual tone. he wished you’d cared more, just a little, just enough to not leave him every night.
satoru : you good?
10:07am
he hit send and only then realized that geto was watching him.
“let me guess,” suguru drawled, taking a sip of the bright blue drink in hand, “your current restlessness has everything to do with the pretty biker you followed around like a puppy all night.”
satoru scoffed, going to answer when his phone buzzed again and you stole his attention once more, here or not.
trouble : yes
10:11am
satoru didn’t know why he was still restless. you were good and you were home.
satoru : you home?
10:11am
“she’s got you by the balls already, satoru-“
satoru shot him a glare so sharp, it could’ve cut glass, “watch it.”
suguru’s brows lifted, amused but curious, “damn. like that?”
his phone buzzed once more.
trouble : yup
10:13am
satory sighed gently, chest still in a ball he couldn’t shake.
there was nothing else for him to text, all out of questions to ask and he knew one more would have you ghosting him the rest of the day. you were such a fucking bad texter.
so he simply liked your message and tossed his phone on the counter.
“mornin’.” sukuna emerged shirtless, hair a mess, eyes already narrowed, already pissed at god knows what at ten in the morning. his gaze flicked between the two of them before landing on satoru.
“why the fuck do you look like that?”
satoru scoffed instantly, “like what?”
what the fuck was up with his frat brothers? what was so off about satoru this morning? he was the same as always, albeit a bit more strung tight.
“d’know…” sukuna walked passed, towards the fridge to pull out a protein shake, “you look…actually serious for once. no goofy ass stupid grin on your face.”
sukuna shook his shake before taking a sip, eyes never leaving the pissed off frat president, almost amused as satoru’s jaw clenched.
“shut the fuck up, both of you.” satoru practically growled, lips pouting in a miserable expression that both boys considered for a moment.
“your little biker ghost you or somethin’?” sukuna voiced with a tired smirk, head tilting as satoru’s gaze snapped to him so quick, his neck almost snapped.
“oh, you wanna talk love life with me, sukuna?” satoru smirked menacingly, “mr in love with my best friend of ten years and can’t say shit about it.”
sukuna’s smirk fell instantly, face contouring into a scowl as his jaw clenched, “shut the fuck up-“
“you shut the fuck up!” satoru snapped as suguru sighed gently, hand reaching out to place itself on sukuna’s shoulder, holding the fuming frat boy back.
god knows he doesn’t play about his girl.
“what happened, satoru?” geto sighed, turning to face the annoyed man, “she leave or somethin’?”
satoru didn’t look up, eyes gazing at the floor, “she always fuckin’ leaves.”
sukuna snorted, “damn.”
satoru’s head snapped up, mouth parting to utter words that would have sukuna swinging if suguru didn’t cut in.
“isn’t that your arrangement, satoru?” suguru sighed, almost bored as he watched his friend internally spiral.
satoru glanced at suguru before clenching his jaw, something violent blooming beneath his chest. yes, yes, it was your arrangement.
no emotions, no feelings, strictly physical.
you didn’t owe him shit, not your warmth or you sleeping over or texting properly, but he couldn’t help it.
what the fuck was wrong with him?
since the moment he’d seen you at that stupid party a month ago, he’s felt different. like a cold you could feel coming on gently but one morning, it hits you like a truck.
this was that morning.
he didn’t know why he was so irritated by you leaving, he didn’t know why he hated your dry texts despite knowing that was simply how you were. he didn’t know why the thought of not knowing you as much as he wanted to kill him just a little.
fuck, he was a pussy.
he felt like a pathetic sorority girl.
what did he even know about emotions? satoru had never had a girlfriend since middle school and that lasted two weeks. also, he was thirteen.
satoru had gotten used to the fast-paced lifestyle he lived, the parties, chasing the rush, girls all over him. he never thought of slowing down, not even for a second. why would he?
satoru gojo loved his fucking life. he knew other guys would kill to be him.
but ever since that night of the party, something shifted. something within him, in him, around him, he wasn’t even sure. but things started slowing down.
they slowed and shifted and changed till everything pointed towards you.
you. you. you.
you had consumed him entirely, whether you had meant to or not. and god knows, you never meant to.
“yeah, i know, whatever.” satoru muttered with a grunt as he slid off the counter and dragged his feet back to his room, ignoring his two friends talking about him.
he didn’t like being in the dark with you.
it was almost funny, yes, he almost wanted to laugh.
satoru practically flinched when a girl brought up anything personal, brushing it off with a joke or distracting them with sex.
now, he wanted to know every detail unspared, he wanted to know you, all of you.
pathetic, right?
☀︎
you stood against the car door, arms crossed as you gazed at the big double doors. students filtered out slowly, chatty and animated as they recalled the day’s events.
you couldn’t help your heart from clenching gently at the simplicity of it all, something you longed for but hated all the same.
your eyes immediately fell upon familiar tufts of brunette hair, heart clenching as you watched oscar exit the doors. a small smile painted your face as you watched him look around before his eyes fell upon you, eyes widening before a grin split his small face, your name leaving his mouth in a short yell.
his backpack bounced awkwardly against his smaller frame, laces untied, barreling across the pavement with no regard for physics or personal space.
you barely had time to brace before he collided into you, arms locking around your waist like a lifeline, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs in a way that felt familiar and warm.
with your eyes shut tightly, you leaned down to embrace the eight year old, smiling gently against his soft locks, smelling of your grandma’s floral shampoo.
“easy, kid,” you murmured, bending slightly to wrap your arms around him anyway, “missed you.”
your youngest brother grinned up at you, missing tooth and all, eyes bright and unburdened, something rare and something you vowed to protect.
“did you see my drawing?! i told nonna to send it to you!” he immediately began rummaging through his iron-man backpack with frantic little hands, “i made it for you!”
“i saw it, kid, i loved it!” you said, kneeling down as he shoved a wrinkled piece of paper into your outstretched hand, the familiar crayon drawing tugging at your heartstrings violently, in a way only your brothers knew how.
it was a drawing of three stick figures, the only girl in between two smaller boys. all exaggerated smiles, your hair longer than everyone else’s and taller. you, him and sonny.
you swallowed and smoothed down the paper gently, “i love it, buddy. you mind if i take it with me? wanna put it on my wall.”
he beamed with a frantic nod of his head, like you’d handed him the world.
he hugged you once more, beginning to ramble about his day as you looked up to see your fourteen year old brother trailing behind him, slower and taller, shoulders tight with too much weight for someone his age. his jaw was already set before he even reached you.
“aren’t you supposed to be at college?” he muttered as you stood, allowing oscar to clammer into the backseat.
sonny was taller than you now, even taller than he was two weeks ago when you’d last seen him.
it honestly made you want to cry. and you never cried.
“aren’t you supposed to be suspended?”
oscar looked between you both from his place in the back seat, “yeah, sonny got in trouble.”
sonny shot him a glare, “you’re a snitch!”
oscar gasped, offended, "nonna says snitching is telling the truth before someone lies.”
you glared at the older boy, arms crossed as he avoided your gaze.
“get in the car.” you sighed as you opened the driver’s door and climbed into the car, sonny moving to the passenger’s seat.
your brother climbed in, “missed you too.”
you couldn’t help the small clench of your chest, ribs aching as you fought back the urge to just hug him and tell him you missed him and that being apart from them for even two weeks truly did kill you.
and you wished you’d be seeing him under better circumstances, you wished he’d get his shit together, truly.
the ride home was loud.
oscar talked over sonny, sonny talked over oscar and you navigated traffic with muscle memory precision, one hand on the wheel as the other reached back to stop oscar every time he got too excited when rambling that he leaned forward towards the front.
“seatbelt, oz.”
“i’m buckled!”
“that is not buckled.”
luckily, home came into view faster than you’d expected.
your grandma was already on the steps when you’d pulled in, expression sharp as glass and hair as big as ever.
“look at you,” she called out as soon as you stepped out, “you don’t eat over there?”
“hi nonna.” you replied with a small smile and shake of your head as you exited the car, your brothers rushing out as well.
oscar shot past you, launching himself at her legs, “nonna!”
“angel,” she cooed, kissing his hair, “you eat your lunch?”
he nodded enthusiastically, “and my apple!”
she shot you a triumphant look, “see? he listens to his nonna.”
sonny walked towards the house, your grandma shooting him a little glare, “say hi to your nonna! come give me a kiss!”
sonny groaned before leaning down to place a kiss on her cheek as she grabbed his face, eyes assesing him, “y’didn’t eat.”
you grinned gently, shaking your head softly as oscar walked up to you and began pulling you into the house, already buzzing with life.
something garlic-heavy simmered on the stove, one of nonna’s dramatic shows played in the back, while her old music simultaneously played from her record player.
chaos in the most nostalgic way possible, you almost felt sick.
“school said they let y’brother off on a warning,” your grandmother stated as oscar rushed to change while you and sonny stood by the living room, watching your nonna stir something on the stove, “they were really dramatic.”
you shook your head as sonny stiffened.
“what’d y’even do, kid? givin’ me a headache!” she demanded, pointing a wooden spoon at him as you watched sonny sigh.
“nothing,” he muttered as you scoffed, placing your jacket down on the chair but quickly picking it up when your grandma glared, placing it on the coat rack.
“he pushed a kid.”
her brows lifted, “he deserve it?”
sonny blinked, “yeah?”
she nodded once, “okay, go shower.”
sonny looked stunned as you sighed with a shake of your head.
sonny was quick to grin, rushing over to kiss your grandma on the cheek before fleeing to his room as you watched with wide eyes.
“nonna!”
your nonna looked at you through her lashes, glasses rested on the bridge of her nose as she kept stirring the sauce, “hmm?”
