listen!! hear me out!! nerdy!male reader, we tlaking doing super complicated equations withing seconds in his head typa smart, and he got tattoos/piercing, but they are always covered up, i wanna know, jasons reaction to seeing this needy man undressed plsplspls
the nerd has.. what?
jason todd x nerdy male reader
contains: slow burn (barely), dom jason, sub + vocal male reader, jason likes playing with male reader’s nipple piercings, blowjob, ass eating, handjob, male reader makes a mess of himself with his cum whoops!
wc: 2.9k+
Jason first noticed it during a lecture that was supposed to be painfully boring.
You’d solve problems in seconds while everyone else groaned. You’d correct the professor—politely, quietly—when he slipped up. You filled your notebooks with neat, cramped writing and symbols Jason couldn’t even pretend to understand. And Jason, naturally, starts sitting closer just to tease you for it.
Not obviously. Jason Todd doesn’t hover. But somehow, over the next few weeks, his seat migrates until he’s always a chair or two away from you. Close enough to hear the scratch of your pen. Close enough to see that your notebooks are filled edge-to-edge with dense writing—equations stacked like architecture, arrows and notes squeezed into margins like they’re racing for space.
Sometimes he’d flick your notebook closed or lean over your shoulder just to mess with you. “Careful,” he’d add, smirking. “Keep this up and people are gonna start stuffing you in lockers.”
You’d roll your eyes, lips twitching like you were holding back a smile. “You’re the only one who cares.”
That was true. Jason cared way more than he let on.
The teasing didn’t have any real bite to it. He wasn’t mocking you—hell, half the time he sounded impressed despite himself. And when you weren’t around, his thoughts had a nasty habit of drifting.
He’d catch himself wondering what you looked like under all those layers. You were always covered up: hoodies, long sleeves, high collars, jeans that never showed skin. It made his imagination work overtime. He pictured you slimmer than him, all smooth and unmarked skin, no scars, no rough edges. The complete opposite of himself.
It messed with him more than he liked.
Jason would lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling. Of all the things to fixate on, it had to be the quiet guy who solved equations in his head and dressed like he was allergic to showing skin. He imagined your hands—quick, precise—resting against bare skin instead of paper and ink. Imagined how awkward you might be about it, how flustered.
He’d scoff to himself. “Get it together,” he’d mutter.
Then the next day, he’d be back in class, nudging your knee with his boot.
“Hey, nerd,” he’d say, voice easy, familiar. “Wanna dumb that down for the rest of us?”
You glance at the board. Once. Maybe twice.
“Um, It’s easy though,” you say.
“You didn’t even write anything down.”
You hesitate, then shrug. “I already worked it out earlier. It’s… kind of hard to un-see once you get it.”
Jason snorts softly. “That is the nerdiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
You’d sigh, turning toward him, and Jason would feel a stupid twist in his chest. Because yeah, he teased you.. but every time you looked at him, his heart would skip a beat.
He wanted more of that.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Jason started finding excuses to stick around.
Group study sessions he didn’t need. Sitting beside you instead of his usual spot more often. Walking with you out of lecture even when his route home was the opposite direction. He told himself it was convenience. Anything but what it actually was.
One afternoon, you were scribbling furiously in your notebook while the TA talked, brow furrowed in concentration. Jason leaned over, chin propped on his hand.
“You ever think about taking a break?” he asked. “Like, for your own health?”
You didn’t look up. “I am relaxed.”
“Pipsqueak,” he said, tapping the edge of your page, “you’re doing differential equations for fun.”
That finally got you to glance at him, unimpressed. “You’re the one watching me.”
Jason smirked, but it felt a little too close to the truth. “Hard not to. You make the rest of us look bad.”
You closed your notebook at last and stretched—arms over your head, hoodie riding up just a fraction before you tugged it back down. Jason looked away a second too late, heat crawling up his neck over something that minor.
“Why do you care so much?” you asked, genuinely curious. No accusation. Just honest.
Jason shrugged. “Guess I like knowing what’s going on.”
“Liar.”
He barked out a laugh. “Okay, yeah. Maybe I just like giving you a hard time.”
Your mouth curved into a small smile, softer than the ones you gave other people. “You’re bad at it.”
That stuck with him.
Jason glaced down to watch your hands. Long fingers. Ink smudged faintly along the side of one knuckle. Clean. Unscarred.
“You know,” he said quietly, “it’s kinda unfair.”
“What is?”
“You make being a nerd look… cool.” He winced immediately. “Okay, not cool. But—” He gestured vaguely. “Impressive.”
You blinked, clearly not expecting that. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Jason,” you said, hesitant. “Why do you always sit next to me?”
He didn’t joke this time. He just looked at you, really looked at you, and for once the answer didn’t feel like something he could dodge.
“…Guess I don’t mind being outsmarted,” he said. “Long as it’s you.”
Your ears went pink. Jason noticed. Of course he did.
And for the first time, he thought maybe you were thinking about him too.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
Jason and you had grown closer without even really realizing it. Library sessions stretched into hours, sometimes ending with you sprawled across his bed at the manor, hoodie pulled even tighter around you, laptop open, solving problems while he lounged nearby, scrolling on his phone or tossing a pen absentmindedly.
You’d returned the favor at your apartment, filling his ears with quiet explanations of things he pretended to understand, occasionally nudging him to look at a tricky solution.
Jason’s mind, however, was far from calm tonight. He couldn’t stop his imagination from wandering. What if we… slept together? he thought, heart thumping. Then I could finally see what’s under all those layers.
He hated that thought almost immediately. Embarrassed, mortified at how shameless it felt. But he couldn’t push it away entirely.
And of course, you noticed.
“Jason,” you said while sprawled across the floor in his room, a complicated problem scribbled across multiple sheets of paper, “why are you staring at me like that?”
Jason froze, trying to act casual, because surely nothing was showing. “Staring? What? I’m not staring.”
You tilted your head, squinting. “You are. You’ve been doing that lately. What are you thinking?”
“Nothing,” he muttered, shifting slightly in a way that, if you were paying attention, was definitely not nothing.
But you weren’t done. Oh no. You leaned a little closer, puppy-eyed, voice softer than usual but dripping with a little needy insistence. “Come on, Jason. Tell me. I won’t judge. I just… I feel like you’re hiding something.”
He swallowed hard, blinking at the floor, panting a little in his own mind. “I’m not hiding anything. Seriously. Just… thinking about the problem.”
Your eyes narrowed, unconvinced. “The problem, huh?”
“Really, it’s nothing,” he repeated, voice firmer this time, though his hands twitched slightly on his knees. “Just… focus on your homework.”
You huffed, “Uh-huh.”
And yet, if you were paying really close attention, you might have noticed that some things—like the way his pants hugged him as he shifted in his seat—were definitely saying otherwise.
Instead, he leaned back, muttering under his breath. You just smiled, scribbling another line of equations, completely unbothered… for now.
But Jason? He was very, very bothered.
A few hours later, the chaos of notebooks and textbooks had finally died down. You were no longer sprawled on the floor, instead you were perched on Jason’s bed, legs crossed and on your phone for once. The soft glow of his desk lamp made the room feel smaller, more intimate.
Jason had been watching you for a while, pretending to scroll through his phone, but the tension in his chest had built up enough.
Finally, he threw the phone onto the bed beside him, sitting up straighter, trying to look casual. He failed spectacularly. “Alright,” he said, voice rougher than he intended. “I can’t… I can’t keep pretending anymore.”
You glanced up, notebook paused, an eyebrow raised. “What do you mean?”
Jason ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I mean… I’ve been thinking about you.”
His eyes locked on yours, a mix of embarrassment and desperation. “Like… what it would be like to—God, I don’t know, see you naked?”
The air between you thickened instantly. You were quiet for a moment, nibbling on your bottom lip. Then, quietly you asked, “Do… do you want to see?”
He suddenly swallowed hard, voice tight. “What?”
You nodded slowly, cheeks flushed, eyes cast downward. “I.. I’m probably not at all what you imagined. You’re probably wrong about… everything.”
Jason’s heart jumped. He’d imagined every possibility a hundred times, but hearing you say it out loud, sitting there on his bed.. it was like reality was catching up with every daydream he’d ever had.
“Okay,” he muttered, almost to himself. “Uh, okay… if you’re sure then go ahead.”
You stood up to take off your hoodie, then your shirt underneath, the motions deliberate but still shy. Removing your pants was harder, you fumbled and kicked them off awkwardly, leaving yourself standing in only boxers.
Your skin wasn’t bare like he imagined—tattoos snaked across your torso and arms, each one unexpected. His gaze locked on the one just above your v-line, bold and obvious, and heat shot straight to his crotch.
And then he noticed the subtle glint of metal at your chest: fucking nipple piercings. His jaw went slack, and for a second he couldn’t even form words.
You swallowed at his reaction, cheeks pink, shrugging shyly. “T- Told you… probably wrong about everything.”
Jason didn’t say anything. In fact, his eyes kept roaming, taking in the rest of you. You weren’t scrawny—not in the way he feared. Smaller than him, yes, but there was muscle under all those layers, the kind of body that was soft in some places but hard in others.
His mind scrambled, trying to reconcile the shy, quiet nerd he knew in class with the inked, pierced guy standing in front of him.
“Wow,” was all he could say, voice barely above a whisper. “Just… wow.”
You gave him a nervous smile, still shifting slightly, still trying to cover yourself.
Jason’s hands twitched at his sides. His mind raced, his heart thumping in ways he couldn’t control. He hadn’t been ready for this, not at all, and yet… he couldn’t look away.
His eyes flicked down, and he noticed the subtle strain in your boxers. Your shyness radiated from you like heat, shoulders hunched slightly as if you were trying to disappear.
You were quiet now, shifting your weight nervously under his gaze, biting your lip.
Jason’s mouth widened into a grin. He leaned back on the bed, casual but deliberate, giving you just enough room to feel the tension without letting you escape it.
“You’re… really something, you know that?” he said, voice low, playful, with just the faintest edge that made you flinch.
You swallowed hard, trying to avert your eyes, fumbling with the hem of your boxers like it would somehow cover the obvious. “I—I’m not… I’m just…”
Jason let out a low chuckle, reaching a hand toward you but stopping just short. “Yeah, I can see that,” he said, tone suggestive, letting the silence hang heavy for a moment.
You looked up, eyes meeting his, and that was all it took to know: whatever happened next wasn’t going to be just studying.
༶•┈┈୨୧┈┈•༶
You nervously eased yourself onto his bed, legs dangling over the edge, hands gripping the sheets on either side of your thighs, boxers clinging tightly to that straining bulge.
Jason chuckles as he knelt in front of you, reaching out to palm your erection through the fabric. He can feel how hard and embarrassed you are.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your boxers and tugs them down. Your aching cock springs free..
Jason’s eyes suddenly widen as he notices the shiny metal piercing decorating the underside of your cock, just below the head. You whimpered at his reaction.
“Fuck.. a frenulum piercing? You keep surprising me.” He murmurs as he wraps a large, calloused hand around the shaft, stroking it at a steady pace.
“Ah-!” You squeaked, back already starting to ache.
When Jason takes you in his mouth, sloppy and wet and eager, his head bobbing in a stuttering rhythm. The cool metal of your piercing contrasts deliciously with the heat of his tongue as he swirls it around the sensitive flesh.
"Stay," Jason suddenly warns when he notices you leaning forward to grab his hair.
"Jason, please, I—"
"Stay.” He repeats himself, slightly more insistent, sending a shiver up your spine.
Soon enough, muffled sounds of slurping and sucking fill the room as he services you skillfully, his head moving faster up and down your throbbing cock. Occasionally, he pulls back to flick his tongue teasingly over your piercing, sending jolts of pleasure racing through you.
You cried out, hips jerking desperately into his mouth as your face flushes even more. “I- it feels so good. Let me— ngh!”
He pulls back momentarily, his lips popping off the head of your dick with a lewd sound.
"You’re so loud. Someone’s gonna hear you." He grins, stroking your slick cock faster, his grip tighter.
“Sorry.. I’ll be quiet— A- Ah, I’ll try..”
Just to mess with you, Jason leaned down and swirled his tongue around the sensitive crown of your cock, roughly flicking it against your frenulum piercing. You let out a shaky noise. He grinned wider.
“H- Haa!” You gasped loudly as he dived back down, taking your cock deep into the tight, wet heat of his mouth. He starts to suck you with wild abandon, his head bobbing up and down your shaft.
“M- Mmhn! Ah!” You whined, throwing your head back and desperately trying to shut your legs. The feeling was so overstimulating.
He glanced up at you and practically smirked at your thighs beginning to clamp tightly around his head. It didn’t bother him at all, in fact it was cute. Plus, he was stronger anyways.
His mouth didn’t falter at all when he slipped his hands under your knees and forced your legs wide open, holding them up. He takes your cock even deeper, until the head bumps against the back of his throat and his nose is buried in your pubic hair. He swallows around you and continues to watch your face.
It’s so fucking cute. Your face is so pink and sweaty, your eyes are wide and wet with tears, those damp lips parted and panting.
He pulled back from your slick cock with another lewd pop, his lips glossy with your pre-cum. “I can tell you’re about to cum. I’m not letting that happen yet so lay down.”
You gulped nervously and listened. With that, Jason leans in, his hot breath wafting over your winking hole. He extends his tongue and drags the flat surface of it over your entrance, tracing the delicate ring of muscle, making you shiver.
“Mmph, fuck... you taste so good.” He murmurs appreciatively before diving in, his tongue probing and pushing against your entrance insistently.
“N- Nngh..” You groaned softly, all the pleasure going to your still-hard cock.
