To myself, raised in an environment that glorified and romanticized restriction and suffering:
There is no victory in skipping dinner, or lunch, or breakfast, or morning coffee, or dessert.
There is no victory in refusing heaters and air conditioners and fans and heated blankets.
There is no victory in denying yourself sleep, or showers, or movement, or water, or a comfortable bed, or taking the elevator vs. the stairs.
There is no victory in refusing pain meds and heating pads and ice packs and medical help.
There is no victory in punishing yourself needlessly, in telling yourself that this pain you feel is because you are bad to the core and deserve it.
There is no victory in choking back your laughter and your tears, to keep an imagined equilibrium of safety that is really just a dry, cracked, empty, endless emotional desert.
You are here. You are in this body, and this body is yours. You deserve good things. You are alive, and that is messy and loud, and messy and loud are okay.
Itâs okay to live abundantly. Itâs okay to make mistakes, itâs okay to indulge. This paralysis of self-punishment, self-restriction, self-loathing is not healthy or good for you.
â FEATURING : college au, fluff, est. relationship, megumi has longer hair implied, pet names, cuddling, & not proofread.
Nothing was wrong with Megumi, per se. He was emotionally mature, affectionate when you needed him to be, and always clear when you asked him to reword something.
He was patient. Kind. Overall, a loving, almost perfect boyfriend.
He only had the one flaw, one fatal, very infuriating flaw, which made you want to pull yourâand hisâhair out.
His insomnia. He was sure you hated it more than he did most nights.
Yes, it gave him the adorable eye bags & meant he'd often be tired, taking naps with you whenever you offered your bed up during study dates.
But at night? When all you could want is for him not to rumble with muted laughter, to get proper rest with your boyfriend.
"Mm. Megs?" You mumbled against the hard plane of his chest, peeling off from his warmth just enough to send him a pointed glare.
"...Yes?" He instantly flicked his gaze away from his phone as you shifted, his hands' tender strokes pausing in their soothing rhythm. "You okay?"
"Phone. Off. It'sâ" You paused, glancing at his alarm clock, your eye almost twitching at the sight. "âthree in the morning. I'm tired. You keep vibrating."
You pressed a firm hand on his chest, pushing yourself to straddle his waist rather than act as his weighted blanket, his hand on your hip quickly pressing the small of your back to hold you steady.
"Sorry, sorry." His phone was off, not even a second later & tossed onto his nightstand. "Itadori & Kugisaki were spamming our⌠group chat, and time must have gotten away from me." He murmured, sitting up against the headboard.
Your frown grew into a pout, a very tired, very adorable pout in Megumi's opinion.
"I'm tired." You huffed, pressing your face against his throat, Megumi's body tensing for a moment before wrapping an arm comfortably around your waist. "I'm tired, you're warm, annoying, and were keeping me awake."
"Hey, hey." He whispered into your hair, slowly easing back against the pillows. "I've got you. I'm sorry." Megumi pressed a soft kiss against your hair.
He paused for a moment, letting you mold yourself to him however you wanted before pulling the blanket up to tuck over your shoulders.
"You're so annoying, Megs." You rasped, gently playing with his hair. The black tuffs move between your fingers effortlessly & Megumi lets out a contented sigh. "You're lucky you're pretty."
"âŚRight." He choked on a laugh, resting his warm palms on your hips. "Okay, sleepy girl. I'm going to bed. Does that make you feel better?"
"Mm-hmm, it does." You pressed a quick kiss to his jaw, lazily toying with his hair as his typically stoic expression melted into a soft smile. "Be sleepy with me."
He hummed quietly, pressing a kiss to you temple. "Yeah, okay. I'll be sleepy with you."
Megumi's the perfect boyfriend actually. Insomnia or not.
đ§đ¨đđ : Highly, highly requested to write anything for Megumi, here it is, sorry if it's rushed I got inspo from my own insomnia & divider by @cursed-carmine
Romantic tiger shark yuuji courting with tiny little treasures from the deepest depths of the sea just to present to you on his big clawed hands, smiling so cute with the prettiest blush on his cheeks and his eyes sparkling with adoration and a nervous look of pure love AGHHHHGGGGHGGHHHđ
âŠęą pearlescent ft. yuuji itadori .á
đ ę° âŠ fluff â mdni â tiger shark merman!yuuji itadori and marine biologist & fem!reader. strangers to lovers, friends to lovers, crushes, yuuji is 17ft, monsterâŚloving, monster x human, implied language barrier ę° you swap gifts with your merman friend who lives in the sea, but his carries a more romantic meaning. ęą
tiger shark yuuji waits for you to come and visit him by the pier every single day at sunset itâs how you get to talk to him without putting him in any danger and at risk.