“you can’t just let him get away with pushing a kid, he’ll just do it again-“
“i hope to god he will if that kid deserved it-“
you groaned, taking a seat on the counter with a shake of your head.
there was no point in arguing with her, you knew that by now.
you could feel her gaze on you as you gazed at the floor, all knowing and quiet in the way that made you want to spill secrets you didn’t even know you had.
she eyed you over her glasses, “y’know you don’t have to worry about your bothers.”
with a tight chest, your wide eyes turned to her, wishing you could just listen and let it all go.
but you couldn’t because despite it all, you felt like they were your responsibility, especially sonny.
“i know, it’s just-“ you sighed gently, soft hair spilling around your face as you avoided her gaze, “i just wish he’d stop getting into trouble so much.”
she clicked her tongue, “always worryin’ about things you can’t control. that’s your problem, doll, always worryin’ and thinkin’ about things before you even let em happen…”
you gazed at her then, something sharp aching beneath your ribs, “i could control it if you just let me yell at him.”
“you can yell at him plenty, won’t change a thing. he’ll do what he wants to do and he’ll just resent you along with it,” she pointed out, “just let him be, doll. he’ll come round eventually.”
with a small sigh, you pondered her words.
your yelling never really made a difference, nor did your lectures. you knew sonny valued your opinion, you knew he cared about what you thought of him, he just couldn’t help it.
he’d been through a lot, you all have.
“that overthinkin’ brain of yours is also why you haven’t brought a boy home yet-“
“ugh, nonna!”
she simply shrugged, “you stayin’ for dinner?”
with a soft sigh, you hopped off the counter and walked behind the stove to help her, “yeah, i’ll stay.”
☀︎
satoru didn’t mean to end up outside your apartment.
that was the lie he kept telling himself as he stood on the cracked pavement across the street, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, icy gaze fixed on the dark windows above. your place sat quietly between two identical buildings, blinds drawn and balcony empty.
nothing seemed out of place or wrong, yet he tipped his head back, squinting lightly like the angle alone might give him answers.
there was no movement, no light, no you.
he felt it, he knew it.
he exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing as his mind ran, back and forth. what should he do?
should he listen to his gut?
this was stupid, absolutely insane.
satoru had texted you once since that morning, just simply asking if you were down to come over, but you didn’t reply, so really, what choice did he have?
satoru felt embarrassed to say he waited for fifteen minutes before the front door buzzed open, someone else letting a guest in, the man slipping inside before he could rethink anything.
he took the stairs two at a time, something in him buzzing at the thought of seeing you. and once he reached the sixth floor, your door greeted him, exactly where he remembered it.
same wooden door, same crooked number that made his heart race at the prospect of who was behind it.
he knocked then. once, twice, louder. but silence greeted him.
his chest tightened, irritation simmering beneath his ribs as he huffed gently, something sharp and irrational.
“fuck…” he muttered under his breath, leaning closer like he might hear your footsteps on the other side if he tried hard enough. maybe you were in the shower?
alas, he was met with nothing.
had you lied to him? you told him you were home.
and before satoru could think about it, before his mind brought him back down, before that logical part of him that always seemed to disappear when you were involved brought him down to earth, he’d pressed call.
it rang once, twice as satoru’s feet drummed against the carpeted floors, impatient and utterly irrational.
then, “hello?”
your voice slid through the line, all low and unbothered, like he hadn’t been going insane chasing it’s echo.
“hey,” he stated, too fast and immediately regretful. why the fuck did he call? what could he even say?
why aren't you home? where are you? why don’t you care?
“gojo?”
he gulped when your voice came through once more, he could hear you move somewhere quieter, words clearer and more apparent, only worsening his embarrassment.
“sorry, uh, don’t know why i called.”
a pause met him, silent and he could almost hear your contemplation and he hated it.
you were definitely judging him right now.
“you okay?”
satoru’s eyes fluttered shut, jaw clenching as he ran his hand through his snowy locks, chest churning with that same tightness once more.
his eyes glanced at your door once more.
“yeah, uh,” he swallowed, “just, you said you were home.”
another pause. longer this time.
“i am home.”
his grip tightened on his phone, “your place? doesn’t seem like it.”
fuck, fuck, fuck.
his crazy was showing and he didn’t appreciate it one bit.
“are you at my apartment, gojo?”
your voice was inquisitive, maybe a bit judgy but you didn’t seem mad.
he shut his eyes once more, forehead tipping against the cool wood of your door.
he might as well dig himself deeper, he’d made it this far already.
“was nearby,” he lied easily, “you weren’t answering me, thought i’d stop by.”
silence stretched between you for a moment and he’d never wanted to read your thoughts more than he did now. he wanted to reach out through the stupid phone and pull you right where he was, where he could see those wide eyes, bored and so fucking pretty.
“i’m busy,” you stated quietly, “you didn’t have to stop by.”
he swallowed then, “yeah, i know.”
another noise on your end, a younger voice, distant but excited calling out your name.
“dinner’s ready!”
his stomach dropped. that definitely wasn’t here. where the hell were you?
you moved the phone away briefly, voice muffled as you responded to the little boy.
but what had satoru gulp was the softness in your tone, all too gentle and too natural, a lilt in your words he’d never heard from you before and that irrational feeling sparked in his chest once more.
fuck, what he’d give to hear you address him with that softness, to see your face void of that coolness, to have you vulnerable in a way that didn’t only come with sex.
“i need to go, gojo.” you breathed out, “i’ll see yo-”
“who was that?” he asked before he could stop himself, swallowing gently as you went quiet once more. he could practically hear the way your shoulders squared.
“no one. i have to go.”
satoru should’ve let it go, he really should’ve but he couldn’t.
“how could it be no one? i obviously heard someone say something,” his brows furrowed now, frustration rising when he heard your exasperated sigh, “where are you? what’s home?”
“what’s with the questions, man?” you sighed out as he heard muffled voices on your end, a tv playing, pots clanging, “i’ll see you when i see you.”
he began making his way down the stairwell, further and further away from your vacant apartment.
“you comin’ back tonight?” he questioned, voice quieter now, hopeful despite himself.
it was easier to grill you when he had you soft and pliant under him, when you were too fucked out to think. yes, that was his fucked up plan.
fuck you until you didn’t have the energy to lie, then get the truth out of you.
satoru hated to admit that he did that often. when he sensed you were stressed but didn’t tell him, when he wanted to bring you dinner but you wouldn’t tell him what your favorite place was, when he needed you vulnerable enough to let him in, just a little.
truth serum dick is what he called it.
“no, probably not.” you stated finally as he bit his tongue to keep the frustrated groan out.
his jaw clenched, “right. cool.”
it was silent between you once more before you finally spoke up, “well, goodnight.”
the line went dead before he could respond, now out in the cold as he walked away from your apartment building, chest heavier than when he’d arrived, even more lost than this morning.
this is why satoru never did feelings.
☀︎
the courtyard was always busy on wednesday mornings, you were never sure why.
students spilled across the cobblestone paths in loose clusters, coffee cups in hand and backpack slung lazily ober their shoulders.
you moved through it all slowly, tote hanging off one shoulder as you held your chai latte in one hand, head pounding with the chaos of the past two days.
satoru didn’t text you after he called two days ago and you were glad.
you didn’t know why it bothered you when he called, it wasn’t even the fact that he’d shown up unannounced, he did that sometimes. granted, you were home when he did, but still.
you hated the worry, the way he questioned you like he truly wanted to know about were you were, who you were with. you hated that he sounded like he cared. he shouldn’t.
satoru wasn’t your boyfriend, nor was he your friend, at least not traditionally.
the frat boy always loved to blur the lines between you, too charming and kind for his own good, but you were adamant on keeping that line between fuck buddies and more crystal clear.
with a soft sigh, the science building came into view and you almost made it without having to speak to anyone.
“hey, trouble.” his familiar deep voice cut through the noise like it always did, warm and careless, so unmistakably him.
you slowed down just slightly before turning, a brow lifting as you pulled one of your wired earbuds halfway out, “gojo.”
there he was, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants, shades perched on his nose despite the overcast sky. his white hair was a mess, as if he’d run his hands through it too many times to count.
the man looked infuriating good, relaxed and boyish. like he hadn’t panicked about your whereabouts on the phone two days ago.
“you didn’t tell me you were back.” his lips pulled into that lazy grin you knew so well, the one that made anyone melt under him every time.
and god, if he wasn’t wearing those stupid glasses, you’d see the sheer hurt in his gaze, simmering beneath blue eyes that had longed to set on you since that stupid party.
“just got in last night.” you replied simply, adjusting your bag as your head tilted, “you have class?”
“mhm,” he simply hummed because you didn’t need to know that he’d finished class an hour ago but had been waiting around to see you because he knew your schedule by now, “will you come over tonight?”
you began walking slowly once more as he fell into step beside you without missing a beat, long legs slowing down to keep up with you.
“sure.” you stated casually as he grinned gently, relief filling him more than he’d like to admit.
“yeah, yeah, pretend you’re not obsessed with me.”
you rolled your eyes, “annoyed, more like.”
he laughed quietly, arm brushing against yours as you sighed gently.
“y’missed me, i can tell.”
“i saw you three days ago.” you replied dryly as satoru watched you from the corner of his eye.
“y’haven’t missed my cock-”
“gojo!” you smacked his toned arm as your doe eyes glanced around to see if anyone had listened.
you couldn’t really tell because people always stared at satoru wherever he was, so you didn’t know if people were looking because of his crude words or his pretty face.