Jason starts to eat you out, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he tongue-fucks you. He swirls and twists the smooth muscle, thrusting it deep into your hot, clenching hole. Your back formed a deep arch like it was allergic to the bed. Obscene slurping noises fill the room.
“O- Oh god.. Ah, f- fuuck..!” You cried out and squirmed, hips desperately grinding against his mouth.
He reaches a hand to stroke your dripping, neglected cock in time with the thrusts of his tongue, pushing you closer to the edge. He can feel your cock throbbing and pulsing in his grip, leaking pre-cum onto his calloused fingers.
“Please— I can’t.. s-so good.. gonna—!” You let out a needy noise, shortly turning into incoherent rambles. Your hips jerked as you clenched the sheets, your knuckles turning white.
He feels your asshole clenching desperately around his invading tongue. He pulls back just in time to watch your cock spurt ropes of cum onto your stomach and chest as you shake and cry.
"That's all it takes?” Jason chuckles, his voice dripping with amusement. He pumps your spent cock with rough, demanding strokes, squeezing out every last drop as you made small, whiny noises. You were so messy!
As your orgasm starts to subside, Jason stands up. The mere sight of your own cum covering your body, coating those tattoos made Jason want to lick it all up.
And he did.
He leans over you to lap at the mess strewn across your heaving chest. His tongue scoops up your cum and paints it across your skin, swirling and flicking his tongue over one of your nipple piercings. You shiver and let out a strangled hiss. He raised an eyebrow at your sensitive reaction.
He continues to play with your nipple piercing, his other hand coming up to pinch and rub the other. You let out a quiet moan at the pleasure-pain sensation. “T- That.. mhngh! Ahh..”
Jason’s teeth close around the metal bar, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp.
He finally releases the pierced nub, a string of saliva connecting his tongue to the glistening metal. He stepped back to admire his handiwork, taking in the delightful sight of you: flushed and embarrassed with tears, chest heaving, cock spent and smeared with cum, and your nipples pink and swollen from his ministrations.
“We should study more often, huh?”
“Um, I- I.. mnyes?” Your voice was shaky and slightly slurred as you sat up.
“Hm, pipsqueak? Come on, speak clearly. You’re supposed to be the smarter one.”
synopsis: Jason Todd dives back into the world of underground fighting after a decade off. He expects to find a way out of the hole he's in, he does not expect to fall in love.
Underground Fighter!Jason Todd x M!Reader
word count: 15.3k
a/n: Guess who's finally fuckin back and with new and improved formatting !! Thank you all so much for you patience, I've had major writers block, but more stuff is coming soon, including part two to Something Blue !!! I really hope you guys enjoy this one, Jason Todd is my #1 man, I've needed to write something about him forever, hope yall enjoy <3
warnings: no vigilante au, mechanic!Jason, underground fighter!Jason, violence, injury, addiction (mentioned), death, back-alley medical care, childhood trauma, absent/bad parents, emotional stuntedness, overthinking, soft sex, porn with feelings, making out, dryhumping, body worship, slight size kink, anal fingering, anal sex, prone bone, slight overstimulation, creampie, no use of y/n
if tumblr ain't your jam read here on ao3 <3
Jason worked honest in the daylight. A mechanic with too many bruises on his face, best in Crime Alley, could get your car or bike working quicker and better than anybody else.
The problem was his heart.
Jason Todd had never once had a problem scamming people with money out of more than they owed. They wouldn’t miss it, but he might. But those sorts don’t live in Crime Alley, and its rampant poverty and violence don’t exactly make it a vacation spot.
The only regular customer he had who was making a comfortable living was Bruce Wayne himself, and Jason’s sure he knew he was being overcharged, he’d settled with the idea that good ol’ Bruce must just have a soft spot for strays.
But for the most part Jason’s customers were working people. The single mother whose sedan bled oil and coolant no matter how many times he fixed or replaced the gaskets. The teenage boy desperately trying to fix the busted motorcycle that was all he had left of his dad. The old man who still worked construction even though his bones creaked too loud for that kind of work now and his truck that Jason had brought off its last legs several times in the past four years.
That sort was Jason’s clientele. And that was the sort that Jason and his too big heart couldn’t bear overcharging, hell he couldn’t even stomach charging them properly.
But Gotham is the sort of city that eats people alive, the sort of city that’s taxes make you understand how the rampant poverty in places like Crime Alley happens, the sort of city that’s citizens breathe paycheck to paycheck, the sort of city that swallows people with big hearts right up.
Three months ago as he stared at the piling up paperwork and bills on the workbench of his garage he made a decision.
Old habits die hard after all.
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Jason had been a scrawny kid. Short and boney, with tufts of dark hair sticking up all over his head, never enough food in his belly and never enough innocence for a little boy.
He shot right up when he was 14 and that was the same year he got approached. Maybe they knew he wasn’t even 16 and simply didn’t care, maybe the worn down look that only someone born and raised in Crime Alley can have made him look older, either way he took the gig as soon as they offered him a hot meal and some extra cash to line his pockets.
And he was good. Really good.
He was fast on his feet, learned quick and bulked up just perfectly.
The golden young and not-so-little fighter of the underbelly.
He lost real bad about a year in.
He was bigger then, just 15 and less scrawny than before. But he was still a child, still just a boy. The man told him he could handle the fight.
He couldn’t.
The guy they pit him against wasn’t all that big, some shifty, lanky fellow that didn’t seem quite right in the head. It was supposed to be easy. Jason was fast, he was strong, fist to fist Jason would’ve had him.
Nobody told Jason there were going to be weapons.
If anyone asked him now, he wouldn’t tell them, but he can still hear the roar of that crowd. He can still hear the first sickening crack of the night, his fist into the man’s nose. He still remembers staggering back when the man started cackling. He had this offputting sort of laugh that made the hair on Jason’s arms stand up, made the adrenaline in his veins roar like a wildfire and the rest of the world slow. He shouldn’t have looked at the cheering crowd, he’d glanced to see if anyone was as confused as he was.
That’s when he struck.
The second sickening crack of the night was against Jason’s ribs, not with a fist, with iron. Jason doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that sound, or forget the way pain bloomed in his side, he never heard his own scream, only the excited roar of the crowd drowning him out as he went down.
That’s what he remembers most. The crowd cheering for a 15 year old boy being beat with a crowbar. No one even tried to stop it till the low light caught the glint of a switchblade. Only with that glint did uneasy murmurs go through the crowd. Jason looked up at that man and his repulsive, too-big grin for just a second, and he laughed so hard in Jason’s face that spit went across it. And Jason thought that was it, that was how it was going to end. But the stab never came, just a slow piercing drag over his cheekbone, across, then down with a hook.
A “J,” he’d carved a “J.”
And then the man stood, laughed and bowed. There was silence for a moment, uneasy and tense, and then the crowd exploded, not into screams of horror at the mangled body of a boy in front of them. Cheering. Cheering for a bloody show.
Jason laid on the mat far past when the last people had walked out, far past when the adrenaline had waned, far past when the pain wracking his entire body had set in so deep that it felt like he was suffocating.
He laid there till footsteps made him flinch, and when the shoes came into his line of sight he recognized them as his coach’s, his handler’s, and when he could finally drag his gaze up he saw that bastard counting money, grinning down at him.
He let out a low whistle, “you won good for us tonight, boy.”
“Wha—” and the sound came low and garbled from Jason’s throat.
And then it struck him, the bastard had bet against him.
“Get up now, he didn’t beat you that bad, be a man.”
And Jason wanted to, not cause he’d been told, but to beat this man as bloody as he was.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t move.
The man scoffed and dropped less than half his normal cut on the floor, “you can have the rest when you get your sorry ass up, you’ve got another match in two weeks.”
He doesn’t remember much of anything after that.
He woke up bandaged and strapped to machines. The doctor told him a woman found him after he blacked out, his heart had given out some time later and she’d been the one to give him CPR, T something was her name, he can’t remember any more than that. She’d footed the bill too, her and some other anonymous donor who he was told had a soft spot for strays.
He didn’t meet for that next fight. Even if he had wanted to, he wouldn't have been able to make it. He was locked into that hospital bed for three weeks. When his time was up and by some miracle he recovered well enough, he lied to the doctors and said his mother was outside to pick him up, like every other hospital in Gotham, they were too swamped to check.
Jason walked home and opened the door to a mother so high she couldn’t even ask where he’d been.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨
Three months ago, after almost a decade of not fighting, wrote his name down and bet on himself.
Not out of cockiness or foolishness, but because he knew he’d win.
And he did.
Of course he did.
He’d gotten bigger since his heart stopped when he was 15, that cold mat he’d been resuscitated on had been waiting for him all this time, and somewhere, deep in his bones, he’d been waiting to come home to it too.
So when he placed too much money on his own name he knew he’d get it back.
And so did you.
You half thought you were dreaming when you read his name on the line up sheet, over a decade since you’d seen him and your brain could still conjure that dreary boy you remembered from being 15.
You would’ve recognized him, even without that line up sheet, even without that “J” carved under his eye, even after so long. Jason Todd was not the sort of person you forgot. Even now, big and imposing as he’d become compared to the boy you’d known, you would’ve known him.
So you’d bet on him too.
Anyone knew better than to bet on a rookie, you knew better to bet on a rookie, especially one arrogant enough to bet on himself. The trick up your sleeve, of course, was that Jason was never a rookie. Just out of practice, a couple hits and instinct pulled him back.
Just like he knew he would, just like you predicted he would, and just like you’d both bet on, he won.
He found you after the match, patching up the man who got a beating a helluva lot more intense than he’d signed up for, cold cloth pressed against the man’s swollen eye.
“You bet on me,” it’s not a question when he says it, and his gaze drifts over you, you know he’s sizing you up.
You don’t look back at him, keeping your gaze on the man in front of you, removing the compress from his eye and swapping to another for his split lip.
Your voice comes leveled as his, “I did.”
“Why?” Cautious, but curious.
“Lucky bet.”
Jason watches your every move with quiet calculation, the way you set down the compress rag, how you bandaged that poor sap’s knuckles. He knows you bet on more than luck, people who move with the sort of quiet preciseness you do always bet on more than luck.
“Got time to patch me too?”
You stiffen, hesitate for a moment, patting the other man on the arm before sending him off, you nod and Jason moves to sit in front of you.
He’s not banged up as bad as the other guy, some bruises here and there, his chest still rising and falling unevenly and breath still stuttering as he fully comes down from the high of fighting. There was a nasty bruise on his head, the kind that would swell come morning, that’s the one you decided to tackle first, digging in your cooler for a bag of frozen vegetables to wrap in a towel, pressing it to his head as your eyes scan the rest of him.
“So, why’d you bet on me?”
“So you’re not just after a little patching up?”
“Did you really think I was?”
“No.”
“Figured,” there’s a deep rasp to his voice, that cautious edge lingering in his tone. “If you’re smart enough to bet on me, then you’re smart enough to know better than that.”
You hum softly, removing the ice pack from his head, tossing the towel it was wrapped in over your shoulder and the bag of frozen peas back into your cooler, you rummage till you find a water bottle, smacking it against his bare chest till he takes it, “you’re cocky.”
“I’m smart. I’m trying to see if you are too,” for a moment you think you see the twinge of a smile on his face, quickly hidden by the swig he takes of his water, he glances down at your cooler of makeshift ice packs and the duffle bag of bandages and tylenol. “What kind of back-alley operation are you running here?”
“You think they’d let a real, law-abiding nurse hang around?”
“No.”
“Maybe you are as smart as you say,” and that makes him grin, a soft, barely perceptible curl to his lips as you take his hands in yours, examining his knuckles for splits or bruising, both his and your hands are rough, calloused from work and life, but yours move with the gentleness of someone meant for something else.
“You didn’t answer my question,” his eyes are fixed firmly on you then, like he’d finished his investigation and was just waiting for his suspect to crack.
“Too bad you’re all fixed up, time’s up I’m afraid” you dropped his hands, digging back through your duffle, fishing three advil out of their bottle and pressing them into one of his rough hands. “Take these, they’ll help with your muscles, otherwise they’ll hurt like a sonova bitch tomorrow, and keep icing that bruise."
You see him inspect the pills as you pack up, rolling them around in his hand till he figures they’re real, and then he knocks them back with another gulp of water.
He doesn’t follow after you when you leave or ask you to stick around for another round of questioning. The underbelly is built on the back of secrets, and for whatever reason, why you bet on Jason is one of yours.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨
“I had to ask around for your name,” it’s not a dig at you, just an observation he makes.
“And why would you go and do a thing like that?” You’re adjusting the bandage over his knuckle, only his second fight back and he’d split them open on his opponents teeth.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You didn’t ask.”
His eyes flick from the bandage up to you then, you’re not meeting them, “would you have even given it to me?”
“It’s not exactly a standard unless you’re fighting.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’re nosy.”
“Curious.”
“Nosy, and why? I’m not who’s name might need to be given to an EMT or a coroner. You a cop or something?”
He scoffs as if that notion offends him, because it does, “you still didn’t answer.” He’s stopped looking at you.
“Maybe,” you try to sound more playful.
“Just maybe?” He’s looking back at you now.
“Yeah, just maybe,” and at least you’re both smiling again.
He leaves first that night, tosses your name over his shoulder alongside a thank you. There’s a rumble to his voice, a gentleness in it that doesn’t match his face but matches his eyes.
For a moment you think you see a flicker of recognition, you brush it off quickly.
Jason would not remember you because you weren’t like him growing up.
Jason wouldn’t remember you because people don’t remember the losers.
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Jason Todd is the reason you left fighting.
To say there isn’t at least some level of staging to fighting would be a lie. Maybe not every hit was planned out, but the winners and losers almost always were.