when he surfaces thereâs a brilliant splash of water that carefully rains down on your skin as if the ocean has taken to greeting you with small kisses. yuuji leans over the edge of the wooden pier with bright, boba eyes intrigued by your small human hands that tremble with excitement whenever you see him. you often do a âcultural exchangeâ ⌠you bring him something from the human world and he brings you something from the sea. each time more intricate and more thoughtful because he really has grown fond of his little land creature with two pretty legs.
âyuuji,â you say, smile bleeding into your cheeks like the water sunset does into the sky. your fingers hold up something that wobbles in the wind but looks like a moment of time stilled. âthis is a picture! i took it with this,â you gesture to the camera hanging from your neck. âit captures memories, so we can keep them forever.â
his head tilts, pink hair dripping with water that lands cool on your thighs as the merman leans over you. âpic-chure?â he blinks up at you to check if heâs said it right.
âyes, picture!â a giggle bubbles through you, warm like the sand between your toes â drifting into the salty sea breeze. âtheyâre um⌠printed onto paper⌠but i laminated it so it doesnât get wet. iâll explain lamination to you later⌠itâs kind of bad for the environment but sooo usefulâ!â
ââwho are they?â yuuji asks abruptly. not to be rude, but to be curious. his clawed pointer finger signals to the pic-chure once again.
the ink has carefully crafted faces of people you love most â whoâs everlasting support for your dreams landed you a position here, whoâs hearts you miss every single day and think of when night crawls over land.
âmy friends from back home,â you say wistful, longing. itâs painted on the face blurred by the blush of the pinky-orange sky. he knows that feeling very well, it beats through his chest when he looks at you. âi wonât get to see them for a while.â
âjust ⌠human friends or human lovers?â
you squeak, nearly tipping forward into the waves. yuujiâs large hands are gentle on your hips â steadying you in your seat on the edge of the pier. âjust friends! iâve never⌠iâm not so lucky with love.â
the merman lets his voice fall into the quiet depths of silence as he ponders. only for a second, enough to let his heart decided what comes next with the turn of the tides. âiâll be back.â he says in a tone not stern but one that keeps you rooted to your spot â and with a swish of his striped tiger shark tail, he disappears into aquamarine and frothy peaks.
just for a second. leaving you with the gulls and the rush of waves for company. you wonder why your pulse races and why your skin feels warm to the touch for reasons other than the sun.
âback.â when yuuji returns, another magnificent splash â you nearly jump into the water once again. his damp hands settle you but your heart does not still, mimicking that of stormy weather that disturbs peaceful waters. his brown eyes melt in the evening sunlight, they unravel you just a bit because they are all too kind. soft in comparison to the hard line of his torso that must taste like salt and sea. your gaze follows droplets that run down his chest and merge where his v-line disappears to the sea.
âfor you.â your eyes snap back up to where yuuji holds out a hand to you â the queen conch shell dwarfed in the palm of his hand. reminding you of how magnificent of a creature he is. your fingertips brush his claws as he passes it to you, two hearts stutter. âinside.â
acting on his guidance, you shake the shell and into your hand rolls a pink pearl. in the hands of the sunâs rays, an undulating pattern is revealed â resembling that of flames. the silky pattern of the milky pink pearl glistens for you under evening light.
you look up again, mystified to find yuuji watching you eagerly. you know what it is, how rare it is. a one in fifteen thousand chance of finding such a beautiful and natural pearl â and the merman has gifted it to you as though its rarity weighs nothing on his mind.
yuuji has bought you gifts before. shark teeth and whale bones, sea shells and and even sea jellies but nothing as grand a this.
âfor me?â you whisper, surprise and gratitude cracking open in the fragile cage of your chest.
yuuji nods once, timid almost. âin our culture we gift pearls to people we care about,â he explains, his timbre voice a harmony with the seaâs ambience. ânot to friends, to lovers.â
his words sink into your bones like stone in water, his current would drag you under if given the chance. lovers, not friends. thereâs a million things you want to say to the merman, a million feelings you want to convey before your time together is up for today. for now, you clutch the pearl to your chest â the glitter of appreciation to your eyes almost pearlescent itself as you smile.
he mirrors you, tail swishing in relief.