“well, i’ve definitely missed your p-”
“i’m not coming over.” you began walking faster, ahead of the laughing frat president who merely took two strides to catch up with you, his arm going around your shoulder to pull you against him.
you huffed, arms crossing but allowing his arm to stay where it was, despite the itch to push him off.
you weren’t sure why you didn’t truly feel the need to shoo his touch away, but allowed it.
“okay, m’sorry,” he chuckled against you, bicep curling gently behind you, as if to keep you in place in case you tried to flee. could you blame him for that? “i’ll text you after the meeting.”
yes, the alpha phi meeting that took place every wednesday.
you loved to make fun of it, truly, what discussion simply needed to be had every week?
that week’s party theme, how many girls they’d fucked over, new torture methods for pledges.
“so, why’d you need to go back home?” satoru brought up as casually as he possibly could, immediately feeling your smaller body tense under him, quick to shrug his arm off then.
he immediately cursed himself, damn his impatience. he should’ve waited until he’d made you finish at least four times under him later tonight.
“family.” you stated simply, bringing your drink up to your plush lips to take a small sip, satoru scoffing from beside you.
“vague as shit.”
“on purpose.”
his grin widened despite his jaw tightening a fraction, “okay, trouble, that’s fine. stay mysterious.”
you scoffed gently, shooting him a look beneath your lashes, “you usually like that about me.”
“i like a lot of things about you,” he shot back easily, naturally, as if the words weighed nothing but the truth, “doesn’t mean i don’t get curious.”
you hummed, noncommittal, “you can get curious.”
satoru sighed at your dismissal, “it’s just when you said home, i assumed it was home, not home.”
you stopped walking then, turning to face him, face still blank but your hand clenching where it held your drink, “why are we doing this?”
“what?” satoru laughed it off despite the tightening of his chest.
“why are you making it weird?” you voiced blankly, head tilting to gaze up at him with eyes so uninterested, it almost hurt, “why do you need to know?”
because he wanted to. because he wanted to know you. so bad, it made him ache with it.
“because we’re friends.”
god fucking forbid. he was pretty sure the only thing that was worse than your coolness was if you friend-zoned him. he was pretty sure he’d faint.
your head tilted then, studying him with those pretty wide eyes that rendered him weak, “we’re friends?”
satoru gulped then, “mhm.”
you went quiet, doe eyes squinting at the man, as if you could see right through him and something in him almost hoped you did. what if you just found out? no, what if he just told you about the amount of emotion he held for you? so much emotion, he was sick with it.
“okay then.”
satoru sighed gently at your acceptance, following when you turned to walk away once more, falling into step beside you.
“will you still come over?”
you nodded, “yes.”
“cool,” he stated slightly, ignoring the little flutter beneath his sternum, relief and need alike, “i’ll clean my room.”
you merely side-eyed him, “how romantic.”
satoru grinned gently, dangerous and bright, “only for you.”
with a roll of your eyes, you slowed as the doors to the building came closer, “go to class, gojo.”
he leaned closer, voice dropping, "will you text when you’re done?”
you met his gaze then, unreadable as always, "probably not.”
satoru grinned, leaning down to kiss your temple gently, “you’re so hot.”
you turned and walked away before he could see the small smile that painted your lips, the frat boy standing there longer than necessary. his hands dug into his pockets, chest warm but heavy, smirk fading into something sharper and quieter.
☀︎
your call with sonny ended just after seven, leaving both frustration and anger simmering beneath your skin. the kid had a talent, that was for sure, and it revolved around royally pissing you off.
it semed like every time you visited, he resented you for leaving so he’d do anything to piss you off to get you to come back. fuck, some of your friends haven’t visited family in a year, and here you were, on a train back home every two weeks, sometimes less.
part of you didn’t want to complain because you missed your brothers and nonna every day, truly. but the other part wished or the relief of not having to worry about them constantly, of wondering whether sonny was staying out of trouble, if nonna was tired, if oscar was okay. it was exhausting.
you stared at your phone long after it dimmed, breathing shallow and head pounding.
your heart was doing that awful thing again, racing without rhythm, as if looking for something real to latch onto. you hated this feeling.
you hated the helplessness of being far, of not being able to fix things. you hated that no matter how hard you tried, it never felt like enough.
you didn’t even check the time before grabbing your jacket and leaving your apartment, no text warning the boy either. you just needed to forget.
you needed him.
it seemed like the walk to the frat, the whole twenty minutes wasn’t enough to cool you off, not even a little bit.
if anything, the overthinking increased with the lack of music, forgetting to grab your headphones on your way out. so it was just you and your thoughts. and fuck, did you have a lot of them.
once the frat house came into view, your chest loosened just a bit at the thought of the frat president inside. you were a mere 6 weeks into your little arrangement and you hated to admit, it was one of the best decisions you’d ever made. satoru was the perfect escape when things got too loud.
that would explain the looseness in your ribs, the buzzing under your skin, fueling your need to see him.
so much so, you barely acknowledged the rowdy yelling inside, voices echoing. you could hear arguing, chairs scraping, chuckling. the kind of noise that usually made you turn around and leave.
but you were too in your head to notice, no. tonight, you simply walked straight in.
and fuck, did you regret it.
because all twenty-five boys turned to face you from their place in the living room. and right there, standing on the coffee table in an amusing attempt to seem almighty, was satoru gojo.
you could see a scowling sukuna on the arm chair by him, the vice president glancing down at his phone.
you could also spot choso in the corner, eyes half-lidded and barely focused. suguru was on the chair beside sukuna, eyes on you where you’d frozen.
fuck, the meeting.
you forgot about the stupid, useless, good for nothing wednesday meetings.
all 50 eyes stared right at you, some amused, some trailing over the expanse of your body, some confused. you wished for the floor to eat you right up.
but they didn’t need to know that.
so you simply straightened up, arms crossing as you looked straight at the president who was mid-rant about cleaning rotations when you’d walked in.
when his blue gaze fell over you, everything stopped.
the words died in his throat, body shifting and eyes locking onto yours like the rest of the frat had blurred out of existence. concern flickered on his face first, making you believe that maybe your argument with sonny didn’t settle like you’d hoped it would. his emotions were sharp and real before he masked it with something softer.
“hey,” his words were gentle in a way you wanted to despise, especially in front of his stupid pack of frat boys, “what’s wrong?”
heat rushed to your face, humiliation crawling up your spine, despite your unchanged expression.
you didn’t want to speak, not really. you wanted to simply leave.
and satoru could tell, but fuck, he wouldn’t let that happen.
“alright,” he spoke up firmly, eyes turning to the boys who were still watching you, “hey! eyes on me, assholes. we’re done.”
“thank fuck.” sukuna murmured, immediately standing up and walking towards the door, shooting you one look, almost amused, before exiting.
sukuna’s been pissy the past two days and satoru knew exactly who the culprit to his anger was.
“we’re literally in the middle-” nanami began but the white-haired man wouldn’t hear it, stepping down from the coffee table, eyes meeting yours once more.
you still stood by the door, arms crossed in an attempt to keep your composure despite the pink of your pretty cheeks, face so utterly gorgeous, he couldn’t blame the guys for looking.
but the pledges will fucking get it for that one, he’ll make sure of it.
“meeting’s over.” satoru repeated, firmer now and uncaring as he made his way over to you, deliberate and slow as his eyes studied you. as if this was the most natural thing in the world.
“cmere.” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear and in a rare moment of vulnerability, you were quick to move towards him, desperate to shield yourself from the boys.
satoru was quick to take ahold of your hand, gently guiding you away from the living room, up the steps to his room. the voices resumed behind you in confused and teasing murmurs.
fuck, he’ll kill them all.
the door to his room closed with a quiet click and that’s when you cracked, turning to face him as he locked the door.
“i forgot about the meeting,” you swallowed, face blank but eyes wide, "i shouldn't have come.”
“hey.” satoru moved towards you, slow and gentle in his words, large hand quick to frame your face, taking ahold of your soft cheek, “you’re fine. you’re perfect. it was a stupid fuckin’ meeting anyway. y’did me a favor.”
and he meant it. the pledges were annoying the fuck out of him and sukuna’s pissy mood dampened the entirety of the space, still mad over something his best friend had said yesterday. god knows with them.
satoru’s grin reassured you more than you’d like to admit, a breath leaving you as your face relaxed in his hold.
your wide doe eyes looked at him through pretty lashes, swallowing gently, “i just don’t wanna think anymore.”
satoru nodded slowly, moving forward so his other hand could cup your jaw, the one previously on your cheek moving to grip at you hair, maneuvering your face up closer to his, your breath hitching at the grip.
“yeah?” he muttered, breath fanning across your glossy lips as his nose brushed against your own, “how do you want me, baby?”
electricity shot through you then, straight to your core as you sighed gently, “hard.”
satoru grinned then, menacing and dangerous as he took one last step forward till he was flush against you, “fuckin’ gladly.”
it didn’t take long for satoru to have you pliant against him, trembling and moaning as you leaned into him, chest to his. his large hand stroked your spine, vertebrae to vertebrae as you shook against him.
at least it didn’t feel like long, but realistically, it must've been two hours minimum.
he had you in every state imaginable, positions you’d never even known about and five orgasms later, after he’d let you take the lead atop him, your were molten for him.
“still with me, baby?” he murmured against your hair, your damp skin against his own, his heart beating a mile a minute as he came down himself.
he was pretty sure one more round and he’d be shooting blanks.
“mhm.” you hummed above him, he was still nestled inside your warmth, you were too out of it to move, “felt good, toru.”
satoru’s heart skipped a beat or twelve. he was sure you could feel it and suddenly, he was glad you were so out of it. he loved how soft sex rendered you. you never called him gojo during sex, didn’t have the energy to hide your emotions or the desperate mewls that left you.
you were the prettiest goddamn thing he’d ever seen.