You knew your role. You weren’t brought into things like Jason was, you weren’t taught to fight. You were taught how to take a hit, how to keep standing, how to know when to go down.
You could do all of that and you could do it well, but all of those teachings fail to prepare you for unknown variables.
Scared and hungry kids are always capable of being unknown variables.
You’d been fighting about six months when you fought Jason, you expected to go home banged up, you always went home banged up, that’s what you were paid to do. Nothing like that night had happened before.
You think half of what happened was bad luck, the same kind of bad luck that had you born into Crime Alley, the same kind that had you roped into the underbelly, that had your name be written down for this particular fight.
You don’t think he meant to do it, even back then you didn’t.
The fight had started off plenty normal, you were losing like you were meant to, taking the hits and punches like you were taught, it was standard, it was easy, it was boring.
Too boring for the crowd of blood hungry onlookers waiting for a teen boy to go down twitching and broken. Boring to the point the ref called time and Jason’s coach pulled him aside, yours just nodded at you, the loser didn’t need to change, the winner did. Whatever Jason’s coach told him, he came back hard and fast, lunging at you the second the ref gave the go ahead.
Instinct took over. If you had braced yourself properly, it wouldn’t have ended up that way. If you had run immediately, it wouldn’t have ended up that way. If you had hit the ground before he tackled you, it wouldn’t have ended up that way.
In that moment you and Jason were both unknown variables, two scared and hungry kids.
You’d frozen when he’d come back at you that quick, and started moving way too late. He’d caught you wrong, too rough, and when you tried to slip out of his grasp you had already been falling. You think you were trying to catch yourself, with only one free arm, twisted at the wrong angle, you fell wrong, and with Jason’s force and weight on top of you, you fell hard.
The same way Jason will never forget the sickening crack of his ribs breaking, you’ll never forget the snapping sound of the bone in your arm when Jason tackled you onto the mat.
You screamed and curled in on yourself, your bone nearly jutting out of your skin. If you remember right Jason jumped off you like someone shocked him, or maybe the ref pulled him off, you’re not really sure, all of it was one big haze of tears and agony. You think you might’ve blacked out till a shoe nudged the mangled wreck of your arm.
Your coach didn’t help you up, didn’t call an ambulance; they never do for kids, people ask even more questions when it’s kids. He dropped your wad of cash on the ground and told you to get on home, walk in the dark, don’t go to cops, don’t tell anybody, and if you’re still here by morning, well you knew your body would’ve been drifting in the water under Gotham bridge come sun up.
It takes you two agonizing hours, but you do it. You drag yourself up with the arm that still works, your body fading in and out of numbness and pain so great you have to stop moving altogether. But you do it, you get up, sniffling and crying, cradling the wreck that was left of your arm the whole way home.
That’s how you met Talia. She found you somewhere on your walk home, wobbling too much, with a face puffy and streaked with tears.
She stopped in front of you, she didn’t look like she was from here; she was too beautiful for it, not the tragic sort of beauty Gotham raised, hers was poised rather than rugged. She didn’t smell like you, like dirt under nails and the iron of blood. She smelled like jasmine and vanilla, she smelled like money.
“Hospital then?” And your body was too close to shutting down for you to argue.
She didn’t ask ask you questions, you didn’t ask her any, when you tried to put a wad of dirty cash in her hand she tucked your good arm away, flashing her card, there was a sleekness to it that made you sure there was more money attached to it than you’d see in your whole life.
There was something ugly that twisted in your gut then. Envy. What would it have been like to live a life where fighting had never even crossed your mind? Where you were the swipe of a card away from anything you could ever want or need?
What would it be like to live that sort of life? That was your last thought before the anesthesia took you under.
You woke with a new scar hidden beneath a cast and Talia waiting for you in a bedside chair. She checked up on you till they discharged you, the last day she came she tucked a phone number against your chest and said: “no more fighting, yeah?”
And you agreed, no more fighting.
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After a short while, you stopped being the only one who bet on Jason.
But you’re still the only one he’s interested in when it comes to why.
So after the match he finds you again, walking in on his opponent screaming as you set his nose.
“With the way he hit you, you’re lucky it didn’t shatter.”
“Gee thanks.”
“It’s set, but you should probably see an actual doctor so it heals properly."
“And what am I supposed to tell them, huh? I got my ass beat in a very illegal, underground fighting ring?! Are you insane—”
The tone in the man’s voice made Jason stiffen, start forward like he might need to intervene, but you didn’t even flinch, just sighed and responded: “we live in Gotham just say you got jumped or something—”
The man stood on wobbly feet, you looked up at him, almost bored, like you’d seen this all before, “and with what fucking money am I gonna pay for a doctor’s visit, I just lost I wasn’t supposed to lose—”
“Go.” And Jason’s stepped in, stuck himself between the two of you, slapping a wad of cash that had to be a good chunk of his winnings from tonight against the man’s chest, and the man takes one look at Jason’s and the money and does just as he says, he goes.
“Wow, my knight in shining armor,” and Jason could hear the feigned adoration in your voice as you pretended to swoon.
“Some people would be grateful,” Jason huffed as he plopped down in front of you, he didn’t even ask and you’re already wrapping frozen vegetables to use as a compress for him. “He looked like he was about to hit you.”
“He wouldn’t have,” and you said it so matter-of-factly that Jason’s dumbfounded. “People don’t hit the nurse, or if they’re smart they don’t.”
“He didn’t seem very smart—”
You were pressing the compress against his eye then, “aww, worried about lil’ ol’ me?” You bat your eyelashes and let your mouth curl into a teasing grin, when he looked visibly annoyed instead of amused you sigh and let yourself fall into a more serious explanation. “You beat him pretty bad, he probably just wanted to seem tough after the ego bruise. Even if he did, good chunk of people would’ve beat his ass if he touched me, people really don’t like it if you scare off the nurse.”
He was quiet for a moment, “would it have? Scared you off, I mean.”
“Nah,” and the grin returned to your face, “I’ve seen much scarier than him.”
“Have you?”
And that makes you snort, “this is Crime Alley, if he’s the worst you’ve seen, you musta just got here or been living under several rocks.”
That at least makes him smile.
“No laugh? You’re a tough crowd, you know that?”
“Be funnier.”
“Ouch,” but you were both smiling, “probably shouldn’t insult the guy who patches you up, might scare him off.”
“Would it?”
And you looked up at him then, really looked into those eyes, they’re different than you thought, bluer, deeper, kinder, “no.”
“Good,” he pauses a little too long after that, in a way that makes your heart beat just a little faster. It’s him who breaks eye contact, “I wouldn’t wanna get jumped for scaring off the nurse.”
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Bills stop burying Jason after a few months, his head is starting to creep above water slowly but surely. He can afford to keep his prices low for his people. But even as his body aches and his knuckles keep a dull thrum of pain beneath them, he keeps going back.
He tells himself he missed the adrenaline rush, heat thrumming through his veins, the feeling of winning, but he knows that’s not all.
He treasures those moments with you, close, grounded and steady, he treasures them more than he probably should.
“Earth to Jason,” you’re snapping in front of his face. “I know you didn’t get hit that hard.”
“I can hear you.”
“Sure as hell weren’t acting like it,” he’s rolling his eyes as you talk, he always is, but he never means it, not really.
“You need stitches,” you tap next to a wound on his arm. The bastard fighting him didn’t take his ring off, sliced his arm clean open when he hit him. “You can get ‘em from me or the hospital, up to you.”
“You.”
“I can’t numb you like a hospital—”
“I trust you.” He says it fast, too fast, and that little rasp at the edge of his words, tired and hoarse, makes you know he means it.
He knows he shouldn’t even trust you. He doesn’t know you, not really. He knows the underbelly’s version of you, god maybe that is the real you. Maybe the underbelly version of him is the real him.
"Little ol’ me,” you accompany the teasing lilt to your words with the dramatic bat of your eyelashes, but don’t linger on the moment too long when red creeps up his ears like he’s actually embarrassed.
Jason watches how you move, that same slow and methodical pace he’s grown used to. He thinks that’s why he trusts you, why a man who’s barely trusted anyone since 15, who still gets nervous at hospitals, trusts you. He watches as you get a clean rag and pour rubbing alcohol against it, so gentle as you clean the wound, how you stop every time his body tenses even a fraction, you're watching that closely and carefully. When it’s clean he watches as you disinfect the needle, once, twice, three times, “just to be sure,” you’d told him. And when you thread the floss and he jokes about it being unprofessional you tell him he made his choice. It’s easy with you, it’s safe with you, in this dimly lit back room of the arena, there’s no harsh fluorescents bringing him back to that night, there’s just you, only you.
“Fuck, you’re okay, you got it, Jason,” he thinks that when he first feels it, that telltale squeeze in his heart as your words wash over him. The needle’s in and he’s slumped his head against one of your shoulders.
You give him a second, you always give people a second when they’re like this, “Jason, I’m sorry, I know that shit hurts, but you have to lean back for me so I can finish, okay?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he tries to make it sound casual, he tries to make it sound easy, but it comes out as a grunt all the same.
You’re trying to be gentler, he can tell by your movements. They’re so practiced, so careful, “talk to me, distract yourself.”
He drags his eyes away from the ceiling back to you. All he can think about for a moment is the threading pain in his arm and the dull ache of muscle strain the rest of him feels, “I feel like I need to soak in a hot bath for months.”
“Well a cold bath might be better, it’ll numb the pain receptors,” when he meets that with a grumble, you meet him with a laugh. “Not a cold bath guy, got it.”
His eyes drag over you again, studying the movement of your hands, his gaze crawls up your arms, lingering on that surgery scar.
“How’d you get that?”
“Distracting yourself from an injury by talking about another injury, really?”
“Shut up,” he huffs. “Just tell me.”
“I fell.”
“That’s it?”
“I fell badly.”
“Secretive, much?”
Your words come out with a laugh, “you do realize where we are, right? This is like the land of secrets.”
“Doesn’t have to be,” stubborn, earnest, full of heart Jason. “Not with you anyway.”
“I’m done,” you cut the remaining floss with a pair of scissors. “Distraction work?”
He’s not stupid enough to miss how you’re changing the subject, but he doesn’t comment on it beyond letting out a sigh all the same, “yeah, it worked.”
“Should heal in about one to two weeks.”
“Got it,” he’s moving quick as he packs up his stuff, he’s not angry, maybe he’s frustrated, maybe he’s embarrassed, but he’s not angry.
“Jason,” you call after him on his way out, and he turns around, blue eyes big and hopeful.
What are you supposed to tell him? That you got that scar when he broke your arm so bad that you had to be hospitalized? That he’s the reason you don’t fight? That he’s the reason you stitch people up?
“Don’t fight till the stitches are healed.”
You can’t tell him any of that.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he’s not a good enough actor to hide the disappointment in his voice.
“Good,” and he’s gone.
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In fairness, Jason doesn’t fight till the stitches are healed.
He doesn’t fight for two months.
He tells himself it’s because he has enough money laying around for now, which is true, he does.
But more than that he’s avoiding the hell out of you.
It’s not about the scar, not really. It’s about this insatiable desire he has to be close to you, and his need to lick his wounds when he figures you probably don’t want the same. It’s petty, childish even, but that mat stunted him at 15. How’re you supposed to deal with the emotions of a grown man if you died as a teenage boy?
Under the hood of people’s cars, hands stuffed between the gore of metal parts and wires, he wonders if he really did die on that mat, if this is some purgatory or limbo. He knows it’s not, he knows this is real life, but it being real doesn’t make it any easier to figure out.
It’s his landlord that sends him back to you in the end.
His landlord is shitty, most are. Says maintenance needs to be done on the whole place’s heating, which means he needs to find another place to sleep, and since his shop is right below, he needs to close up for a week.
He goes back to the underbelly and signs up for a fight that night because he needs to blow off some steam. If he can’t knock his landlord’s lights out, he can knock the lights out of some guy who has no idea what he’s signing up for.
He comes in too angry, too hot, too emotional.
For the first time since he’s been back, Jason loses.
“So… were you throwing the fight out there, or did two months off do you that poorly?” You’re wrapping his knuckles after, pressing cold compresses to them, he was hitting way too hard, way too fast, his hands were already bruised and swelling. When he doesn’t respond you continue, “got it, okay, so then what’s got you so pissed?”
“Landlord,” it comes out as a grunt.
“It’s Crime Alley, what else is new?” The joke doesn’t land, he doesn’t even smile. “Tough crowd,” still nothing, you sigh. “You know, I missed my favorite fighter these last couple months.”
Jason’s not above taking that bait, he lets his eyes fall back onto you.
“So, where’ve you been?”
“Working.”
You’ve switched from icing his hands to icing his left cheek, a bag of frozen corn pressed against it, you don’t miss how he winces, “what’s your real job?
“So you can ask questions and I can’t?” His words come out harsher than he means them, it’s a low blow, a petty one, especially in response to trying to distract him from pain, but he’s still too pissed off to care.
“I’m not actually a nurse,” he knows that, but you continue. Your voice is as careful as your movements, he can tell you’re deescalating the situation, he can’t tell if that pisses him off more. “I’m a waiter, that diner off 8th and Amett? I work there.”
He decides your deescalating doesn’t piss him off more, “do you like it?”
Your words come with a chuckle, “like is a strong word, but god, I’ve been there since I was what, 16? And my regulars are nice enough and the tips aren’t bad, can’t complain too much.”
He nods, accepting the olive branch you’ve given him, “I’m a mechanic.”
“Don’t those make good money? Man, what’re you doing here?”
“Can’t charge much in a place like this.”
“You could.”
“I don’t,” and he doesn’t miss how you smile like that pleases you.