âletâs take a picture together,â you breathe. âas lovers, not friends.â
end ! likes are appreciated, but just liking doesnât do much on tumblr! to support and motivate myself and other writers, reply, reblog and comment if you'd like to see more!! â asks are open to thirsts and thoughts! join my taglist ! love you!
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Š TTEOKDOROKI 2020-26. all fanfics & layouts belong to me. do not copy, repost, translate, feed into ai, or recommend elsewhere.
ŕ§× × synopsis ⎠Jason starts growing facial hair again and he doubts he's young enough to go through a teenage phase. Good thing you know how to shave.
pls read a/n at the end before replying !!
aka âşâşâşâş âLook at that,â you murmur. âSexy jawline coming back.â âNever left,â Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
Jason has started growing facial hair again.
Itâs such a stupid, ordinary sentence that it almost feels like it belongs to someone elseâs life. Some other twenty-two-year-old who wakes up in a cramped apartment with morning light slipping through crooked blinds and worries about things like razors and bad lighting and whether stubble makes him look older than he is.
Not him.
His face is a map of healed disastersâthin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.
The Joker had called it âlight acid.â
As if acid could ever be light.
As if anything about it had been.
After that, hair just⌠didnât grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.
Jason never got that stage.
He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.
Until now.
At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.
There is hair there.
Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.
Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.
It doesnât.
The memory surfaces uninvitedâyour voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadnât eaten in days. Youâd swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.
It hadnât been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.
Not that time.
âOh, god,â he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.
He looks dreadful.
Thatâs the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hairâthick, black, unrulyâis sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didnât bother winning.
He leans closer.
At least his skin looks better.
That part softens something in him.
You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated againâtoo tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadnât teased him. You just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.
He grumbled the whole time.
You ignored him the whole time.
In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his faceâgentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. Youâd murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.
Jason had fallen asleep like that.
Just like that.
He doesnât remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.
âI knew it was hair!â
Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.
He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.
You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.
Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. Youâre wearing one of his old shirtsâswallowed by itâand a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they donât drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.
Like you belong here.
You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.
âJason, babyâŚâ you murmur, studying him in the mirror like heâs something precious and slightly ridiculous.
He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where theyâre clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.
âYou loooove it,â he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though thereâs something almost hopeful beneath it.
You hum, pretending to consider it.
One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.
âHmm,â you decide, lips twitching. âIt's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.â
Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.
Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.
âI donât have a razor,â he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like heâs something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. âAnd itâs a holiday⌠stores wonât be open.â
The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning wayâsunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest.Â
Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.
âI use a menâs razor,â you mumble thoughtfully, as if youâre offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. âWanna use that? I can disinfect it.â
He stills.
Itâs subtleâthe way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wristâbut you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that arenât empty; theyâre crowded. This is one of them.
âIâŚâ he starts, and the word drags.
Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.
âI donât know how to shave,â he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like itâs suddenly fascinating. âEven⌠before⌠uh. It didnât really grow.â
He doesnât elaborate.
He doesnât have to.
The space after before is heavy, but you donât reach for it. You donât pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.
âWhy now?â you murmur, mostly to yourself.
The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if youâve already decided the answer to that question doesnât matter nearly as much as what youâre going to do next.
Jason watches you through the mirror.
Why now?
Itâs the same reason heâs gained weightâreal weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didnât force himself to finish out of obligation. Thereâs a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like itâs bracing for impact every second.
He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.
Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.
Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.
He doesnât say that.
âMaybe itâs because youâre always slathering me in your fancy stuff,â he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. âIt probably shocked my face back to life.â
You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.
Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.
The light doesnât hide anything. It travels openly across himâover the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.
But you didnât run.
The first time you saw him like this, you hadnât looked horrified or pitying. Youâd looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always didâno hesitation, no recalibration.
If you didnât run from that, he doubts youâll run from stubble.
You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like youâre about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink youâve just run warm water into.
âCâmere,â you murmur.Â
You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.
âThis feels like a trap,â Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.
You smile down at himâslow, fond, almost reverentâand press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.
âRelax,â you say softly. âIâll take care of you.â
The words arenât dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.
He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if youâre handling something both fragile and fierce.
You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything thatâs going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scentâclean, subtle, faintly medicinalâmixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.
Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.
âHold still,â you murmur.
He huffs softly. âI am holding still.â
âYouâre flexing.â
âI am notââ
âYou are,â you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.