“m’glad, pretty.” he muttered against your hair, long fingers still tracing shapes up and down your spine, brushing your hair occasionally, “hey, got a question for you, baby.”
you simply hummed as satoru smiled softly, placing a short kiss on the soft strands on your head. he was surprised he even had enough energy for this, but the need to know you overpowered anything else.
“why’d you go home, hmm? somethin’ happen?”
you were basically half-asleep, dozing off against him but fighting it to the best of your ability.
“ugh, s’just sonny.” you groaned against his pec, his soothing movements against your hair and back not helping you fight off sleep.
“my brother. always getting in trouble.” you murmured against him, eyes closed, surely just resting.
satoru fought off the relief in his chest in favor of questioning you, the concern vastly evident in his face if you would just look at him, “what’d he do?”
“ugh, what doesn’t he do?” you groaned, “i think he just misses me. or how things were before. so doing stupid shit is his only way of getting me to come back home so much.”
satoru nodded mindlessly, still stroking your back as he listened intently, “before what?”
“my parents.” you whispered against him, voice growing just a bit more clear and he knew you were coming out of the high, gaining your logic just a bit more.
“what about your parents, baby?”
silence met him, stretching for a minute as he kept coaxing you to answer with nimble fingers, calloused against your soft skin.
when a minute passed, you turned and sat up, hands braced against his abdomen, but not in the filthy way it was before. no, this time, your eyes weren’t hazy and you weren’t moaning and whimpering, but looking at him like you regretted ever coming here.
“um, i need to shower.”
with those low words, you pushed off of him, cringing when he pulled out. he watched as you limped towards the en suite, groaning as his arm covered his face when the door shut.
“fuck me.”
satoru did feel a little guilty for using sex to get answers, but what else could he do?
his bedroom walls expressed more emotion than you did.
and what the fuck happened with your parents? and is that why you’re so bad with your emotions? what about your brother? was he the reason you were so anxious sometimes? or why you disappeared some weekends?
fuck, he didn’t know if your confessions made him feel better or worse. he was left with more questions than before you’d arrived.
see? truth serum dick.
☀︎
coming down the stairs of the frat after spending hours with satoru was always the worst part.
it was like leaving a warm house and stepping out into a chilling winter, not because the air changed but because you did. because everything in you hardened again the second you were out of his embrace.
satoru’s sweater adorned your smaller figure, damp hair tucked behind your ears and cheeks flushed from the heat of the shower. your skin was still buzzing faintly from your previous actions, from him and from the fact that you’d walked into that meeting like a fucking idiot.
satoru was still in the shower when you left and you liked it that way. you didn’t particularly like the look on his face whenever he watched you leave. it made you feel something. uncomfortable, maybe? guilty?
the living room was quiet now, the time nearing 11pm. a couple of the boys littered the place but none of them met your eyes, no doubt from whatever threat satoru had texted them when he thought you weren’t looking.
when you made it down the steps, you almost made it past the kitchen before you heard it, “water?”
you froze, turning to face suguru geto by the kitchen counter in a pair of low hanging plaid pyjama pants.
he was holding out a water bottle he’d clearly been drinking from.
“no, thanks.” you stated bluntly, not necessarily polite but not unkind.
satoru started keeping water bottles in the mini fridge in his room since you’d started your little arrangement, instead of the beer cans that used to occupy the space. he even kept mini versions of your favorite snacks by his bedside drawer for when you two went for a really long time.
who said chivalry was dead?
suguru’s violet eyes flicked over you lazily, amusement dancing in his gaze as you lifted your chin.
“y’know, i don’t blame him for being down bad.”
your brows furrowed just the slightest but your face remained somewhat stoic, head tilting just a bit.
“what do you mean?”
sugar smirked lazily, “y’know. satoru. m’saying i don’t blame him for being so obsessed.”
your heart skipped a beat for all the wrong reasons, “he’s not obsessed. that’s just how he is. it’s satoru.”
suguru’s mouth twitched and your irritation grew.
“yeah,” he agreed easily, a shrug leaving him, “that’s kinda my point.”
you didn’t move, nor did you look away, a sense of dread brewing in your gut as you scrutinized his words, “i don’t like riddles. if you have something to say, then say it.”
suguru chuckled gently, gaze drifting, unfocused now like he was thinking aloud rather than speaking to you, “i’ve known the guy for years,” he continued, tone careless, “he doesn’t rearrange his life for people, everyone always accommodates him. but ever since your little arrangement, i dunno, he’s been different. focused on one thing. one person, i should say.”
your jaw tightened, “you’re reading into it.”
“maybe,” suguru shrugged, “or maybe it’s just obvious when someone who lives for excess suddenly starts actin’...soft.”
that word landed wrong. soft.
like something settled. stayed.
you scoffed slightly, ignoring the urge to flee just for a moment, “clearly you don’t know him as well as you think. the guy’s just bored, what we have is convenient.”
suguru laughed then, louder than you liked, not cruel but knowing.
“if this is bored,” he stated, eyes flickering towards the staircase with an amused grimace, “then god help us when he’s actually invested.”
invested. your fingers flexed at your sides.
the way he said it, so casual and unconcerned, it made you nauseous.
did you really read it all wrong? you thought satoru was like this with everyone, his ability to be all-consuming just something that was fixed within him.
could he really feel for you beyond what you’d agreed upon? no, there was no way.
no emotions, no feelings, strictly physical.
“for what it’s worth,” suguru added after a beat, pulling you out of whatever spiral you were finding yourself in, “he’ll probably get over it. it’s satoru, after all.”
probably. the word sat there, unfinished.
you watched the dark-haired man sport a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, so clearly false.
“he gets over everything and everyone,” he added quickly, like he was convincing both of you, “he gets like this sometimes. burns real hot for a bit then somethin’ else comes along.”
your chest loosened just a bit, not relief exactly but permission.
“yeah,” you muttered, “i figured.”
suguru nodded, though his gaze drifted past you again, towards the soft rush of water still running upstairs like a tell he couldn’t ignore.
“yeah,” he muttered and fuck, you could see that he was lying, that he could barely convince himself of that, “don’t lose sleep over it.”
you didn’t respond. because you knew he didn’t believe it himself.
suguru simply sensed your panic and tried to backtrack.
he wouldn't have hesitated. wouldn't have said probably.
you adjusted the sweater around you, fingers curling into the fabric that still smelled like him and moved toward the door, heart beating a mile a minute. your mind was stuck in some sort of labyrinth.
behind you, suguru’s eyes fixed on you, regret filling him as he watched you flee.
fuck, fuck, fuck.
satoru was going to kill him.
☀︎
satoru found suguru in the kitchen ten minutes later.
his white hair was still damp, a towel slung around his neck as his grey sweats hugged his hips. his chest was still damp with heat, seeming as if he had rushed downstairs. the man was digging into the fridge with far more aggression than necessary and he’d checked his phone three times already.
“you look happy.” suguru offered mildly, not turning around as he twisted the cap off his protein shake.
satoru slammed the fridge shut, eyes sharp, “did you see her leave?”
suguru paused for a fraction of a second before nodding, “like ten minutes ago.”
satoru’s jaw tightened, “fuckin’ sneak. did she say anything?”
suguru took a sip, eyes finally flicking to him, “nah. just…rushed outta here. very pretty, by the way.”
that earned him a glare, satoru punching his shoulder harshly as suguru hissed, “shut the fuck up. why the fuck is she not answerin’ my calls?”
yes, you always rushed out of here when you’d visit the frat, but you did grant satoru the decency of staying on call with him while you went home, ensuring you stay safe. well, at least that was part of the reason. he also just loved speaking to you.
but it was 11pm right now and you lived twenty minutes away, were you stupid? why would you not let him know so he could walk you home, at least?
and now, he’d called you four times since leaving the shower and noting your absence. you always answered when it was late, because even though you acted all tough, he knew you appreciated his company on the phone as you walked home, maybe just a bit scared.
satoru exhaled through his nose, jaw ticking as he dragged a hand down his damp face. the adrenaline from earlier hadn’t worn off yet, neither had the warmth.
his sheets still smelled of you, something sweet and faintly rich that clung to his bedding whether he wanted it to or not.
and as much as it killed him, he always wanted it.
satoru checked the time again. 11:14pm.
too late, too dark, too fucking quiet.
“she’s got a long walk.” satoru said more to himself than anything, already reaching for his abandoned hoodie on the stool from that morning.
suguru’s brow lifted, “you’re goin’ after her?”
satoru shot him a look like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard, “m’not lettin’ her walk home alone like this.”
“like what?”
satoru hesitated, “it’s dark. and she’s tired.”
suguru watched him closely now, considering him for a moment longer than necessary. the tension in his shoulders, the way his phone was clutched in his hand, the way his bravado had thinned into something sharper and more deliberate.
“y’know, you worry a lot for someone who claims not to care.” suguru stated lightly, guilt stabbing at him for his earlier mess-up with you. he hoped he didn’t scare you away but something told him he certainly did, even though he didn’t mean to.
god forbid a man gets excited that his friend has finally developed non-sexual feelings for a girl. which was ironic, giving that the entire nature of your relationship was sexual.
satoru groaned, “don’t fuckin’ start. m’not in the mood.”
“just sayin’.”
“yeah, i know what you’re sayin’,” satoru muttered, tugging his hoodie over his head, “you always say, you should shut the fuck up once in a while.”
if he only knew.
satoru moved toward the door, pausing only long enough to check his phone one last time. still nothing.
his chest felt tight in a way he didn’t like. not panic, not yet, just that familiar pull. the one that kept him tethered to someone who refused to let him hold on properly.