“Well, I guess if I ever get myself a car, I know who to take it to if it breaks down.”
He hums softly at that, leans into your touch a little more as you hold the icy bag against his cheek, just like before. The air settles, the simplicity and ease of before returning.
“So, what’d your landlord do that’s got you all riled up?”
“Kick me out,” and he watches how your eyebrows shoot up and he shakes his head, “I didn’t get evicted, nothing like that, fucker decided to repair the heating finally, but is throwing everybody out to do it, so I have to slum it in a motel for a week. Not the worst, just annoying.”
“Could you sleep at your shop?”
“No, I live right above it, so it’s closed too.”
“You could sleep at mine,” it’s your turn to say something a little too quick.
“Why?” His eyes fix on you, intrigued, but skeptical.
You’re removing the ice pack from his face, looking back down at his bruising knuckles, “I can keep an eye on your hands that way, and it’s, well, it’s the right thing to do.”
“I’m basically a stranger.”
“Not true, I know your name and what you do for work, how much closer can people get than that?”
“That’s what people say before they get murdered."
“Well, are you going to murder me?”
“No.”
“Well that settles that problem.”
“That’s the dumbest shit I’ve ever heard, I could be lying.”
“Well are you lying?”
“No.”
“Well then we’re good.”
He sighs like he’s exasperated, because he is, but he’s trying, and failing, to fight off an amused grin.
“Come on, I promise my couch is better than Motel 6 mystery stains.”
“You’re really not worried about me murdering you? You literally watch me come and beat other guys’ asses for a living.”
“I also know you work as a mechanic for a living.”
“You just found that out.”
“Okay? And you know I really wasn’t worried about you murdering me, but if you keep bringing it up I might start—”
“I’m not going to murder you!”
“Then quit bringing it up!”
He huffs a little and thinks for a moment.
“For the record, I’m not going to murder you either.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
“Awww, you have so much faith in me,” your shit-eating grin makes him grumble as he turns away to reach for his duffle bag.
“Are you sure? I mean, I didn’t think, we’re not—”
“I want you there, Jason.”
And that’s just enough to shut him up.
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Jason wakes with a start the next day.
“Sorry, some of us don’t have the week off,” you’re hopping around on one foot, tugging on another shoe. Your uniform startles him, the white short sleeved button up with the diner’s logo stitched to the breast pocket, black slacks and apron tied around your waist are nothing like the sweatshirt and jeans he’s used to.
“What the—”
He watches you quickly tug on a coat that’s a size too big, “it’s only six, you can sleep more, food’s in the fridge and cabinets if you get hungry, spare keys under the mat if you go out. Oh, and ice your knuckles today—” and just like that the door clicks shut behind you and he is completely alone in your apartment.
“I didn’t choose to have the week off,” he grumbles as if you can still hear him.
Jason hadn’t really taken in your apartment last night. He’d been bone tired by the time the two of you arrived, adrenaline having worked its way out of his system, so he did what he does everytime he goes back to his own place after fighting, pass out almost immediately. He has enough dignity to be a little embarrassed he passed out nearly right after arriving at your home. He tosses the blanket you evidently threw over him off and stretches.
Your apartment is small, but lived in. There’s a couple library books tossed on your coffee table and one you own, something about first aid that’s clearly many years old, dog eared pages and sticky note tabs poking out of the well worn paperback cover. There are pictures scattered around, what looks like you and friends, you look younger in most of them, but some look like they could’ve been taken a week ago. Your kitchen is tidy, but not spotless. There’s some dishes drying in a dish rack and a hand towel lazily tossed onto the counter, a box of cereal stacked on top of the microwave and a pot seemingly from yesterday still soaking in the sink. When he checks the freezer he can’t help but laugh, the label “FOR EATING” or “ICE PACK” is clearly scrawled in sharpie across all of the vegetable bags in your freezer. There’s a Gotham University magnet on your fridge holding up your electricity bill that’s due in a few days, but he doesn’t find any evidence that you ever attended the school at all. He doesn’t open the door to your bedroom, or snoop through much else other than your leftovers, popping some, what he’s guessing is, potato soup from the day before in the microwave.
He cleans up after himself, washes your pot too, fills your ice trays after he gets himself a couple of cubes. He tries to be as respectful as possible, disturbing your space so little that a week from now you won’t be able to tell he was ever there.
He ducks out around noon, locks the door behind him with your spare and takes a walk around the block. There’s some kids playing outside on the sidewalk who eye him nervously as he walks by, clearly intimidated by the large stranger with a scarred and bruised face, and red and purple knuckles. He sees what he assumes is their mother peering down from her fire escape, her hair as red as the brick behind her, he gives an awkward smile and polite wave before walking away. He walks across the street to a corner store, buys you a new half gallon of milk and a cartoon of eggs, since he poked around in your fridge enough to know both were getting low. He buys a water bottle and sandwich for the woman standing by the bus stop with a cardboard sign that says “anything helps,” she tells him he has a kind face, and it’s the first time he’s heard it since he got that scar at 15.
He spends the rest of his day quietly, bored, watching some mid afternoon soap opera that he gets only a little invested in on your old tv as he ices his knuckles and waits for you to get home.
He hears the door unlock around 5:30 that evening, the winter sun already starting to drift down for the night, “oh, good, you’re still here,” and he hears the thud of you kicking off your shoes in the entryway.
“Long shift?” He calls from his place on the couch, eyes still glued to the tv. The woman on the soap is finally confronting her husband for cheating.
“Nah, pretty standard one,” he hears the soft padding of your feet as you start to make your way over, leaning over the back of the couch. “There’s no way you’re watching this shit.”
“It was the only thing on.”
“Uh huh, sure buddy.”
“Fuck off,” and there’s that shit eating grin he’s grown so fond of curling onto your lips.
“Rude thing to say to the guy that brought you dinner.” He looks over his shoulder as you hold up a bag of takeout from your job triumphantly, “got you a burger, you like burgers right?”
“I like burgers.”
“Great,” you round the couch and set the bag down on your coffee table, “there’s a box in there for you and a box in there for me, oh and the top box has a slice of apple pie, but don’t eat the whole thing cause I want some too.”
And then you're off again, padding back to your bedroom and returning with a change of clothes before ducking into the bathroom. He hears the shower come on with the soft fall of water and some music he can’t make out over the noise of the shower and tv. You’re in there awhile, long enough for the episode he’s watching to finish and another one to start.
He tears into the burger you brought him while he waits. It's far from the best thing he’s ever had, but it’s greasy and flavorful, and it would definitely cure a hangover if he had one, so it’s good enough in his book.
When you do come out you’re still a little damp from the shower, and your skin is flushed from the heat of it. The steamy air from the bathroom quickly floods the rest of the apartment. You grab your own takeout and microwave it before plopping down on the couch, groaning as you sink into the cushion.
“Okay, so what’s happening?”
“Hm?” He turns to you with a mouthful of burger.
“If we're gonna watch this, I need to know what’s going on,” you smile at him before taking your own bite.
Jason swallows before launching into the story of this soap opera, which is not entirely complete because they were on episode 10 something when he started watching. He tells you about the main character, a woman who’s trying to do it all, balance a career and a family life. In the first episode Jason watched her husband started an affair with another woman, some episodes after that the woman realizes the man is married, she then spent a couple episodes agonizing over telling the main character, which she finally decided to do, the main character then spent an episode agonizing over how to confront her husband, which she just did an episode ago, but in the current episode it was just revealed that both the main character and the affair partner were pregnant.
“That’s so stupid.”
“I know,” Jason pauses for a moment. “We’re gonna keep watching though, right?”
“Absoluetly.”
You make it till ten o’clock and through several more episodes before your head gets hazy, sleep starting to gnaw at your mind. You think you and Jason had forgotten all about the show after three episodes. Your conversation turning away from making fun of it and towards each other. He looks warmer here, in the yellow of your lamp light rather than the sharp white light of an underground locker room.
“What?” He says suddenly and you realize you’ve been staring.
“Sorry, I think I’m falling asleep on you,” and your soft laugh fades into a yawn, “I should go to bed.”
“Yeah,” and as you look over your shoulder on your walk to your bedroom, you find him still looking at you.
It doesn’t take long for sleep to pull you under after you crawl amongst your blankets and sheets, but the last thing you imagine before you fall into the world of dreams is Jason’s face, warm with an easy smile and the soft lighting of your home.
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Leaving for work the next day, you wake Jason again, snickering out apologies as you tug your coat on.
It’s quiet most of your morning, till the Church crowd gets out at least. From 9:30 till 2 you’re weaving through tables of bustling conversation and balancing a tray on each arm. Some are families you recognize that have been a staple every Sunday since you were 16, some are faces you’ve never seen before and likely will never see again.
Paul, a now relatively quiet old man who used up all his voice when he used to talk on the radio, comes in every Sunday at 9:15 on the dot, and has for the past 30 years, asks the same question he has every Sunday since you hit the one year mark of working there.
“Afternoon. Now, when am I gonna stop seeing you?”
And just like every Sunday since the question stopped flustering you, you laugh and tell him, “I don’t know Paul, but if I’m not here who’s gonna get you your coffee just how you like?”
Mary Alice, a grandma to god knows how many, with a friendly smile and lips that could talk your ear right off, comes in every Sunday with her ever-growing family sometime between 10 and 11 after her church gets out, the time depending on how long she chats up the pastor. And just like every Sunday since you started she asks if you’d like to go out with one of her granddaughters or great nieces or any young lady in her family that she thinks might tickle your fancy.
Just like every Sunday before you laugh and tell her, “I’m not looking for anything right now.”
And after nearly ten years of the same response, she shakes her head and exasperatedly asks, “still?”
You laugh and pat her arm, “I’ll get you your sweet tea.”
At 12:30 a couple you’ve never seen before gets sat in your section. They order quietly, but laugh louder with each other. You don’t catch their names and they don’t catch yours, but they tip well and smile on their way out, and that’s enough.
You spend your day like that, popping in and out of people’s lives, some whose paths you’ll cross again and some who won’t remember you an hour from now. You think it used to bother you, the briefness of it all, but there’s a comfort in it now, sharing a meal with friends, acquaintances and strangers alike.
You don’t expect it, but when you get home Jason’s cooking dinner. Nothing fancy, some spaghetti with ingredients you recognize from the corner store across the street.
“You didn’t have to cook,” you say as you shuck your coat off onto a hook in the entryway.
“You’re letting me crash your place, least I can do is make you dinner.”
“I told you I wanted you here.”
“Okay, well I wanna cook.”
That settles it.
The food is good, filling and warm. It’s no Michelin star, but you doubt you’ll ever have the money to know what one tastes like. Maybe it’s no French Landry, but Jason’s corner store spaghetti is just as good in your book.
During a lull Jason asks, “did you go to Gotham University?”
The question catches you off guard, making you nearly choke on the food in your mouth.
“Sorry, just wondering cause of the magnet on your fridge,” you can hear the uneasiness in his tone, like he’s worried the conversation piece will lose him his spot on your couch.
“No, no, it’s fine Jason, I—” for a moment the words get lodged in your throat, “I wanted to, just never did.”
He doesn’t ask why, just nods because he already knows.
“You know it’s funny, they uh,” you push the remaining noodles around on your plate, eyes fixed on them. “They sent an ambassador to my high school when I was a senior. They handed out magnets and this dream that we could go there. I mean it just, it sucks looking back, they knew where they were, knew most of the kids there couldn’t afford a school like that and they still came with this dreamy look in their eyes and promised scholarships and help out of this dump. My grades were good, but not perfect, so there was no harrowing ‘impoverished genius’ story for them. Fuck, I knew it was too good to be true, but I took the magnet anyway.”
“And you still have it,” he doesn’t say it as a call out, just an observation.
“I guess there’s a part of me that’s still dreaming.”
He hums, low in the back of his throat and nods.
“Did you ever want to go to college?”
“I’d have to get my GED first.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah,” he pauses, looking at you like there’s a debate in his mind before he continues. “I got hurt really bad when I was 15, dropped out after.”
Your breath hitches, remembering his crumpled body on that mat, still, too still.
You know he hears it, but he doesn’t say anything.
“I’m sorry.”
“S’fine,” he tries to shrug off the weight of the conversation, but you see it still sitting on his shoulders. “Guess we’ve both got our share of shit and scars.”
You laugh then, bittersweet and low, your eyes fixed on the scar on his cheek, his on the one on your arm, “guess we do.”
It’s harder to fall asleep that night, your mind too restless, deciding if you shared a meal with a friend, acquaintance or stranger. Maybe Jason is something else entirely.
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Conversation is lighter the next night. You come home to shower and find that Jason cleaned your apartment. He didn’t move anything from its spot, just wiped things down and tidied a bit.
“You don’t have to clean, you’re a guest.”
“I’m a freeloader,” he says, popping leftovers in the microwave.
“Better than a murderer.”
“Not this shit again—”
“Remmeber who started it.”
And he grumbles and reaches for the drawer where he knows the forks are, and something about that makes your chest tighten.
Like everyone, conversation finds you over a meal. So, over leftover spaghetti on chipped plates, Jason asks you, “if you did go to college, what would you have studied?”
You're almost surprised at how easily you answer him, “nursing, I think.”
“Guess I shouldn’t have expected anything else.”
“Nope, sorry, not many surprises here,” even as you grin at him, you see his eyes drift back down to that scar on your arm, waiting for the shoe to drop. “What would you have studied?”
His eyes flick back up to you, “hm?”
“Say you finished high school and went off to college, what would you have studied?”
“That’s easy,” he grins, “English.”
“No way,” and you feel the corners of your lips curl up, “you’re a mechanic, you wouldn’t study, I don’t know, engineering?”