He forces his shoulders to drop.
Jason isnât used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correctionâforceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, itâs impactâbruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.
But this?
This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him.Â
You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. Youâre meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.
Your touch changes when you reach the scars.
Not hesitant. Not afraid.
Just attentive.
You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when youâre trying to get something exactly right.
âYou donât have to look at me like Iâm hurt and you need to patch me up,â he mutters.
You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.â
He snorts quietly despite himself.
The razor touches his skin for the first time.
Itâs a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.
Jason feels it more than he expected to.
Not painâjust awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time.Â
That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.
The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.
He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.
âYou trust me?â you ask lightly, but thereâs something real beneath it.
He doesnât hesitate this time.
âYeah.â
The answer is simple. Immediate.
Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek.Â
His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.
You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jawâthe place where the skin never quite grew back the same.
âDoes this one still feel tight?â you ask softly.
âSometimes,â he admits.
You donât comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.
Jasonâs eyes close for a second.
He lets them.
Thereâs something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like youâre not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. Iâm not afraid of any of it.
When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.
âLook at that,â you murmur. âSexy jawline coming back.â
âNever left,â Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
You grin. âSure, baby.â
You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.
He watches you again.
The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you donât seem to notice how intimate this isâhow your hands cradle his face like something precious.
When youâre done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.
âThere,â you whisper.
You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.
âMuch better.â
Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.
The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.
He looks at himself in the mirror again.
The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.
But thereâs something different in the way heâs sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isnât waiting for the mirror to betray him.
He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.
âYouâre gonna make me soft,â he mutters against your skin.
Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
âThats the goal,â you say.
And for once, the idea doesnât sound like a threat.
Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too
you could never get tired of admiring your husband heian era!sukuna âĄ
most people couldnât look at him for long.
the moment they caught sight of him, their eyes dart away. some out of fear, or some out of disgust. they believe a creature like him isnât meant to be looked at.
you think they are all blind.
the evening is quiet, lantern light casting a warm glow across the room. it has become part of your nightly routine before bed, these quiet moments spent with your husband after the day has settled.
sukuna sits against the bed frame, one pair of arms folded while the other rests loosely across his lap.
his crimson eyes follow you as you crawl toward him. you sit down beside him and gently take one of his hands, then another.
his brows rise as he looks at you expectantly.
you compare them, turning them over in your palms. thick fingers, calloused skin, veins running beneath flesh capable of tearing apart crowds.
yet you trace them carefully, as if they are something precious.
âfour arms..â you murmur.
âyou say that as if youâve only just noticed,â he says, clicking his tongue after.
you move closer, inspecting the markings that wind around his skin. your fingertips follow the dark lines traveling over his wrist and shoulders.
âtheyâre beautiful.â
he looks at you, and you swear thereâs a faint blush adoring his cheeks, even though heâs heard you say so many times before.
beautiful? no one has ever used that word for him before you.
you continue before he can respond.
your hand slides to his chest, tracing the markings there as well, and you can feel his gaze burning into you.
then your attention lowersâ to the second mouth resting on his stomach. the feature that causes most people to recoil.
you start to lean forward, but sukunaâs eyes narrow. âwhat are you doing?â
âhm?â
his stomach mouth opens slightly, revealing sharp teeth, just to close again.
you examine it with genuine curiosityâ it is quite the most strange part of him, and therefore something you want to understand even more.
without hesitation, you press a small kiss on top of it.
ââŚwhy are you looking at me like that?â you ask after coming back up.
for perhaps the first time in centuries, the king of curses looks genuinely caught off guard.
âwhat was that for?â
you tilt your head, and one of your hands come up to trace his lower lip.
âi do kiss these as well, no?â
a low, strange sound escapes him, a little similar to a low laugh.
you shift your attention upward again, this time toward the smaller eyes beneath his main pair.
youâve always found them quite interesting.
carefully, you brush your thumb beneath one. âso you can see from them as well?â
âobviously.â
you continue to examine him shamelessly.
the shape of his face, then the markings crossing his cheeks. the extra eyes.. the sharp angles of his features.
every detail. every part others fearâ you love looking at them, love memorizing them.
when you finally look up, sukuna is already looking at you, a little amusement written over his expression.
âwhatâs so amusing?â you ask.
two of his hands rise, and two large palms settle against your cheeks. the contrast between his size and yours is almost comical.