“just tell her you’re worried, man”
satoru didn’t turn around, “she hates that.”
and that was the thing. he knew what you hated, what you liked, the exact way your entire being shifted when you thought he cared too much.
but you still wouldn’t let him know you.
the door locked shut behind him, leaving suguru alone in the kitchen with a half-drunk protein shake and the uneasy realization that this wasn’t just satoru being infatuated.
this was attachment. and satoru gojo was already in too deep.
and suguru might have just ruined that for him.
☀︎
an - i wasn't supposed to post iamb next but felt super inspired !! a shorter chapter but wanted to post smthn for u guyss! also peep the little ewds mentions ahhh !! + was kinda akw with their grandma cuz i didnt want them to call her grandma cuz thats basic so i thought that was cute 🫠
also if u want to he tagged for the future fics PLS comment under the iamb MASTERLIST, not here cuz its easier to all be in one place
as always plsss lmk what u think i love to read ur comments + asks + thoughts!
fratboy satoru gojo gets too possessive during sex because of his secret. 18+
satoru gojo, the man whom you had given your heart to after he had been courting you for two months. at first, it didn’t make sense to you nor your friends.
satoru gojo, the man in the fraternity, who would ingest vodka in a shot while having a marlboro adorning his fingers.
satoru gojo, who would be known to satisfy himself to the exploding basses of incoherent music, flashes of purple, green and red lights embracing his party freak nature.
satoru gojo who would have a (new) girl every week, her grasping on to his sturdy forearm as they stumbled in to cramped dorms.
satoru gojo, who had the reputation of being a charmer who couldn’t obtain a relationship— not because there was something lacking within him, but, because he never understood the importance of having some sort of romantic established connection.
so, you did wonder as to why satoru would try to get your attention, your time, your words. you were nothing like him.
in fact, you guys were truly polar opposites. your faculties didn’t align (he was in business, you were in humanities), your personalities didn’t align (he was an extrovert, you were an introvert) and most of all, your reputation (he was a fraternity member, you were known as the quiet, shy girl who refrained from engaging with men without necessity).
so, truly, how did it get here?
where your cheeks were pressed on to the mellow cotton of the pillow. where the white sheets of the bed were heavily wrinkled because of the way you clenched it within your fists. where you tried to mutter out his name in any way possible, “sa-satoru—mhm”. where you didn’t know if you wanted him to slow his pace down or keep going at this rate like a brute animal.
his cock was expanding in your hole it seemed, the firm veins were pulsating against your plush walls. his tip, the oh so pink tinted head of his cock you had come to love was stimulating your cervix. his balls were slapping on to your pounded pussy while both his hands held on to your waist, preventing you to move from the maddening position he had you in.
you felt it. his hands had shifted. one of them, framed with veins, had come around to feel the bulge on your womb— signifying to you, that he was in you, too deep. while the other hand spread its large palm on one of your ass cheeks.
“fuck yeah doll, wan’ me to put a baby in this huh?” he groaned, his breath cutting between the words. “wan’ me to, fuck, make you full? leakin’ from me? shit just say yes baby.” you had rested your flustered cheek on to the pillow, your iris moving to the corner to see him. god. he was a vision of pure ecstasy. his white hair too frivolous, the bangs had been plastered on to sweaty forehand, his chest heaving with red scratches from the previous sessions.
you saw the bridge too, not vivid, just a slight blur but enough to make blood rush hastily into your face. creamy paste clustered around the rim of his cock, the base was too slimy, an evidence of the lustrous passion. “no one’s havin’ you like this, fuck, only me. only me. only” he groaned as he slapped against your rim faster and faster.
“shit, i swear i’m gonna marry you, my wife” “need you, ugh, in the mornin’s, noons and nights in my fucking house ’nd my fucked up life” he wouldn’t shut up, not at all. his groans gritted. his voice going sore.
“nobody gets this. this pussy. this body. no one will have you. no one” his breath cut hard. you gasped as he hit the spot too perfect, his entire length inside you. he was ramming into you as his fingers gathered both your dainty wrists behind your back in a single grip.
slap sounds of his skin meeting yours echoed too loud. tomorrow might be awkward with your neighbors.
“i’m never leavin’ you, ngh, never. yer’ not goin’ anywhere from me” he was close, you could tell. his thrusts were way faster now, too fast. rapid with the way he moved while biting his lower lips, plumper shade of red now.
you had already came earlier than him while he had to remove himself and stroke to milk out even the littlest remaining bit.
you were gasping, for air and dissatisfaction from the loss of contact. he was too rough today, contrasting to his usual self— the sweet, the careful and the softly doting.
his clammy palm had slithered its way on to your waist, turning you around. your back on the mattress, your front to his view. you noted around. clothes scattered on floor while the condom box sat lonely on the bedside table because satoru wanted to go raw this time, just to “feel you”.
satoru had finished wiping you with the wet towel, throwing it on the little table, knocking off the durex box. he planted himself beside, close. too close like he wanted to be your second skin. his head rested low on to your chest as you giggled. he had always been very clingy after sex. always liked having his hair played with by you. only you.
“was something wrong today? you were a bit .. rough..” you tentatively asked with a shy gaze on to him, only able to see the slope of his nose and the outline of his lips. he scrambled deeper in to your embrace, his breath exhaling on your spent nipple making you shiver.
“no, just, i love you. so fucking much” it was true. he did love you. you were his first girlfriend in a long time, since middle school.
he loved you. completely and irrevocably.
hence, it haunted him. what if you found out?
what if you found out that the two of you existed together only because of a stupid bet made between him and his friends during an alcoholic stupor.
drinks paid for the whole year if he took your virginity.
got this idea at 3 am and wrote it down immediately! not proofread (will edit later when i can). thinkin about having this as a mini-series.
Jane and Kali died in a hell dimension created by their abuser. Robin’s only arc this season was propping up Will. She got together and broke up with Vickie offscreen. The only thing mentions for Max in the ending is that she’s still with Lucas. No one looks out for Erica because she’s “tough”. You can’t convince me this show doesn’t hate women.
the duffers decided they didn’t want to hide jamie campbell bower in the vecna makeup all season so they put him in a slutty little brown suit, the twinkiest glasses ive ever seen, told him to smile, and then gave him an entire barbie dreamhouse to be offputting and handsome in 24/7
touchstarved ! rookie! reader x training officer! tim
summary: Tim had said ‘no more rookies’ after Lucy, but well. Things don’t always go according to plan. Just like you never thought you’d be staring at your training officer’s arms, wondering how they feel wrapped around you.
cw: daddy issues (seriously this is a tim x reader like. don’t we all have daddy issues) mild depression, descriptions of child death and abuse (it’s one scene and pretty easily skippable but yk police call stuff) tbh could be read as platonic this isn’t super romantic i just want tim to hold me i don’t care how he does it
a/n: in this universe chenford never happened even tho i ship it with every cell in my body. also im only like halfway through season two so take my depiction of characters and events with a grain of salt. buckle up this one’s LOOOOOONGGG
title taken from Lover You Should've Come Over by Jeff Buckley (jeff buckley i miss u)
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Tim Bradford has really nice hands.
This is, undoubtedly, not at all something you should be noticing about your training officer. Probably the most strict, unpredictable, unrelenting, high-key-wants-you-to-fail training officer in the LAPD.
And yet.
Here you are, noticing.
His arms are really nice too. The chords of muscle flex in a particular way while he drives. Especially when turning or when he’s conducting a car chase and his hands go white-knuckled on the steering wheel.
You think to yourself that his hands are probably warm. Tim seems like the kind of man to run hot.
Tim also makes sure that you understand how much he doesn’t like you.
You get it. Kind of. He’d been on his way to becoming a sergeant when it’d been decided that during the coarse of his career, not enough of his officers actually made it past being a rookie.
“One last go,” The captain had said on your first day, “Should be easy. This rookie’s the most self-sufficient thing since Officer West. If she doesn’t make the cut, I want to know why.”
So yeah. You’re pretty sure Tim tuned out the conversation after hearing ‘one last go’.
Additionally, you two have… clashing personalities. You’ve always prided yourself on being self-sufficient- on not needing anyone else. But Tim makes it his mission every single day to remind you of all the million different ways you need to rely on your partner and need them— need him.
It’s annoying on a good day and humbling on a bad one.
And then there’s the matter of Lucy Chen. One of the few rookies to survive the Tim Tests and actually make it past rookie, all the while gaining his respect and friendship.
You don’t even try to hope to reach what she accomplished. Lucy Chen is an inspiration, a pipe dream, and an unreachable standard wrapped up in blue. It’s clear that Tim is proud of the cop she’s become. Proud of his work.
You’re not sure he could ever be proud of you.
But you didn’t raise yourself to be a quitter. So you get up everyday and take the Tim Tests in stride. You work and learn and learn and work and pretend the lack of relationship or bond you have with your fellow rookies doesn’t bother you.
You pretend you don’t dream of being held by warm arms and wake up in the same position, alone and cold.
You pretend the heated blanket you bought during the Academy with your meager funds feels just like human warmth. You pretend it’s enough.
And you do what you always do: you manage.
—
Like with any job, there’s good days, and there’s bad days. You try not to dwell on the bad days, but you usually end up doing so anyways, usually in your silent, empty apartment as you try to fall asleep.
Your shift today is only half over, and you’ve already lost a suspect during a chase —Tim ended up catching her, and the look he shot you as he cuffed him was nothing short of fiery— you accidentally tampered with evidence —in your defense, you weren’t aware that piggy banks were used to move drugs, but accidentally dropping it made you want to crawl into a hole and die— and the cherry on top was the suspect you apprehended today, who, in her desperation to get away from you and jail, kicked you in the leg while she was on the ground. With her very long, and very skinny heel.