“Not everyone is as predictable as you.”
“I didn’t even know you liked to read!”
He’s laughing then, the kind that bubbles up from somewhere deep in his chest, “what the fuck do you think I do all day here?”
“I don’t know! Cook? Clean? Watch your soaps?”
“Fuck off, you’re making me sound like I’m your housewife.”
“You’d like that,” he rolls his eyes at your words. “What were you even reading?”
“Your library books,” you think back to the two you have scattered on your coffee table.
“Oh god those are overdue.”
“Did you read them?”
“No.”
He laughs even harder, it’s not even that funny, it’s just you, “at least someone read them—”
“Oh fuck off—” it’s so easy you don’t even remember when you started laughing too. “Okay, English major, imagine this alternate life of yours, how would we have met?”
“You think we still would’ve met?”
“Of course,” and strangely, Jason thinks so too.
“Well,” he takes a second to think, enough time for you to gather your plates to wash. “You would’ve been my annoying roommate.”
Your head whips around from the sink, “annoying?!”
He’s grinning as he nods, “yeah, annoying.”
“How would I be annoying?”
“I’d always be in interesting classes, like, I don’t know, Capitalism in Victorian Literature or Topics in Jane Austen, and you’d be crying over your fourth chemistry class in a semester.”
“I would not be in four chemistry classes in a semester—”
“You never know—”
“Okay, well I think you’d be my annoying roommate.”
He feigns being aghast at your words as he dries your plates to put away, “how would I be annoying?”
“You’d be so pretentious, always going on about some book from 300 years ago that no one had even heard of back then.”
“So I’d be annoying cause I’d be educated? Wow.”
“Yes, exactly.”
“It sounds like we’d make terrible roommates,” he grins back at you as puts your plates away.
You turn the kitchen light off behind him, “sounds like it.” And neither one of you believes it for a second.
He flops down on the couch, comfortable, like he’d been there forever, “you’d spend February whining cause you wouldn’t know how to do your taxes.”
“Well you’d leave your dirty laundry everywhere.”
“I would not, I’m very tidy, you’ve seen that—”
You laugh as you stop leaning over the couch, shoving his legs away so you can sit down. “You never know what happens when people get comfortable.”
He plops his feet in your lap, “I’m very comfortable here.”
When you chuckle, you can almost picture it for a moment, this other life. Little 18 year old you and Jason complaining about professors and homework loads instead of landlords and the cost of living. You can see him hunched over his desk writing his final essay as you pour over a textbook at yours. You can see how all that stress fades into easy bickering and loud laughs that get noise complaints sent to your RA. When you look back at Jason, he’s propped himself up on his elbows to look at you, and you can tell he’s picturing it too.
“For the record,” Jason clears his throat. “In another life, I really would’ve liked arguing over laundry and taxes with you.”
It’s silent for a moment, too real, too vulnerable. When you open your mouth all that comes out is:
“Shit, I should get to bed.”
He doesn’t even get the chance to respond before you’ve padded off to your room. You can feel his eyes on your back even if he doesn’t call out after you, but all of that is almost too much for the beating of your heart to handle. Even the cold of your sheets can’t cool your warm body because over and over again you hear his voice in your head.
“In another life, I really would’ve liked arguing over laundry and taxes with you.”
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Jason’s up when you leave for work, the air feels heavier, just a little tense, just a little quiet.
You say goodbye and so does he.
You think about him all day.
When you pour coffee in the morning. When you balance plates on your arms. When a child spills sickly-sweet, sticky syrup on your shoes. When you carry stacked dishes to the back, when you count your tips for the day before clocking out. All of your thoughts fall back on him, what he said, what he meant.
You aren’t an idiot. You feel it, the soft thrum of something between the two of you. The deepness of his gaze when you press ice to his knuckles, something soft and hard flickering in his irises all at once.
You aren’t an idiot. You know you’re looking back at him the same way. Perhaps you always had. Perhaps even on that mat, aching screams ringing out of your throat as your arm crumpled, perhaps even then, there was a moment in that painful haze when you looked up at him and thought he was an angel, scary, monstrous and beautiful all at once.
But you aren’t an idiot. You couldn’t tell Jason Todd, the man with too big a heart to charge people a normal rate, the man who turned to putting himself on the line instead, that he had been the reason for that scar. You don’t think you could bear it, how his face would crumble, how his voice would creak and ache quietly when he apologized; because what if that look never left his eyes? What if everytime he looked at you all he saw was the scar? What if everytime his eyes met yours he was back there, in the roar of the crowd, too small and too young to change a thing? Or what if he didn’t remember it happening at all, and you became another faceless ghost of his past, the kind that keeps him up at night, adding to that pile of skeletons in his closet, keeping him there on that mat, there in that limbo? And you know it keeps him up at night, you can hear him up too late from just a wall away.
Your neighbor, Callie you think her name is, snaps you out of your thoughts, calling after you as you walk up, cigarette dangling loosely from her fingertips as she watches her sons play.
“Hey, that big friend of yours that’s been staying over, I think he left.”
Your stomach drops, “what?”
“Yeah he ducked out a couple hours ago, I mean, the boys said he left the past couple days, but he’s usually back by now.”
When you step inside, you’re almost embarrassed by how numb you feel, putting water on the stove to make dinner for one. Then the door clicks, and you turn to see Jason standing in your living room, a couple of books under his arm.
Your words fall out in a rush, “you came back?”
His head tilts to the side, confused, like him coming back is the most obvious thing in the world, “yeah?”
“Sorry, I thought you,” and your quiet words trail into nothing as you stare at him, like he’s breathing some sort of life back into your space.
“I returned your library books, got caught up picking out others. Sorry, I was gone longer than I thought.”
“You don’t have to explain, you’re not— I mean— I’m not your keeper—”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t need to be, I’m being, I don’t know. Thanks for returning my books.”
He sets the books he picked out down on the coffee table and moves into the kitchen, and there he is, looking at you, eyes filled with something you don’t dare even think.
“Yeah, it’s no problem.”
You don’t say much else after that, neither of you do, words caught in both of your throats as you force yourselves to swallow food.
There’s some quiet rhythm after dinner, you wash the dishes and he dries and puts them away. You take him into the living room, pressing ice to his knuckles, checking on the healing bruises.
“They’re coming along, but it still might be a week or two.”
“That’s okay.”
Even the couch falls quiet between you, the voices on tv feel like noise as you both stare while the night creeps on.
It’s late when you speak again.
“I would’ve liked it too.”
You don’t have to clarify you mean that other life, those late nights, those silly arguments. He knows.
He looks back at you and gives you a smile, soft and small, but it’s still there.
You think about telling him all of it for a second, but you let the words still in your mind. You won’t break it, this fragile settlement between you, you can’t do it, not yet.
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You wake later in the morning than you’re used to, the sun peeking through the curtains. Your back is stiff, you fell asleep there on the couch, body molded against Jason’s side.
“Shit sorry,” you pull away from Jason’s side, stretching a little, trying to rub the sleep out of your eyes.
“It’s fine, just didn’t wanna wake you,” his hair is still tousled and his eyes are still heavy from sleep, he must not have woken up long before you. "You work today?”
You shake your head, still rubbing your eyes, “no, I always have Wednesday off.”
Jason stands, stretching a little, hints of his toned torso peeking out at you, “well then, what should we do today?”
“Errands,” you groan. “I need to do them today, you don’t have to come.”
But he tags along, of course he does.
He sits and scrolls on his phone in the laundromat while you both wait, he glances up occasionally, looks at where you’re sitting on top of the washer, and just looks.
“What?” You ask him a few times.
And he always just glances back down to his phone and says, “nothing.”
He helps you fold your laundry when it’s done, cheeks only reddening a little when he inadvertently grabs your underwear to fold, he carries your basket on the way out.
He pushes your cart at the grocery store, double checks all your produce to make sure it’s good.
When you grab a couple bags of frozen vegetables he grins down at you, “so are those for eating or ice packs?”
“Eating,” you tell him, like it should be obvious, and he just chuckles.
He carries your grocery bags into your apartment, you pass by your neighbor and Jason nods to her.
“So he came back,” she grins at you.
“I did.” He responds for you, something firm in his voice, like he’s here to stay. Oh, how that makes your ribcage tighten, that trapped heart of yours fluttering against the bars of its cage.
When he stands beside you slicing the meat you bought as you make a marinade, you have to remind yourself that this isn’t forever. He isn’t always coming back. This week exists brief and fleeting. In a couple more days he’ll be back at his own place and this will be some blip in time, a memory, nothing more, nothing less.
“You think very loudly,” Jason comments.
“Oh yeah,” you take the chicken from him and dump it into the bowl to put in your fridge. “Then what am I thinking about?”
“Something stupid, I’m guessing.”
“You’re very rude, I don’t know why I let you stay here.”
“You want me here.”
“I do,” the honest slip surprises you just as much as Jason, but it shuts him up, his focus shifting to an onion to cut.
You put a pot of rice on the stove as Jason pulls the chicken out of the fridge. You’re struck by the ease of it all, the simple harmony of the two of you like this. By the time you're pulling the chicken out of the skillet, he’s dumping the vegetables in the pan, when the vegetables are done and you’re dumping the chicken back in, he’s getting plates out of your cabinet. He moves like he’s been here forever. A part of you, most of you, all of you, wishes he’d stay that long.
You don’t talk much over dinner, but it’s not like before. The quiet is comfortable, the hum of the overhead fan and the softness of breath between bites filling the space. Then the sound of water running as you wash dishes and the cabinets opening and closing as Jason dries and tucks them away keeps that same peace.
It’s over a beer on the couch that he gazes back down at that scar on your arm. You catch him looking.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
“You know,” he takes a long sip. “I got hurt pretty bad when I was 15.”
“I know.”
“What?”
And your honesty answers the first question he ever asked you, why would you bet on him.
It takes a moment, a moment of just looking at him before you can force yourself to be honest, it’s time for that you think. With a terrible croak in your voice you say, “I was there.”
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You agreed to Talia’s rule: no more fighting.
You haven’t fought since the night you were hurt, but that didn’t mean you didn’t watch.
Smushed between the warm, sweaty bodies cheering as Jason’s body fell to the ground was you, watching in horror as the boy who’d broken you was broken, a monster no longer, just a boy.
You were there when the people filed out, tucking yourself in a corner, watching how Jason’s breath slowed and stuttered, till Jason’s coach dropped money on the ground and you came running. You think you remember him mumbling “don’t take it,” words mixing with the gurgle of blood.
You remember fumbling as you tried to turn him on his side so he wouldn’t choke on any blood, how your knees dug into the mat as you tried shaking him to keep him awake. You remember stumbling outside grappling onto the nearest payphone as you dialed the number you’d gazed at so many times you had it memorized, voice shaking as you mumbled “Talia,” when the line picked up.
You don’t know how she got there so fast, just that she did.
You started yelling for her the second you heard a car pull up, “help! He’s not breathing! Please!”
“You’re hurting him,” you remember wailing when her CPR cracked more of his ribs, breaking them with a sickening crunch.
“It’s this or he dies.” She was sharp and stern when she said it, a finality in her voice that made your mouth snap shut as you watched them.
It looked like some gritty scene out of a drama, a body broken and bloody, a woman trying desperately to force life back between his ribs, and all you could do was watch powerless, useless and pathetic, like they really were a movie and you were the unwilling audience who couldn’t look away from the train collision.
When Jason took that first first heave of a breath Talia was already trying to manhandle him upright, but his dull eyes were on you, focusing for just a second before fluttering shut again.
“Can you carry him?” Talia had asked you, and you found a way to manage, hauling him on your back to her car, sitting next to him in the back seat as he took shuddering breaths, gripping his hand like that alone would grant him eternal life, pressing a napkin against his carved cheek like you could will away the scar. You saw yourself in his bloodied face, every boy you’d ever watched crumple on that mat, every boy that Crime Alley had beat into gory submission wore his face.
It was there in the back of that car that you decided what you would do with the rest of your life.
No one would ever die on your watch.
So you returned to fighting, not in the ring, but in the crowd, with a cooler full of frozen vegetables and a duffle full of painkillers and gauze. You learned CPR and how to set a broken nose. You taught yourself to heal, to fix the broken and needy, so you would never be the unwilling watcher to a horror scene again.
Jason Todd is the reason you left fighting yes, but more than that he’s the reason you returned.
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“I bought it the next morning, right as this bookstore opened,” you point to your first aid book laying on the table, tabbed and tattered now, offering him a weak smile. “Scared the hell out of the clerk, my clothes still had blood all over them.”
He says nothing for a long time, just stares at you and your weak smile, at the man who gave the phone call that saved his life, and then he looks back down at that damned scar on your arm. With a cracked strain to his words he mumbles, “oh my god, it’s you.”
“What,” your own voice is barely a cracked whisper.
“I remember you,” Jason croaked. “I thought I killed you.”
When Jason was 15, nothing more than a broken pile of limbs and ripped flesh he thought of the boy he’d broken on the mat months earlier. The one who he’d never seen again. The one whose arm he wrecked. The one that’d been left on that mat just like he was in that moment. He’d seen the boy’s face that night watching him. In the moment he’d thought he’d killed that boy, he knew what they did to boys when they weren’t useful and here was his ghost to take him to, this was that boy’s revenge. When he woke up in the hospital he dubbed it a guilt filled hallucination. Never had he considered that the boy, you, had been there, had saved him.
“My arm just broke, you couldn’t have—”
“You were left there, you know what they did back then,” his hand is reaching out tentatively, his body crowding you as he reaches to touch your scar. “You’re okay.” And he says it like that alone has relieved him of some mortal sin he carried, “I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you.”