âjust why are you so different?â his thumb brushes across your cheek.
for a moment, neither of you speaks, then you lean forward and kiss one of the markings on his face.
âwouldnât be here if i was like everyone else, hm?â you reason.
Case notes: Aged up!Damian, established relationship
A/N: Here is a short fic/bullet point fic (?), while I finish my Jason Todd x Veronica Sawyer!reader fic. That will be properly written promise!
Arguing with Damian Wayne would include:
Not much yelling but more sharp, hurtful, condescending words. Damian is prideful and believes he is better and smarter than everyone else due to his upbringing (ahem, Bruce). He will rarely yell because it is "childish" but he will certainly make you feel stupid. Of course he doesn't mean it, but sometimes his emotions would get the best of him. Causing Damian to act and speak irrationally.
"TT, I do not expect you to understand the situation. Afterall, how can you? But I do expect you to listen. Unfortunately, you don't do that well either"
You both go to bed simmering with frustration. No cuddles, no talking, and goodnight's. Just turned backs and the darkness of the room guiding you both to an unpeaceful slumber.
The next morning, guilt would eat Damian alive, but his pride, still holding strong, refuses to apologize. The morning is silent and filled with tension so heavy, Superman himself could not push it away. Translation: Hardcore silent treatment from both parties.
Still, you two coexist in your shared apartment. Damian staying attentive to your needs and you to his, even without verbal communication.
Can't grab a mug from a particularly high shelf? Damian grabs it for you without hesitation.
A fitted sheet needs folding and Damian can't for the life of him figure it out? You do it for him.
Frustrated with a certain task? Damian will help always. Even without saying a word.
It is the same in public. Sure Damian won't hold your hand, but he will still stay close, keeping to the sidewalk rule, and ready to protect you at any given moment. He pulls up a chair for you, offers you the extra hair tie on his wrist when the winds happen to be stubborn that day, he helps you with your bags, and overall keeps an eye on you.
Because in your relationship, regardless of the status, partners never abandon each other.
Jealousy. Oh so much jealousy. The possessiveness in the relationship gets cranked up to 100%. While you both aren't on speaking terms, the two of you still very much love each other. When stranger comes up to you for directions in the street, it's instant glaring from Damian. And the jealousy isn't just from him, but from you as well. When a woman comes up to your boyfriend for a photo, inquiries, or worse, his number, you instantly take his hand in yours.
Strangely, that becomes the first stage in rebuilding the gap your argument has created.
You both walk around the streets hand in hand in this spiky bubble where nobody dares to come near. The hostile energy around you both practically radiates a big red sign that says, "DO NOT BOTHER." You are grumpy, he is grumpy, but at least you are grumpy together.
When the day ends, Damian and you forget what the fight was about. Tragically, all the energy was spent on getting irritated and keeping quiet that none was left to apologize properly. Instead, you both eat, shower, and settle in the covers and doze off. However this time, Damian's arms find your waist, spooning you to sleep. He will apologize in the morning once he regains energy. Maybe even make breakfast for you if he wakes up early enough. For now, your body against his is enough. He stares at the ceiling thinking,
"What were we so upset about again?"
Before finally dozing off.
A/N: I will probably make a part 2 where they forgive each other bc I love you guys and I know we can't leave these two lovebirds angry forever. Also thinking about making this "scenario" type fanfic a thing so my blog won't be empty while I write my more serious fics. Wdyt?
á°.á studying anatomy is hard, but lucky you, your boyfriend satoru is jacked
the textbook was a weapon, and it was currently winning.
you stared blankly at a diagram of a human torso, the labels blurring into a dizzying soup of latin words. your upper body anatomy quiz was tomorrow morning, and true to form, you were cramming the night before. you hadn't even been at it for an hour, but your brain was already completely fried.
"okay, wait," you muttered to yourself, rubbing your temples. "does the bicep sit higher than the tricep? or is the tricep on top? no that's⌠wait, where is the brachialis again?"
it was hopeless. you'd look at a muscle, repeat its name five times, look away, and immediately erase it from your memory. with a dramatic groan, you collapsed backward onto your bed, letting the heavy textbook rest precariously on your stomach. you were officially doomed.
the mattress dipped.
a flash of white hair entered your peripheral vision as satoru crawled onto the bed, shifting smoothly until he was hovering over you like a giant, ridiculously attractive cat.