‘I got stabbed in the leg with a stripper’s heel’ isn’t a sentence you ever thought you’d say, but here you are. The wound isn’t that bad, thankfully. Just all the usual pain that comes from being stabbed with a fairly blunt object.
You sit in an uncomfortable hospital chair in the waiting room, elbow digging into the hard, wooden armrest and holding your head up by your forehead, while your other arm presses on the still sluggishly bleeding wound on your lower, mid thigh, leg stretched out in front of you.
You’re tired.
Recently, the bad days have outweighed the good ones. You knew this would be the case when you signed up to be a cop. You knew your apartment would feel empty and cold, but you thought that maybe, maybe, you’d make a few friends in your coworkers and it wouldn’t feel so unbearable.
But it turns out there isn’t enough time to make friends when you’re busy trying to get the highest scores in the Academy. And by the time you graduated, you’d been written off as a stuck-up teachers pet. Tolerated by the other rookies at best, occasionally sneered at and mocked at worst.
No fellow rookies, no friendly coworker, no nice neighbors in your apartment. Your training officer doesn’t like you, and the watch commander regularly enjoys singling you out for rookie-typical ridicule.
You’re tired.
The wound on your leg hurts like a bitch, already bruised to hell and back in that way that blunt force injuries usually do. Your pants are dark and sticky with blood, and the hand that’s applying pressure is uncomfortably tacky as you bleed, clot, and dry, over and over again.
It’s shitty. You feel shitty.
The fluorescent overhead lights are making your head pound and there’s so much noise in the waiting room, overlapping and, for lack of a better term, stabbing your eardrums in a pounding beat, and the pain is starting to make you a little nauseous, or maybe that’s the smell of anti-septic, and you fucked up so badly today, and oh god what if you get sepsis or a staff infection, that heel was so dirty, who knows where it’s been, and why won’t you just stop bleeding, and—
“Boot.”
—you haven’t called your mom in ages, she deserves better than that, and god your leg really hurts, and you don’t want to go home after this because—
“Rookie.”
—you’re most definitely being sent home, you got stabbed with a fucking heel for christ’s sake, and unlike after a normal shift you won’t have the exhaustion to just send you straight to bed, chores be damned, your apartment is so, so so quiet and you hate it—
“Hey!”
Snapping fingers in front of your face and Tim’s shout jolts you from your pain-slash-panic-induced spiral, and you reflexively clench your fists, then hiss in pain as your grip tightens over the wound.
He’s crouched in front of you, dark, steady eyes scrutinizing your face.
“Sorry,” you huff, face hot with embarrassment. “It’s, um, it’s loud in here.”
He just nods once, looking rather unimpressed. You resist the urge to fidget.
“You good to stay here while I go back out?”
The thought of waiting in the ER alone, and then more than likely catching an Uber to the station and then ignoring possible doctors orders to drive yourself home from there is… less than pleasant.
But if it has to be done, then it has to be done.
“Yeah,” You say easily, the lie slipping right off your tongue. “Yeah, yeah I’ll be good.”
Your injury had already been called in, so Grey wasn’t expecting you back at the station. Tim would go back on shift and you’d take care of yourself like you always do. You’ll be fine eventually. You always are.
You expect Tim to take the easy out. You’ve handed it to him on a silver platter. Express permission to not have to deal with you anymore today.
He sighs, unexpectedly, then stands, and you look down so you don’t have to watch him walk away, and wait to hear the sound of his retreating footsteps.
They don’t come.
The chair next to you creaks as someone sits down in it.
As Tim sits down in it.
You blink, looking up at him. “Officer Bradford?”
He’s crossed his arms across his chest, sparing you a small glance. “What?”
You look down at your lap. “Nothing.”
He doesn’t say anything, just pulls out his phone, clearly texting someone —probably Officer Lopez— and pretty much ignores you as you wait to be called back.
His presence is enough, though. It chases away some of that creeping panic and chill in your chest. You relax in increments. Your posture slouches, your hand unclenches, and you feel like you can take a breath without throwing up.
Eventually, your name gets called, and maybe you just look especially pathetic as your stiffly and shakily climb to your feet and begin ambling towards the indicated trauma room, but you hear another annoyed sigh, and then Tim’s mumbling “Here,” and then your arm is around his shoulders and his arm snakes behind your back and just above your waist.
And fuck.
If you thought that having him near you was something, having the arms of the man you’ve literally dreamt about doing nearly this exact same thing is… it’s a drug.
Your skin is on fire where’s he’s quite literally holding you together as you awkwardly shuffle across the waiting room. His hands are warm even through the under shirt and your uniform shirt. The rush of chemicals in your head is dizzying at the contact, your brain startlingly aware of each and every place the two of you are connected.
To him, it’s nothing. To you, it’s everything.
If this is what hard drugs feel like, you sympathize with the addicts. All it takes is his arm around you, safe and steadying, and you’re gone. Hooked.
You try your best to file the feeling away in your head, to commit it to memory, so later, when those bad days have their cold nights, you can take it out and remember it. Remember what felt like to be even half wrapped like this. Supported and steadied.
It’s an uncharacteristic show of care on Tim’s part. He’s not exactly a touchy-feely kind of guy. He’s more like the ‘deal with it or quit’ kind of guy.
But he’s helping you here, now. More than he knows.
You don’t comment on any of this, of course, because you don’t want to draw attention to how much you’re leaning into his touch.
You hope he writes it off as needing help walking.
—
The first night after the stabbing —Tim does not let you drive yourself home, though looks vaguely impressed that you were completely willing, and instead drops you off and has Officer Lopez drive your car back to your place— is great. You sleep clear through the night without waking up once. The memory of Tim holding you up, touching you, is fresh in your mind. Sleeping is easy. You arrive to work for once not faking your enthusiasm under layers of professionalism. You actually, genuinely feel okay.
As the weeks progress though, you start flagging.
By the time a month has gone by, you’re downright miserable. You didn’t realize just how empty your chest could feel after actually feeling how warm and full it could be.
This, of course, means doubling over on professionalism, because there’s absolutely no way that anyone can know how much you’re starting to fracture, bit by bit. You’re strong, put-together, and self-sufficient. You take Tim’s training in stride and you never complain. You don’t rise to the bait when you get singled out for hazing, and laugh when you become the subject of a rookie prank.
You do not stare at Tim’s arms or hands out of the corner of your eye when he’s not looking, you do not imagine the big pillow you hold at night is him, and most importantly you do not even entertain the fantasy in which Tim holds you, really holds you, and you don’t have to keep it all together anymore.
It’s not realistic. You’re always going to hold everything together. You always have and you always will.
But sometimes, every now and then, you get something well and truly right, and Tim says “Good job, boot.” And he means it. Gets that crinkle near his eyes and that twitch in his jaw when he’s trying not to look impressed or pleased. And it chases away the empty, just for a little bit. Makes how hard he pushes you just a little more worth it, each time.
It’s starting to get to you, though. Has been for awhile. Because it’s a bit pathetic, isn’t it, to think these things about your training officer? Someone who would never, ever do the things you want him to do? As trivial and stupid and childish as they are?
And look. You’re not stupid. You know exactly why you’ve fixated on Tim Bradford specifically. You’re well versed in the art of “intellectualizing your feelings so you don’t have to feel them” and your want of your training officer’s touch is no mystery. He checks all your boxes- Brooding, emotionally unavailable, harsh, attractive, and more importantly, in a position of power over you. So you get it. Daddy issues, your emotional needs not being met growing up, blah blah blah. It’s whatever.
What’s not whatever is your inability to stop obsessing over it. Him. You need to get a grip.
You want to become a detective. And, not to mention, you’ve worked incredibly hard to be a damn good cop.
But here you are, sitting in the shop with Tim, spacing out when you should be paying attention because you saw one of your old friends post the anniversary for her and her boyfriend last night and now you can’t stop thinking about how she probably look at every couple and wonder how it feels to have someone around, constantly, to soothe the near permanent ache in your chest and itch under your skin.
She probably doesn’t have the ache or itch at all.
“Boot!” Tim barks, voice sudden and loud. “Where are we?”
You jolt in place. “Uh—“
Tim slams on the brakes, your seatbelt snapping against your chest. “I’ve been shot. I’m dead. Where were you just now?”
You scramble for an answer. “I was—“
“Your head wasn’t here,” He jams a finger onto the center console. “And in this line of work, that means you’re dead. It means people die on your watch.”
He starts the car, and without the crackling of dispatch over the radio, it’s awhile before he speaks again.
“What’s wrong?”
The words sound so foreign coming from Officer Bradford that you pause.
“Is that a trick question? Is the answer…um… I should focus more…?”
“Well, yes, and no,” He responds, face set in a slight grimace, “Yes, you need to focus more, but no, that wasn’t a trick question.”
When you don’t immediately respond —what are you supposed to say to that?— he keeps going.
“You’re spacey. You don’t get spacey. But you’ve been all over the place lately, so something’s up.”
“Nothing’s—“
He levels you with a Look.
Now it’s your turn to sigh.
One of the main reasons you didn’t get along with other students at the Academy was your unwillingness to sacrifice your career for a social life. You didn’t tell anybody your sob story— didn’t need the pity, didn’t care what they thought.
And you don’t really want to tell Tim either, but for a different reason. An opposite one, really. You do care what he thinks. A lot. And you don’t want to sound whiny or sensitive or any less of a capable cop. You need to prove to him that you can do this.
But Tim also has the best bullshit sensor of anyone you know, and will immediately see through you if you try to lie.
“I moved to California right before I started at the Academy. I was focused and career driven. And I’ve never really been social. It just, uh, kind of hit me, I guess. That my family is a thousand miles away.”
“What, you don’t have any friends from the Academy?”