Your own hand reaches out, thumb brushing against that “J” on his cheek.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because now you’re looking at me like that,” his eyebrows are furrowed and his eyes have this cloud of guilt to them that makes your stomach twist.
“You should fucking hate me,” his finger runs along the scar. “They could’ve killed you over it— fuck, they would’ve—”
“It wouldn't have been your fault—"
“Then whose fault would it be?!” You can hear it, anger and guilt bubbling to the surface, spilling out of his throat like tar.
“The coaches, the crowd, the referees, the system,” you don’t know when you got close enough for your forehead to knock against his, but there you are, noses brushing, breaths mixing, eyes boring into each other. “Anyone, everyone, but not yours, not a 15 year old fucking boy.”
“Do you know how long I thought I deserved what happened?” And that feels like a sucker punch to the gut. “How long I’ve been trying to make up for it?”
“I think you’ve done plenty to make up for it.”
He laughs, wet and tearful, he’s pulling you closer and you’re not stopping him, not for a second, not for anything, “think I’ve repented enough?”
You laugh back, both your cheeks are wet, but neither of you say a damn thing, “more than.”
And his lips find yours, crushing, aching, desperate. He holds you there, in that moment, lets your hands tangle into his hair, and he feels you, feels your mouth, feels your lips, his hand pressed against your scar. He holds it until you both need air, knocking your noses together as you pull away, breath intense and ragged.
“I’ve been wanting you—” he starts.
“Me too.” You finish, then you’re clamoring into his lap, pressing your lips against the “J” on his cheek. And unlike that napkin, Jason thinks your kiss might actually heal that scar.
His hands find your hips and squeeze, pulling you closer, pressed so close it doesn’t even feel like there’s air between you. He draws your lips back to his, his tongue swiping along your bottom lip till you open for him. His tongue drags around your mouth slow and languid, like he’s trying to memorize every crevice of you. You moan soft and low into the kiss, and he deepens it, the vibrations of your voice egging him on as he grips your hips firmly.
When he finally pulls away there’s a quick and steady rise and fall to both of your chests, pants filling the air as a string of saliva connects you both. You kiss you quick this time, licking the shared spit off.
“Gross,” he chuckles against your jaw as he starts to leave soft, open mouthed kisses there.
“You just had your tongue down my throat, I don't wanna hear—”
And his lips find yours again, crashing against you as you gasp, deeper than before. Your hands tangle back in his hair, pulling him in as much as possible, the two of you kissing so deeply it’s as if you’re trying to consume one another.
When you pull away this time, he groans, glaring slightly at your action, face immediately turning to kiss you again.
“Stop gripping my hips so hard—”
“Shit sorry—”
“No it’s okay, I just,” when he loosens his grip you sink down more, settling in his lap, both legs thrown over one of his thighs, one of your legs pressed against his crotch.
You’re even closer now, slotted together like a puzzle, and when he kisses you this time, you move. Grinding against his thigh, pressing your leg into his crotch, gasping softly against his lips as he tilts his head back and groans.
You find a rhythm quickly, dragging yourself back and forth across his thigh, panting against his lips in between sloppy kisses. His hands still on your hips again.
“Sorry is that too much—”
“No just—” and with another messy meeting of your lips, he pulls you down harder, grinding his hips up into yours and when he’s met with a moan he goes harder.
“Fuck, Jay—”
His lips latch onto your neck, sucking softly as he drinks in the soft pants and moans your letting out. He’s achingly hard, cock straining in his pants as you hump the thickness of his thigh like a dog.
“Bedroom?” He grunts out, pulling you from your daze, his eyes lidded and pleading as you look at him.
You nod quickly, clamoring off his lap, stumbling a little as you stand. “Yeah, yeah, bedroom,” you say eagerly. When he follows you up you quickly tug him down into another kiss, his hands latch onto your cheeks, kissing you slow and soft before you lead him down the hall.
He watches you, smitten really, following after like a dog, holding your hand like he hopes for nothing else in the world. And when you tug the door open and start to pull your shirt off he’s on you like one. Caressing your skin reverently, trailing kisses and nips as he sinks to his knees, thumbs rubbing at your hip bones. He rests his chin on your abdomen, gazing up at your flushed cheeks and wide eyes.
“Bed’s that way actually, not down there,” you chuckle, trying to tug him up, but he stays planted firm on his knees.
“Shut up and let me hold you for a second,” he mumbles as he presses his face against your abdomen, leaving soft kisses there.
And this is worse than the sloppiness of the makeout session, this is more damning, the tenderness of Jason as he trails kisses against your skin. Your face falls into one hand, trying to hide the flush of your cheeks.
“No,” he mutters against your skin. “Let me look.”
You drag your hand off your face, looking down at him, and there he is, on his knees for you, smiling like there’s no place he’d rather be.
He takes your hand and presses a kiss to your palm, “saved me and saving me still.”
There’s a rawness to you, to the boy that saved him and the man that boy has become, and he will revel in it as long as you let him.
He presses a kiss to the bulge in your pants, watches how your breath stutters and hitches, “I think it’s time I returned the favor for all those times you took care of me, nurse.”
And then he’s standing, tossing you over his shoulder as you squeal before he dumps you amongst the sheets on your stomach.
You can feel him hovering over you, mumbling into your hair, “hey,” he breathes out like it means something.
“Hey,” you breathe back because it does.
And he kisses your hair. One hand holds himself up while the other fiddles with the waistband of your pants, tugging them down, the brush of his warm fingertips against your warmer skin making tension crackle between you like sparked fire, your bed creaking the whole way.
“Your bed frame is a piece of shit,” he murmurs between slow kisses to your neck and shoulders.
Your chuckle is muffled by your pillows, “if you like me enough, you can come back and fix it later.”
He hums into a kiss, before lifting your hips to fully tug down your pants and boxers, leaving you exposed to him. Your cock is pinned to the bed, aching and sensitive for touch at this point.
“You got lube?”
You nod against the pillows, pointing towards your nightstand, he reaches over, rummaging around for a second, when he finds the bottle he cocks an eyebrow at you, “got alotta visitors or something?”
“Why, you jealous?” You tease looking over your shoulder at him, and he grunts and rolls his eyes, you look like a dream, how could he not be jealous?
He sits back on his knees, stripping off his shirt and tossing it away and awkwardly shimming out of his pants as you laugh at him, propped up on your elbows glancing over one shoulder till he shoves you back down.
When you look back again, your eyes widen, Jason is beautiful, sculpted and strong. You’d seen glimpses, hints of this when he sat shirtless in front of you while you patched him up. But here, with you, he’s something else entirely. Your gaze travels along the valleys of his body, tracing every scar, mole and freckle. Jason’s cock shouldn’t surprise you as much as it does, he’s big in every sense of the word, it only makes sense his cock would follow suit, but it makes your throat dry all the same.
“Jesus, I see why you asked for the lube.”
“What?”
“I just—” you gesture with your hands. “Where have you been hiding that thing—”
“My pants.”
“I don’t know how, that’s a goddamn snake—”
He shoves you back down again, “stop.”
“You know most guys would live for that kind of compliment—”
You yelp as two cold and wet fingers trace around your puckered hole, “relax.” His other hand rubs soft circles on one of your thighs. “That’s because I know I’m big, I don't need to be talked up like this is some cheap porno.”
Before you can respond, he rubs two fingers over your hole, tracing it gently, when your breath hitches he leans over you, softly speaking in your ear, “breathe, I’ve got you.”
You breathlessly nod, and then he slips one finger in, you gasp and he goes slow, murmuring softly to you, “there you go.”
He lets you get used to it, then he slowly starts to pump it in and out, after a little he adds another, slowly working you open. He’s got three fingers in you when he finally brushes your prostate, when your back arches and you fist the sheets a low, pleased rumble comes from his throat.
“Feels good, huh?”
And before you can open your mouth to make any sort of cheeky remark he brushes over it again, leaving you writhing beneath him.
“Yeah looks like it feels real good,” he’s chuckling a little, gazing at your form as you rock against the sheets, desperate to get some friction against your cock.
You actually whine when he withdraws his fingers, “poor thing,” he teases as he slowly coats his own cock in lube. For a moment he lets it just rest there against your hole.
“Don’t tease—”
“Oh that’s real rich coming from you,” he drags the heavy weight of his cock between your cheeks.
“I’m sorry, please just—”
And then he’s pushing in, he would never have been able to deny you for long. He’s warm, so insanely warm, and heavy. You’re squirming already, body trying to adjust to the breach of his tip. He presses fleeting kisses to your neck, “so good, just a little more.”
And he repeats that again and again as he slowly splits you open, his breath labored and shaky as he murmurs into your ear, inch after inch sinks into you, one hand on your lower back to keep you steady and in place for him. For awhile it feels like there will be no end to it, that he’ll spear you on his cock till you break. You’re shuddering by the time he reaches his hilt, Jason clenches his teeth, but it doesn’t stop a deep groan from bubbling out of his chest. It takes him a moment to ground and collect himself, but the second he does he leans down to kiss your shuddering body, the hand on your back coming to rub your trembling hip as you adjust, “there we go, all in now.”
Shakily, you grab one of your pillows, cradling it and burying your face in it to ground yourself, your mind and breath trying to catch up to your body, “kept saying it was almost in.”
He kisses your neck again, patting your hip gently before tracing sweet circles there, “it was, baby, took me so good.”
He holds you like that for a few minutes, his arms wrapping around you as he presses his chest to your back, leaning his heavy weight against you. There’s something comforting about it, grounding, like a weighted blanket atop you; well a much heavier, much warmer, slightly sweaty weighted blanket.
When your body stops trembling you can’t fight the feeling of fullness that’s permeating your every thought, “Jason, fuck, move—” you grunt against your pillow.
“Move?”
“Yes, fucking—” and before you can even whine or grumble out the rest of your sentence you feel the slow drag of his hips as he pulls out.
When he thrusts back in you gasp, not because he goes particularly hard, but because that feeling of fullness returns. He sets a steady rhythm, not particularly aggressive, just all consuming. He fills you to the brim each time, bulbous tip brushing against your prostate with even thrust. It’s ruining you, has you holding onto your pillow for dear life, moans and whines rolling out of your lips because you just can’t help it.
“C’mon baby,” he breathes raggedly in your ear. “Don’t bury your sounds, I wanna hear them.”
You turn your head to the side, face no longer buried in your pillow, letting your sounds slip into the air, gifting him one for each thrust.
“Much better,” he slurs against your ear, his own mind melting from the pleasure, he gasps a little when your hole squeezes around him. “So fucking tight, holy shit—”
“Cause you’re too big,” you whimper, hands fisting your pillow as you try to unscramble your thoughts.
“No,” he hugs you tighter, his pace picking up a little as his hips rut against yours, shoving you deeper into the bed, making your sensitive cock twitch at the friction between it and your sheets. “Think we fit together perfect.”
In what few thoughts you can form you can’t help but wonder if Jason is letting you hear him like this. He can be so quiet during fights, not giving his opponent any sign of pain to work with. But here? He’s getting lost in you, ruined as much as you are, every thrust he uses to take you apart he gives a little of himself over to you. And you can hear it, hear him, the grunts and breathy groans he’s reduced to as you squeeze around him.
You squeeze your pillow tighter, your breath ragged as you bury your face back into your pillow, even when Jason complains, you can feel the heat coursing through your body, the thrum in your veins, “close— fuck, Jay— close—”
Jason nods into your neck, he can tell, feel you squeezing tighter with each passing second, your body trying to wring him dry, “let go, let go—”
And when his hand snakes under your body to give a few quick tugs to your weeping cock you do, crying out into your pillow as you cum, spilling out onto your sheets as Jason fucks you through your orgasm, your mind going blank as you swear your vision whites out for a second.
By the time you’re coming down from your high your body is shaking, he’s still going at it, still thrusting, though his movements are less anchored and much more erratic now, rutting into you like an animal, his breath hot and heavy against your ear.
“Jay too much—”
“I know—” he groans unevenly against your ear, “just a little more, baby, just a little more—”
And after just a couple more thrusts he’s slamming himself to the hilt, hugging you tight and moaning against your neck as he spills into you, his cum molten deep inside you. You cry out as he finishes, the feeling of fullness compounding as he fills you.
He pulls out of you after a moment, little dribbles of cum spilling out of you and down your balls onto the bed. Jason lays on his stomach next to you, legs still tangled with yours, one arm tossed over you as he breathes heavily. You stay like that for a few minutes, both of your minds trying to come to some semblance of coherent thought.
It’s ten minutes of listening to you breathe before Jason murmurs against your hair, “I’ll clean up.”
You hum softly in response, too boneless and too tired to form words. You watch him stretch and stand before padding out of the room, something in your heart clenches when you watch him walk out. He returns a few minutes later with a wet rag and a glass of water.
He manhandles you, gently of course, and only a little, into an upright position, handing you the glass of water as he wipes you down with the rag. He must’ve cleaned himself up in the bathroom, but he didn’t bother to fix his hair, slightly damp with sweat and tousled from sex. He moves his hands gently, eyebrows furrowed lightly from focus, he tries to move the same as you do when you’re patching him up, all steady and slow maneuvers.
“Thank you,” you finally say.
And he doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head as he smiles, tossing the rag into your hamper before crawling back into your creaky bed. He pulls you against his warm, broad chest, arms snaking around you while he buries his face in your hair.
“I’ll change your sheets tomorrow,” is the last thing you hear him murmur before you fall into a dreamless sleep.
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You wake the next morning to Jason’s phone buzzing somewhere in the room and him grumbling loudly as he stumbles out of bed to find his pants.
“Shut up,” he barks sleepily without any real bite when he hears you snicker as he rummages through his pants pocket before drawing the phone up to his ear, which he answers with an incredibly unenthusiastic, “hello?”