"look at you, absolutely suffering," satoru teased, a sharp, playful grin tugging at his lips. "i can practically hear your brain short-circuiting from over here, babe."
you opened your eyes to glare at him, but the retort died in your throat. because, of course, satoru had decided to wear that shirt tonight. it was a long-sleeved, black compression top that clung to every single line of his frame, highlighting a ridiculously broad chest and sculpted shoulders.
he was just a criminally handsome guy who clearly spent way too much time at the gym. it was completely unfair how he could look that good just from lifting weights while you were drowning in textbooks.
"go away," you wheezed, weakly lifting a hand to push at his face. "youâre a distraction. a highly illegal distraction."
"me? a distraction?" satoru gasped in mock offense. he shifted his weight, dropping down to lie on his stomach next to you. he propped his chin up with his hands, a movement that caused the fabric of his shirt to tauten over the heavy definition of his upper back and shoulders.
your eyes tracked the movement. you blinked once. twice.
wait.
you looked from the textbook diagram of the deltoids and pectorals, then right back to satoruâs very real, very defined body. a sudden, brilliant spark of desperation ignited in your fried brain.
"toru," you said, your tone suddenly dead serious. "take your shirt off."
satoru froze, his smirk faltering into a look of genuine, rare bewilderment. his beautiful blue eyes blinked in confusion. "whânow? i mean, i love the enthusiasm, babe, but i thought you were failing a class?"
"just do it. for science. for my gpa."
muttering something about how you were terrifying when stressed, satoru crossed his arms and pulled the compression shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor. he sat cross-legged on the bed, presenting a perfect, shirtless canvas of lean muscle.
"alright, i'm nakedâwell, half-naked. what's the plan, professor?"
you didnât answer. instead, you lunged off the bed, grabbed a neon green washable expo marker from your desk, and crawled back over to him with a manic look in your eye.
satoru eyed the marker warily. "uh, what is that for?"
"hold still," you commanded, uncapping the marker with your teeth.
you leaned in close, your left hand resting gently on his shoulder for balance while your right hand brought the marker to his skin. satoru tensed for a fraction of a second at the cool, damp touch of the felt tip, but quickly relaxed, watching you with an amused, fond expression as you began to draw.
"okay," you murmured, tracing a neat box right over his chest. "these are the pectoralis major. big chest muscles. easy." you wrote pec major in bold green letters right across his right pectoral.
"wow, using my body as a cheat sheet. i feel objectified. do it more," satoru chuckled, his chest vibrating under your hand.
"shh! i'm concentrating," you chided, moving your marker up to his shoulder. you traced the rounded muscle cap. "deltoid. anterior, lateral, posterior. it's like a shoulder pad." you carefully scribbled deltoid on his shoulder, giving it a little pat.
"and what about these?" satoru asked, flexing his arm slightly, a proud grin on his face.
you stared at his arm, the marker hovering. "ah! the age-old question. bicep is on the front, tricep is on the back. bicep pulls the arm in, tricep extends it." to cement it in your memory, you drew a giant arrow on his inner arm pointing up labeled bicep, and a matching one on the back labeled tricep.
for the next thirty minutes, satoruâs bedroom turned into a live-action, neon-green anatomy lab. you moved around him like a mad scientist, labeling his serratus anterior (the "rib muscles," as you initially called them), his trapezius, and even trying to map out his abs, though you kept getting distracted because his stomach kept twitching from being tickled by the marker.
"stop laughing, toru, i'm trying to find your external obliques!"
"i can't help it! your hands are cold and that marker is tickling the life out of me!" he gasped, squirming away from the green tip.
finally, you stepped back to admire your handiwork. satoru was covered from the waist up in bright green boxes, arrows, and messy anatomical terms. he looked absolutely ridiculous, completely contrasting his runway-model face.
satoru looked down at himself, then glanced in the vanity mirror across the room. he burst out laughing. "i look like a radioactive paint-by-numbers project."
"you look like an a-plus," you corrected proudly, capping the marker. "i actually remember them now. visual learning is a powerful tool."
satoru smiled, leaning forward and wrapping his green-labeled arms around your waist to pull you into his lap. "glad i could be of service to your education. but you know this stuff washes off, right? what are you going to do during the actual quiz tomorrow when you can't look at my chest?"
you hummed, resting your hands against his (now labeled) pectorals. "i'll just close my eyes and visualize my very hot, very heavily graffitied boyfriend."
"perfect," satoru beamed, kissing your forehead. "but if you get a hundred, you owe me a real date. one where you don't use me as school supplies."