His confidence in your social skills is nice, if not very misguided.
You shrug. “I gave up everything to move here. I thought that if I went out to bars and parties, I’d lose focus and fail. I couldn’t, and still can’t afford to.”
Tim’s saved from responding by a call close to your location crackling out from dispatch. And thank god for that. You’re sure as hell not itching to restart the conversation, and besides. Tim wants you to get your head in the game, so you do. Complete and utter focus on the call.
It goes well. But Tim doesn’t say anything as you climb back in the shop, not even a not-displeased hum.
“That’s stupid, you know.”
You look up from where you were checking something in the system. “What?”
“This thing you’re doing. You’re not even living. You’re just going to work and then going home. Your performance is shitty because you feel shitty.”
You gape for a second before rushing to respond. “My performance isn’t—“
“Yeah, it is. Don’t argue me on this, boot. You’re drowning, is what you’re doing. You have no work life balance. You’re going to burn out, and then you wash out.”
He turns to you, eyes bright and jaw set. “And you better not wash out, because you’re my last rookie and I need you to win.”
Right. Yes. Of course. Tim needs you to win, so he needs you to get focused, and get real.
The smile you give him is perfectly practiced and hollow. You ignore the nausea churning in your chest.
“Don’t worry. I don’t do anything other than win.”
—
Even though it’s most definitely stupid and insane, you ignore Tim’s advice. Since when have you had the energy to do things outside of work but rot in bed? And besides. Going out would mean losing precious sleeping hours, which are already hard enough to come by as it is. You don’t need to make your energy levels any worse than they already are by adding going to bed late on top of incredibly fitful sleep.
So it’s fine. You’re handling it.
—
You’re not handling it.
You’re exhausted. All the time. The more tired you are, the more you have to work to make sure your performance at work isn’t suffering. Which makes you more tired.
And you just… can’t sleep. You toss and turn all night, wake up a million times, and usually end up reliving your worst cases with added bonuses, like Tim being injured, and then berating you for it, and then the watch commander calls you into his office and fires you.
And then there’s the guilt. The sickening, nauseating guilt that follows you day after day, choking and clogging your throat because you know you’re better than this. You’re better than this. But you’re not getting better.
You should’ve taken Tim’s advice, maybe. Should’ve heard it two, three, maybe four months ago and extended yourself to other people and tried going out, making a routine of trying new things other than sleeping, watching tv, or working, but it’s too late now and you’re just so fucking tired.
And alone.
Really, really, alone.
When you finally lose it, it’s because of a call. A bad one. A really bad one.
It’s a little girl. No older than nine or ten. Her mother had reported her missing when she’d come home from work and her daughter and her husband were missing. At first, the report hadn’t been taken seriously, but the mother begged and pleaded. It was Lucy who’d pulled up the woman’s husband and found several previous charges for domestic violence and abuse that dispatch had sent multiple units after the child.
Whom you found. Locked in a car.
You were the one to break the window. You were the one to get her out.
You were the one who had to call an RA unit for a nine year old girl, not conscious, not breathing.
Tim pulled you away from the scene. From her. Kept a hand on your shoulder and steered you towards the shop, and you were shaking. Are shaking. You’re in the shop. You can’t get your hands to stop shaking.
Tim is uncharacteristically silent. He doesn’t start the car. You can see him watching you out of the corner of your eye. You need to stop shaking. You need to get it together.
It’s just. That was you. Could’ve been you. Almost was you, once or twice.
You spent a lot of time in locked cars growing up.
“Boot,” Tim says softly, too softly, he’s babying you, “You need to take a minute.”
“No, no,” The first no is shaky and the second is no better but you need to be fine, “I’m fine, I’ll be fine. I need to adapt, need to get used to this kind of thing.”
He makes a noise of annoyance in the back of his throat. “No you don’t. Becoming desensitized to this kind of thing isn’t what you want to happen. Trust me.”
You breath is starting to hitch a little, and your eyes are beginning to burn. Why can’t you stop shaking? It happened so long ago.
“I’m fine. I’m— It’s okay. We should get back on the road.”
Your voice wobbles at the end. You clench your jaw, steel yourself against the onslaught of emotions and will yourself to just get a fucking grip.
“Hey,” Tim starts, voice that lower, gentle tone he sometimes uses on victims, and that’s messed up, because you’re not a victim, just dramatic, “It’s okay to not be okay after something like that.”
“I’m fine!” You snap, “I survived. She didn’t.”
Oh.
You feel the first few tears begin falling, and immediately scrub them off your face as fast and as hard as you can.
“I’m sorry,” You half-whisper, mortified at the action of crying and snapping at him. “I’m sorry, this is, this is really unprofessional—“
You hunch, pressing the heels of your hands so hard into your eyes starbursts of color are whirling behind them.
Tim doesn’t say anything, which only adds to your mounting anxiety, until you hear the semi-familar sound of him typing on his phone, and then a steady tik. Tik. Tik.
You look up, your eyes already puffy.
Tim sets his phone down on the console between the two of you.
“That timer is set for ten minutes. For ten minutes, you are not going to be fine. Ten minutes while we drive. Got that?”
You sniffle pathetically. “Ten minutes is a long time to put up with me crying.”
He shrugs. “If I give you your ten minutes, and you get this out, then you’ll be more focused on the job. Seems like a fair trade off to me.”
You’re not expecting the firm hand to land on your shoulder.
“This was your first d-o-a. Even the best cops are shaken after something like that. It changes you. That is not something be ashamed of.”
You let yourself lean into the touch, ever so slightly. The tears start falling easier after that, and, still not entirely comfortable with crying in front of your TO, you cover your face with your hands.
The crying bit is over in only a few minutes. The rest of the time on the timer is spent staring down at your lap and trying to calm yourself down, and when that doesn’t work, you pull out your phone and soothe yourself by organizing one of your Pinterest boards. Ah, the peace that comes from setting arbitrary rules that affect no one and organizing pictures based on these rules. Bliss.
Tim only removes his hand after you stop crying, which. You try your best to memorize the touch —no matter how mortifying the circumstances— and try your best not to think about how it almost seems like starting to catch onto the messier parts about yourself you’d like to keep hidden.
—
Sometimes it’s hard not to feel well and truly and completely alone.
You know you’re not. Not really. Not if you tried harder, extended yourself more. Made an effort to get out there. But you don’t have any energy for efforts. You don’t have anything left to give.
Tim’s touch and approval and just there-ness haunt you on your off days and are, if you’re being embarrassingly and horrifyingly honest, the only thing you really look forward to anymore.
You like your job. You do. But you’re tired. And how many times can you say that? Can you think that?
Please, someone, put me down, let me go, give me a minute, I’m tired.
So it’s not really surprising when you get sick.
You’ve been running yourself absolutely ragged, day in and day out, and when you wake, feeling like death warmed over, you don’t even groan. It makes your throat hurt.
Your head pounds with pressure from your sinuses and your hands shake as you put on your uniform in the locker room. Your slow-and-unsteady gait gathers a few looks as you make your way into the, surprisingly empty, roll call room.
Is it really empty if one person is in it? Tim’s in it. He’s leaned up against the front desk, where you usually sit with the other rookies. Only time you’re really ever near them. He looks mad. Why’s he mad?
“Boot,” He starts, voice low, and that’s never a good sign, “Is there a reason you decided not to show up to roll call today?”
You blink, thoughts going about as fast as a fish in frozen water, “But it’s not time for roll call yet.”
It’s not. You woke up when your alarm went off, took cold medicine (probably more than you’re supposed to, and the wrong combination of them, but who cares) and drove to the precinct. Same as you always do. Minus the cold medicine.
Tim frowns. He’s always frowning. He frowns deeper. “You’re over an hour late.”
That…doesn’t make any sense. How’d you lose an hour of time? Did you fall asleep somewhere along the way? You don’t remember falling asleep. You’re not missing any memories, no blank spots, no black outs.
“Boot!” He barks, and you flinch and the noise, pressing a hand to your forehead as if that’ll help the sharp stab of pain in your head that accompanies his raised voice.
Tim is downright glaring at you now. “Are you hungover?”
“No!” You reply indignantly, then instantly regret it due to the burn you now feel in your throat, “I’m just like. Kind of sick.”
Did that come out convincing enough? You’re sure you can still work. You worked through every cold and flu and fever back at the Academy. You can totally do this, right?
Tim pushes off the table and stalks towards you. arms crossed. He uncrosses them as he gets closer and—
Oh. That’s nice. His hand’s cool.
Your eyes flutter shut, unbidden, as the cool skin of the back of his hand presses to your forehead. If your eyes were open, you’d be able to see that his frown has taken on a concerned brow furrow to accompany it, but you’re too busy enjoying the simple contact to notice. Or keep your eyes open.
He takes his hand away with a sigh, and you stumble forward a little.
“You feel like you’re on fire. Jesus- did you drive here?”
You nod, to avoid angering your throat, and end up angering your headache instead.
“Yeah, you’re going home.”
Panic stabs you in the chest.
“No!” You rasp, “I’m fine. I’m a rookie, it’s my job to keep working no matter what—“
“It’s also,” Tim interrupts, “Your job to take care of yourself, but you’re shit at that, which is why you’re sick in the first place. So I’m going to drive you home and make sure you’re not going to die by yourself while you’re sick.”
You shake your head. “I used to work through being sick all the time at the Academy, I can do it.”
“And you were stupid for doing that too. The key difference here is that you’re not responsible for peoples lives at the Academy. I’m not going to get shot today because you’re too hopped up on cold medicine to cover me.”
“But—“
“I’m sorry,” He growls, “Were you under the impression that you have any sort of say in this decision?”
You close your mouth.
“That’s what I thought. Go wait at my desk while I clear this with the watch commander.”