You watch him talk on the phone, the golden light of a beautiful winter morning spills through your curtains, framing him like an angel. Your cheek is smushed against your pillow, a lopsided and lovesick grin on your face as you watch him grumble into the phone. When he hangs up, he turns to you with an all too serious expression, the kind that makes your smile fade instantly.
“What’s wrong,” you say sitting up immediately, wincing slightly at the dull ache in your lower back.
“Nothing’s wrong, it’s just,” his voice trails off for a second when he looks at you, his hand coming to rub the back of his neck. “That was my landlord, they wrapped up the maintenance early.”
“Oh,” you say and you can already feel the pit in your stomach.
“Yeah,” he shifts awkwardly on his feet. “I should probably get my shop back running then, make sure they didn’t fuck that or my apartment up.”
You nod, mouth hanging open a little, “yeah, yeah you should.”
You spend the rest of the morning quietly, you both shower, separately, and while you take yours he changes your sheets.
“You didn’t need to do that,” you tell him.
“No I didn’t,” he says simply. “But, I wanted to.” And it makes the pit in your stomach worse.
While he showers you sit on your freshly made bed, trying to think of anything to say to him.
You don’t come up with a damn thing.
You help him pack in silence, not tense, but not comfortable. The phone call had shattered the fragile bubble of a fantasy in which the two of you were living in seconds, and with each item he packed away it felt like picking up the pieces of it.
You checked his hands again before he left, bruises still healing nicely, your touch lingered too long, your thumb dragged across his knuckles too tenderly, you both felt it.
“You shouldn’t fight this weekend, they need at least another week, okay?”
“Okay,” he slung his duffle over his shoulder, rubbing the back of his neck again. “I’ll see you then, yeah?”
“Of course,” you give him a playful smile, but it doesn’t put things back together.
And then he’s out the door and you’re alone in your apartment. It doesn’t feel like before Jason came to stay, your quiet little place, it just feels still, it just feels empty. For as hard as Jason tried to make sure there would be no trace of him after he left, all you can see is traces of him.
There’s no mess, he’s just littered every room with memories from the last few days, it’s suffocating, it’s unbearable. You pick up a shift just to get out.
Your heart and mind aren’t in it your whole shift. You space out, you drop a tray, you forget to give a guy his coffee, your boss sends you home early, says they’ll be fine without you, tells you to get some rest. You barely sleep a wink. All you can think about is Jason leaving, looking back at you once in the doorway, what you could’ve said, what you could’ve done. But you let him walk away, let him go back to his world while you fell back into yours. It’s the right thing, you tell yourself, but god it feels so wrong.
You half expect to see him the next night. You half want to, even if it’s just for you to scold him and say you told him not to fight. But, he doesn’t show. You absentmindedly patch up that night’s fighters and get lost in thought. You think what happened between you and Jason is the kind of romance they talk about in the movies, beautiful, all consuming and unforgettable. But, movies end, that kind of love is short lived, the kind you’ll reminisce about when you’re old and gray. Your movie is over, the credits have rolled and now it’s time you go back to your life.
You pay your electricity bill, you go to work, you patch people up and you don’t wait for a call from a number you don’t have. You figure you’ll see Jason in a week or two, and you’ll wonder if he thought about you too, if he can still feel your touch on his skin, if the scar on his cheek burns the same way the one on your arm does. And then that too will fade, you’ll be nothing more than a back alley nurse and him nothing more than a fighter; at least that’s what you tell yourself to feel better.
You’ve just gotten off of work on Sunday when you hear a knock at the door. And something in you knows. You answer, uniform shirt halfway unbuttoned and apron slung over your shoulder.
“Jason?” And you’re right, there he is, smiling awkward and sweet outside your apartment.
“I wanted to come back sooner, but the shop was swamped after my days gone—” he cuts himself off smiling sheepishly when you’re already opening the door for him to step inside. He holds up a red toolbox, “anyway, I’m here to fix that bedframe of yours, if that’s alright with you?”
And you smile too big, too bright, and he wouldn't change it for the world, shutting the door behind him and already drawing him into a kiss you murmur, “yeah Jason, that’s alright.”
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡fin♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨
a/n: If you made it this far, thank you so much for reading as always! I hope you enjoyed, and shout out to Everything Everywhere All At Once for the title and for the reference I slipped in. I'm excited to be back and hope to drop some more stuff soon !! <333
hiii...! kind of forgot i had had this account sorry lolz! my professors have me writing 20 essays a minute so i'm all out of fic ideas so PLEASE GIVE ME RECCOMENDATIONS AND IDEAS! I love when u guys send requests so pls pls pls! I want to write again!!
“When you block someone, do they keep the videos you sent?”
“Hm. I’m not sure. Depends if they saved them or not.”
It was silent for only a second.
“Wait, wait, wait!!!!! Arakawa Naoki, you, you!! You blocked someone?! What did they do?!” Nakamura suddenly sat up, crawling to the end of the bed as he stared up at his friend in shock. His eyes wide and almost popping out of his sockets.
Naoki sighed, glancing over at the tv resting on the dresser across from Nakamura’s bed. “Forget it. I don’t want to think about him.”
“Him?! Was it the aquarium dude?!”
“Mhm.”
“What happened?! You were practically gushing about him a week ago, now that you mention it, you haven’t giggled to me about him in four days. What did he do?!” Nakamura stood up, nodding his head, his moves a bit sluggish as he grabbed his baseball bat from the corner of the room. “I’ll kill ‘im! Lemme at him, I’ll hit a home run with his head!”
“Sit down,” Naoki easily grabbed the bat from Nakamura’s hand and tossed it onto the ground. “It’s nothing. It was my fault for being naive.”
Nakamura blinked, humming slightly. He dropped to his knees and looked up at Naoki expectedly. “Naive? Was he… Yakuza..?”
“No, nothing like that. It was..” Naoki frowned, glancing at Nakamura. “You’ll be angry.”
“Angry?” Nakamura, despite the cheap beer swirling in his brain, narrowed his eyebrows.
“It’s that fucking Momoi (Name)!!!!!”
ཆི❤︎ཆྀ
“I knew it. He’s been waiting for you to fall into his trap. To think that you sent him videos—not that I’m victim blaming you—he’ll probably post them. Your face wasn’t in it right? We can come up with plausible explanations or something.”
“Nakamura…”
“It’s been three weeks, right? Maybe he’s waiting for the perfect moment.. ah fuck, or maybe..”
“Nakamura Takumi.”
Takumi finally stopped his pacing and turned to face Naoki. Naoki groaned, leaning against the wall as he glared at his friend.
“Can we talk about this another time? Not during an appointment for getting a cane?”
“Ah,” Takumi gave a slight smile. “Sorry, I’m just worried. That guy’s unstable! Who cares if he can carry a tune. I don’t know why Yuki likes him so much, she didn’t care for him back in high school.”
Naoki stood up from the wall and shrugged, rubbing the back of his head. “Must’ve really liked the music.” He pulled out his phone and checked the time. “I don’t know why you needed me to come with me to get your dad’s cane.”
Takumi shrugged. “Just.. wanted you to check out the canes here. You.. well, you’ve been complaining about your leg more often. You—”
“Zip it.”
“Naoki…”
“I don’t need a cane yet. Wait until I’m thirty at least.”
“Using a cane isn’t bad. Lots of young people use it.”
“I can still walk.”
“Duh. I’m just saying.”
“Actually, bring up the revenge porn again. That’s better than this.” Naoki shook his head, unlocking his phone to check his LINE. He responded to his mother’s text before coming across your contact. His eyes landed on your name.
Sea Moon.
A joke. Did you really take him for a joke? He let out a bitter laugh and turned off his phone, slipping it into his pocket.
Takumi hummed, “I do wonder, maybe he didn’t know.”
“What?”
“Ah,” Takumi let out a huff. “I hate the guy, don’t get me wrong, but maybe he didn’t know it was you.”
“Even if he didn’t—he was cheating on his girlfriend. I’m not anyone’s side chick.”
“True. That was strange of him. Maybe you should leak the conversation to his girlfriend,” Takumi laughed, already giddy at the thought of ruining your reputation.
Naoki rolled his eyes. “I’ll think about it.”
1 year ago
“Look, look!”
Naoki pushed Yuki’s phone away, trying to properly cut out the spine of the fish in front of him. He almost sliced his own finger just as Yuki showed him the phone again.
“What??” Naoki placed the knife down, glaring at Yuki. A giddy grin was on her lips as she held her phone right at his face. Naoki narrowed his eyes and grabbed the phone from her hand, trying to read what she was showing him.
“Oh, Takumi-Kun, come look!” She called over Takumi who was lounging on the couch, rubbing his belly as he lazily flipped through channels
“If it has to deal with that stupid emo and his sister, stop bothering me.” Takumi yelled.
“Ah, you’re no fun! Brother Momoi beat the loner allegations!”
“Hah? What the hell are you talking about?”
Naoki stared at the phone for a moment, trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
It was of a photo of you and a girl, the girl pressing her lips against your cheek. Her hands gripped your shoulders as she stood on her tippy toes. The next picture was of your foreheads pressed together, a wide grin on the girl’s lips.
Another of her holding your arm, cuddling close to you as you both sat at a restaurant. Her reaching over and feeding you a piece of sushi.
Naoki felt odd. He didn’t understand this heavy feeling in his heart. It wasn’t like you were ever his. Wouldn’t it be his fault for never stepping forward and saying something to you? But you would always run away from him, how could he?
Were those four years nothing?
Did he imagine it? Maybe he was the one stalking you?
Naoki let out a laugh, placing Yuki’s phone onto the countertop. “Good for him.” Was all he said before grabbing his jacket and slipping on his shoes.
Takumi sat up, his eyes narrowing. “Where are you going?”
“Beer. I don’t think we have enough for tonight. Yuki, you can pull out the rest of the spine from the fish. I’ll be quick.”
Yuki blinked. “Woah, we’re drinking tonight? Don’t we have an exam tomorrow?”
Takumi sighed, “he’s still attached to him after all.”
“What?”
“Nothing, just pull the spine out. I’ll start the side dishes.”
ཆི❤︎ཆྀ
“You’re wallowing again.” Hiyori tilted her head, raising an eyebrow.
You rubbed the bridge of your nose. “I’m not.”
“You totally are.” A voice cut in.
“How’d you even get in?” You glared at the unwanted guest, placing your spoon on your plate. Your curry and rice was hardly touched since Hiyori placed the bowl in front of you.
Miki giggled, leaning down and pressing a soft kiss on Hiyori’s lips. Hiyori eagerly returned the kiss but was stopped from deepening it with a slight glare from Miki. “Not in front of your brother. He’s innocent.”
You scoffed. “I thought I changed the apartment code.”
“I told her the new code.” Hiyori said, pulling Miki to sit down on her lap. Miki immediately got comfortable, humming happily.
“I thought it was siblings before hoes.”
“Hey, don’t call her a hoe… only I can,” Hiyori smirked, tightening her grip on Miki’s waist. “In bed at least.”
“Hiyori!” Miki giggled, lightly slapping Hiyori’s hand. The two looked at each other lovingly before Hiyori seemed to remember you were currently dealing with a crisis. She turned over to look at you, a frown on her lips.
“Sea Brain, I get it,” Hiyori said, her voice a bit more serious. “Arakawa believed the fake rumors you and Miki did last year to hide that she was lesbian. It sucks, but you just gotta explain that to him. I’m sure he’ll understand.”
“Can’t explain shit to him if he’s blocked me.” You muttered.
Miki frowned, “really? Woah, he really cares about my feelings,” she laughed, stopping quickly when you glared at her. “Ahem, I mean, that can’t be the only reason. Maybe he feels abandoned by you? You stalked him for four years straight and suddenly pay him no attention at all.”
You sigh, rubbing at your face. “I was busy, if I wasn’t I would’ve followed him everywhere. Why doesn’t he get that?”
“Well you didn’t know he was in an accident.”
“What?” Hiyori questioned, her mouth fulled with curry. “Accident?”
You glared at Miki, “what the hell? What do you mean he was in an accident?”
“It was a whole thing,” Miki said, humming softly. She leaned back more into Hiyori’s arms and sighed. “It was in the news—but you don’t pay attention to that, so maybe that’s why you don’t know.”
“What happened?”
“You can search his name and his birthdate. It happened on Christmas Eve of last year. He got into a car accident with his dad and little sister. He was the only one who survived but he could no longer play baseball after that. It was a big deal, he was popular in his college team, people believed he could’ve gone national.
“I pay attention to his school but that’s because I’m an alumni.” Miki said, nodding slightly. “But I would’ve thought you would’ve heard of it. It happened only ten minutes from your apartment. They were.. hm, they were going somewhere, and a drunk trunk driver just hit the car.”
“We must’ve been busy during that day,” Hiyori muttered. She glanced over at you. “It’s okay, you couldn’t have known. Don’t beat yourself about this. Honestly, maybe you should view this as your reason to move on. He technically did reject you.”
You ignored Hiyori’s comment, only focusing on the information Miki told you. His dad and little sister died? Which father? You had stalked Naoki enough to know that he had a step father and a biological father he wasn’t close to at all. He’d often write stuff in his notebook about it, but he had stopped after he supposedly gained a new half sister from his bio father.
Was that them?
All of the past information you knew about Naoki was waking up, filling your head after having to bury it deep inside. You glanced at your phone—now basically dead with Naoki no longer keeping the ringtone alive.
“If he felt abandoned by me…” you whispered, catching Miki’s and Hiyori’s attention. “I just need to show him that I’m here again.”
“And that I’ll never leave him ever again.”