You trudge solemnly to his desk, head and vision swimming. Great. Now Tim’s upset at you and you feel awful. Why is everything so terrible?
You slump into the chair at his desk, dropping your head onto your arms and allowing your eyes to close. The walk from the briefing room to Tim’s desk exhausted you. And your uniform feels extra uncomfortable.
You just want to be at home, not sick, and maybe sleeping restfully for the first time since becoming a cop. Maybe you’re not cut out to be a cop. Maybe you should quit. Maybe—
Someone gently shakes your shoulder, and your straighten, blinking blearily.
“Come on, up we go.”
A strong arm hooks under yours and carefully hauls you up, and let out a small whine at the movement. Tim’s desk is comfortable. And smells vaguely like him.
“Don’t give me that. I’m taking you home. We need to go get your stuff from the locker room.”
You whine again, as if the noise will somehow convey everything you’re feeling at the moment.
I don’t want to leave the temporary and fake saftey of Tim’s desk. I don’t want to go home cause my home is empty and I’m sick. I’m extra miserable because I’m sick. My brain isn’t working and I don’t remember what locker I put my stuff in. I don’t even know if I brought my stuff. Is it somehow possible for my technical-boss to take me to his house instead and tuck me into his bed that smells like him and has him in it so I can sleep next to another human being and feel safe for even twenty minutes?
Of course, none of this is relayed to Tim, who’s currently half holding half dragging you over to the locker rooms, grip firm but not unkind.
After assuring you that no one else is even going to be in the locker room because you’re now over an hour into your shift, he goes with you and helps you find and take your stuff. In your sick daze, you did manage to bring your bag and water bottle, but neglected to put any water in your water bottle or put your wallet in your bag.
Tim just mutters an “Alright, come on,” once your stuff has been acquired, and escorts you out to the parking lot.
Two things occur to you.
One, Tim is no longer dressed in his uniform. Instead, he now sports jeans and a dark gray henley.
Two, you’re both headed towards the personal parking lot.
If Tim isn’t in work clothes anymore, and he’s taking you towards his car, that means he’s not just dropping you off at your house.
He is, presumably, going to look after you. Because you’re sick.
He ushers you into the passenger seat, going so far as to help you up and grab the seatbelt for you. He leans over you when he does it, and there’s a second where he’s pressed against you and it’s so nice and you kind of want to live in the moment forever but you can’t because you’re sick and he’s mad at you and he shouldn’t have to deal with this and you should’ve been better.
You sniffle just as he starts the car, momentarily thankful for the engine turning over hiding the sound, but unfortunately, the second the tears start, they don’t stop.
Tim notices immediately, because of course he does.
“What’s wrong?”
You hiccup a half-sob. “I’m sorry. I should’ve called out.”
“Yeah, you should have.”
You sniff again, harder, cause now your nose is running. “I thought I could do it. I thought I could handle it.”
He eases the car out of the parking space. “Having a brain-cooking fever isn’t really something you can just handle.”
He eyes the fat tears rolling down your cheeks and you see the muscles in his jaw work.
“Why didn’t just call out sick?”
“I don’t like calling out. I wanna be a model employee. Model officer. Wanna be reliable. I wanna be—“
You swallow, voice hoarse and wobbly. “I just wanna be good.”
The car is silent for awhile. A long while. Tim doesn’t respond, and with your nerves now thoroughly fried and your immune system making a minor attempt on your life, you’re pretty sure you fall asleep.
You wake to Tim shaking you, albeit gently, and helping you out of the car. He instructs you to leave your bag and to go inside and change.
He really doesn’t have to tell you twice. You feel awful. So bad. Terrible. Horrible.
Changing clothes only serves to exhaust you further, so you trudge out to the living room and collapse onto your couch, shivering. There’s a blanket only a few feet away, but it’s just so far.
You hear your front door open and the sound of heavy-footsteps, and then there’s the creak of your shitty fridge opening and a few mumbled curses.
You ignore the noises behind you and dedicate all of your energy to grabbing the remote off the coffee table and finding something you don’t have to think about watching. Maybe Criminal Minds. Or Bluey.
“I,” Tim starts, then annoyedly snatches the blanket off the end of the coach and drags it up over you, “Am going to the store, because your fridge looks like it hasn’t been used since the eighteen-hundreds. Don’t die while I’m gone.”
“Okay,” You say, but your voice is hoarse and muffled by the blanket so it comes out more like, “Mmomhay.”
You end up watching Jurassic Park, because nothing makes you feel better like dinosaurs and people getting eaten by them. Classic.
Tim does return at some point, right about when you’re thinking of just binge watching every single Jurassic Park/World movie, and starts making noise in your kitchen. Which you also ignore.
You’re doing a lot of ignoring today.
It’s easy though, is the thing. Tim is cooking something, if the sounds of grocery bags and pots and pans and chopping are anything to go off, and he’s handled you and his’s shifts, so there’s no work to worry about, and you’re really honestly too sick to think about any other things that need to be done.
Tim’s taking care of it. So you don’t have to worry, cause he’s cooking something, and people are getting eaten by dinosaurs on the tv in front of you, so maybe everything will be okay for the time being.
The okay feeling comes to a swift and brutal end when Tim comes around the edge of the couch and tells you to sit up.
“M’ comfy,” You mumble, indignant.
He rolls his eyes, ever exasperated. “You can’t eat soup while laying down.”
“Watch me.”
“No. Come on, sit up.”
You whine as he pulls you forward, stuffing pillows behind you so you don’t actually have to put effort in to staying upright. He then places a tray you didn’t know you owned (maybe he bought it?) on your lap and places a small bowl of soup and a sleeve of saltines.
Your eyes begin to burn with unshed tears again.
Tim groans. “It’s just soup, Boot.”
You sniff harshly. “No one’s made me soup before.”
He sigh’s long-sufferingly, but his vocal exasperation is undermined by the careful way he dabs at the tears on your cheeks.
“Thought you liked your mom.” Tim says, a question hidden in his voice.
“I do. But we were really poor, so she couldn’t really afford to take time off work because I was sick. And I got sick pretty often so,” You pick up your spoon with shaky fingers. “I got good at taking care of myself.”
“Yeah?” Tim says, opening the package of saltines for you, “Then where’d all that skill go?”
He clearly means it as a joke, but you still can’t help the small stab of guilt in your chest.
You set the spoon back down. “I’m just really tired.”
He doesn’t sigh again, but he does purse his lips in that way he does when he’s upset about something and can’t quite decide how to show it.
When he moves, it surprises you. He takes the soup off your lap, moves the tray to the little coffee table by your couch. Turns the TV volume up. Loud enough to hear the audible crunch of the Spinosaurus battling the T. Rex.
Then, he reaches forward and just. Reaches his arms around your waist and back and pulls you forward, then borderline man-handles you into a comfortable position with your legs now where your head used to be, and your had pillowed on his shoulder. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you just that much closer.
You couldn’t have stopped yourself from melting into the embrace even if you weren’t hopped up on cold medicine.
After a few minutes of mindlessly watching a Spinosaurus go on a rampage, he speaks again.
“You wanna know what I think?”
You nod into his arm, face smushed.
“I think you got really good at making people not worry about you. You probably had to.”
For a brief second, you think about hunger, and sickness, and locked cars.
“And I think that in my haste to get through this training period and make it to Sergeant, I didn’t bother looking deeper to find out if you were lying or not.”
You shift in place, now a little uncomfortable as the conversation has switched over to you. “It’s not really your responsibility.”
“It is,” Tim says easily, tone-matter-of-fact. “You’re my rookie. And it shouldn’t have taken me this long to learn what kind of training and support you needed.”
You sit up at his words. Which is a huge mistake, because then you get really dizzy and nauseous and there are weird stars dancing across your vision.
“You—“ You pause, taking a deep breath, “This is police work. I shouldn’t have to be coddled every step of the way.”
“Lay back down,” He tugs you down by your waist. “You aren’t coddled every step of the way. You’re a capable cop. You’re good at your job. I’m not holding your hand. I’m giving you what you need.”
You sink lower on the couch, trying to hide your face from this mortifying experience. Unfortunately the closest thing to hide your face in is Tim’s side.
Oh well. Beggars can’t be choosers.
He rubs your back consolingly. It only feels a little patronizing.
“But,” He continues, “I don’t know what you need if you don’t tell me.”
“I don’t want to bother you with that. You’re my T.O.”
“And you’re my rookie,” Tim continues smoothly, “I can’t send my rookie out on the streets if any criminal can get to her through a hug.”
“Hey,” You grumble, “That’s mean.”
“No it’s not.”
You pull your face away from his side and go back to facing the TV.
“But what if I need this a lot? What if my brain gets… screwy when I’m alone for awhile, and this is what fixes it?”
“Then I’d say it was a fairly normal reaction and need.” Tim shrugs.
You look up at him questioningly.
“Look. I didn’t have a great dad either. It’s not…” He trails off, jaw working. “Bad things happened to you. You dealt with them the only way you knew how. But now you need a little extra help. That’s all.”
“That sounds like something Lucy would say.”
Tim rolls his eyes. “How could you tell?”
The conversation lulls into a gentle silence. Tim continues trailing his hand up and down your side. Up and down, up and down, up and down. And occasionally pause to rub, knead, or scratch. All of which you lean into with equal amounts of shame and enjoyment.
“You’re like a cat,” He mumbles, eyes trained on the still rampaging Spinosaurus, “Can’t believe I didn’t make the connection before.”
You don’t have it in you to do anything more than make a non-committal hum.
A couple beats pass.
“Thank you.”
Tim’s hand trails a little higher on the next pass, his large palm curling up over your shoulder and to the back of your neck.
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