“Jesus. How’d you get a red mark like this?” The makeup artist muttered, shaking her head. She began using some foundation to cover it up.
You didn’t want to explain that after your little declaration last night, Hiyori had slapped the shit out of you. That didn’t shock you too much—the day you had first confessed to Hiyori that you were stalking Naoki she almost beat you up.
It made sense. You understood why she wanted you to stop. And back then, you almost took her words to heart.
It was during your first year of high school. The last day, you were thinking that you would obey Hiyori’s pleas. Why waste time on a kid you hardly knew well? Though you had been getting to know quite a bit, including his family drama.
But Arakawa Naoki must’ve subconsciously knew that you were going to leave him alone. Just as you were leaving after the last day, all of the kids chattering about what their summer vacation plans were.
Naoki had walked over to you, a little grin on his face. He looked shy, holding something behind his back. You almost immediately believed that he must’ve been pranking you or something until he pulled out a small box of chocolates.
His gap tooth was still wide, only now just closing due to the braces he got two months ago. “Here. I wasn’t here on White’s Day..” he had whispered, his eyes looking down. “You normally run away whenever I came close so.. I wanted to try one more time. The chocolates melted and were frozen again so.. they’re probably ugly by now.”
You could only blink, remembering that you couldn’t even say anything. Naoki glanced up and only shook his head. He grabbed your hand and placed the small heart shaped box in your hand. A gasp left your lips, only able to stare as Naoki gave you a smile.
He walked away shortly after that, Nakamura wrapped his arm around his neck. Nakamura glanced back at you and glared, shaking his head as he guided his friend out. You couldn’t even be bothered to care about his weird hatred towards you—all you could think about was tasting the chocolate.
And Naoki was right, they did look ugly.
But they were tasty.
So tasty.
“(Name), did you meet the other model for the shoot?” Hiyori asked, tapping your shoulder right after the makeup artist left. “Don’t get snippy with him—you’ve been acting like someone pissed in your cereal all day.”
You huffed, pushing the memory away. “Mhm. I won’t. Just didn’t sleep well.”
“Does it still hurt? I didn’t think it would… y’know, be that strong.” She muttered, a slight look of embarrassment on her face.
“It doesn’t matter. I’m not angry over it.” You glanced at the mirror, almost amazed at how well the red mark was gone. Your eyes flickered to Hiyori’s through the mirror. “But, you’ll have to get over it—I’m going to get Arakawa-San. You can always report me to the police if you’re really worried.”
Hiyori frowned. “Don’t talk so loudly,” she whispered, leaning in closer. “I… I don’t know how to feel about it. But I won’t say anything unless Arakawa does. If he shows any sense of fear at the sight of you, I’m reporting you, it doesn’t matter if you’re my brother.”
“It’s a deal.”
She looked a bit upset over it but she only nodded, pulling away from you. You had an understanding sister for all things considered. A normal one would’ve reported you back in middle school.
Though there was no guarantee police would even do anything. They are known for their incompetence.
But you understood her thought process.
Not enough to stop though.
“Brother Momoi, Sister Momoi! Come on, you’re the first trio.” The photographer called, earning your attention. You got up and followed Hiyori to the set, seeing the other person who you’d be shooting with.
Hiyori bowed her head slightly, “hello.”
The person, a man with a wide grin and dyed brown hair nodded. “Hi, I’m Yuto! I’ve heard a lot about you guys.” He glanced over at you and hummed. “Momoi-Kun having a permanent frown was true too.”
Hiyori couldn’t help her slight grin, “ah, that’s true… are you a singer?”
“No, model! I just recently started acting.”
You rolled your eyes, deciding to tune them out. All you could think about was Naoki. Was his leg okay? The accident must’ve worsened his leg. Is he enjoying school? What made him choose meteorology. A weather forecaster?
You began to imagine him in a suit and tie, standing in front of a green screen as he talked about weather. Maybe glasses? The suit might be a little tight on him—he’d pull down his tie just a bit, show off his collarbone right as the cameras turned off.
You’d love to grab that tie, pull it and have him gasp at your strength. Whether you rid him or fucked him. Just having him make those same whimpers he made in the video… you’d—
“Enjoying yourself, huh?”
Yuto laughed at your shocked expression, wiggling his eyebrow. “Not judging. I suddenly think about my boyfriend and get horny too.”
“Boyfriend?” You whispered. He confessed so easily, you haven’t been close to another celebrity that had no struggle in expressing their sexuality.
“Mhm. I mean, you’re like me, right?”
“What? Like you?” You stared at him, almost feeling a little nervous.
Yuto blinked. He stared at you and then looked you up and down. His gaze fell back to your face as he blinked once more, a look that was smug but also filled with disbelief.
“Well someone like you is certainly not straight, that’s for sure.”
ཆི❤︎ཆྀ
“I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt to go to a mixer.”
Naoki sighed, scrolling through his phone. He was deleting pictures he had saved of you. Mostly class photos or any photo he managed to take with you. You’d always look so uncomfortable whenever he tried to take selfies with you. Maybe he really was wrong about your feelings towards him.
“Naoki, Nao-Chan, Kiki. Ki-Kun. Nana,” Takumi whined, leaning down to obscure Naoki’s view. He batted his eyelashes and pouted. “Please, pretty please, for me, Nao Nao?”
“Stop calling me that, Mimi.” Naoki rolled his eyes and moved away, deleting a few more pictures.
Takumi sighed, “fine, fine. Stop looking at your phone. My babe is almost here.”
Naoki turned off his phone and grinned. “So this babe is real? I was getting worried that she was a girl from ‘Hong Kong.’”
“Shut up. At least I like normal people.”
“Low blow.” Naoki pretended to wipe a tear from his eye.
“Taku?”
Naoki glanced up to see a boy, a wide grin on his lips, dyed brown hair slicked back, he looked like he came straight from a photoshoot. Wait. Naoki looked back over at Takumi and stared at him a shock.
“You like boys?”
The model practically sprinted over to Takumi and Naoki’s table, immediately grabbing Takumi’s arm—and with surprising strength for his thin frame, tugged Takumi to stand up. Takumi quickly hugged the boy and they both began to giggle and whisper to themselves.
“Wait, I thought you only liked girls!” Naoki whispered-yelled, gaining the couple’s attention.
Takumi pulled away from the hug with a sheepish expression, “I wanted to tell you but the one day I was about to the whole.. y’know happened so I kinda just forgot. Ah, anyway, this is Yuto!”
“Hey!” Yuto grinned. He felt like sunshine personified. Naoki fought the urge to cover his eyes from the shine radiating off him.
“Hey, I’m Naoki.”
A wide grin pulled on Takumi’s face. “He’s the reason we used to be only able to meet on Sundays. That was the only day he had off after he recently got casted in a web series! When does it start airing again, baby?”
“Hm,” Yuto easily moved his hand to rest on Takumi’s hip as if it was second nature to him. “I think, March 14th. So, less than a month from now.”
Takumi and Yuto practically moved like one body as they sat down in the booth across from Naoki. Immediately the pair cuddled up into each other as Takumi passed over the restaurant’s menu.
Naoki didn’t know if he was upset or shocked.
“Ahem,” he coughed, gaining the two’s attention. “So, how’d you meet?”
Yuto grinned. Smiling seemed to be his default expression. “At a BDSM event.”
Takumi began coughing violently, putting down his glass of water. Naoki could only blink.
“He was a newbie and so shy, I was immediately interested. But he was so scared of me at first, like he doesn’t have more muscle than me.”
“Yuto… maybe we should’ve used the sanitized version?” Takumi whispered.
“He’s been your best friend since diapers.” Yuto said, rolling his eyes. “He’s probably heard about your sex life. Anyway, Taku was so shy, that when I brought him to my hotel, he was talking about it was first time being a dom and all that bullshit. Hahahah, anyway I showed him how a true dom acts. Now he’s a great listener, isn’t that right, baby?”
Naoki wished he had lost his hearing in that car crash.
“Can we talk about something else,” Takumi whispered.
“Yeah…” Naoki said in agreement.
Yuto only nodded, seemingly unaware of the twos growing discomfort. “Oh, today I had a photoshoot! I still have the makeup on that the makeup stylist did. It was for promoting a makeup pallet, I think. I kinda forgot, I honestly didn’t care for it. Oh but, I did get to meet some people, building connections, all that jazz. I met Momoi Hiyori.”
Naoki and Takumi immediately glanced at each other.
“Really?” Takumi asked.
“Yeah. And her little brother. He’s so weird. But kinda in a good way? Like I tried to have a conversation with him and it’s like he immediately shut me out. But I was able to wear him down enough to get him to follow my Instagram. I’m meeting Hiyori again next week for drinks. I’ll probably try some more to wear that grump down.”
Naoki hummed, mostly to himself. So you were grumpy and standoffish to everyone. He didn’t think that made him feel any better. If he were to take your words seriously, right before he blocked you, you hadn’t known that it was during the whole situation.
In his heart, he had a glimmer of hope that maybe if you had known it was him, you would’ve been more excited texting him. Would’ve been more eager to text him and not just dryly respond as if he was pulling teeth.
But then he remembers the times he tried to bridge the gap in high school.
He’d be silly to think you really liked him. Maybe you just found him good to look at. But then those gifts? Was it to get him attached? For you to feel some type of glee at having someone like him get attached to you?
No. No he was being bitter now. Despite your terrible attitude—you weren’t that type of person.
Just a cheater apparently.
“Naoki.” Takumi snapped his fingers, causing Naoki to jump.
“You good?” Yuto asked, a slight frown on his lips.
“Mhm, sorry, I was just thinking.”
“Probably of that jerk.” Takumi rolled his eyes.
“Jerk?” Yuto questioned. “Trouble in paradise?”
“There was no paradise.” Naoki frowned. “At least I was the only one who actually cared about our relationship.”
Yuto hummed. “Well, let me take your mind off that. Are you free next week Friday?”
“Why?”
“Well,” Yuto leaned in closer over the table, a smirk on his lips as he rubbed his thumb and index finger together, “wanna earn some money?”
ཆི❤︎ཆྀ
“Hey, have you seen Yuto-Kun’s newest post? It’s cute.” Hiyori said, sitting down beside you on the couch.
“I don’t check social media.” You bluntly answered, the water still dripping from your hair after your shower. Your towel rested on your head—too lazy to properly dry your hair at this point.
“Fine, forgot you just have the manager post for you. Here, here, look.”
Hiyori handed over her phone. You rolled your eyes but grabbed it, looking at what Yuto posted. It looked to be promotion for a music video he was in. You knew the band—One Heart. For their music videos they usually never used themselves, having actors portray the story they’re trying to tell.
“Let me pull up the music video.” Hiyori said, turning on the tv.
You sighed, swiping through the pictures. It looked like the video would take place at a school. High school love probably. Most of the pictures were of BTS shots, selfies Yuto took with the band members or any other actor. Looked like he would be portraying a student due to him wearing a school uniform.
“Ah, apparently the song is the OST for the web series Yuto’s in. Cool, cool. We gotta do our own OST soon, that’ll be so cool.” Hiyori muttered, pressing play on the video.
The video started immediately with an actor you didn’t know, peeking over at a group of girls giggling at their phones.
“He’s so cute.”
“Why is he a weather forecaster?”
“Hey, being a weather forecaster isn’t bad, I’ll get up at 6 am just for him~”
The actor frowned at the girls’ comments, possibly having a crush on them. He pulled out his phone and pulled up the video they were watching. You looked away, already a bit bored. Having storylines in music videos weren’t interesting to you most of the time.
Just get—
“That’s Arakawa!” Hiyori yelled, sitting up.
You immediately stared at the tv and to your shock, it was. He was the weather forecaster. His hair was pushed back with gel, a pair of rectangular glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. A sleek and well fitted dark blue suit. What he was saying couldn’t be heard as the melody of the song began playing.
The music video began playing out with the student actor having an identity crisis—trying different ways to look like Naoki, even going as far as drawing a black dot on his face.
But all you could pay attention to was the short snippets of Naoki. He looked handsome. That half ass selfie you got was nothing to seeing him in video.
Seeing him in person would send you to heaven.
You needed to see him. Quickly.
As soon as the music video ended, Hiyori’s phone beeped. You glanced down and noticed Yuto posted again. It was a video this time, a short snippet from a future BTS video for the song.
The camera was showing Naoki. He was sitting down and had his shoes off, a shy look on his face. Once the person behind the camera seemed to motion they were recording, Naoki grinned.
“Arakawa-San, what’s that metal thing on your foot?”
Yuto appeared beside Naoki, kneeling down to touch the strange device. It was a silver metal encasing that held his left foot. There was a small knob on the right that Naoki reached down and began turning, showing the metal tightening its grip on his foot.
“This is to help me walk with less of a limp.” Naoki explained, gently tapping the metal to show off the sound. “Real metal. A bit expensive.” He giggled nervously, obviously not used to talking to a camera. “It’s slender so I can still wear most shoes.. oh except flip flops or sandals, that’ll be awkward.”
Yuto hummed, “cool. Oh oh, everyone~ Arakawa modeled before, right?” He glanced back at Naoki who began to blush slightly.
“Ah, yea, but it was just sponsorships for my old baseball team.”
“Editor, add pictures!” Yuto giggled, earning a laugh from the camera person. “Everyone follow Arakawa’s IG~ he should reach 10k followers in a week, yea?”
Naoki pouted. “I don’t need followers.”
“Yea yea, just follow him.” The camera person chimed in. Their voice sounded familiar but you couldn’t recognize it. Just as the video was about to end, a photo appeared on the screen.
It was of one of those sponsorships Naoki had.
He looked to be advertising sportswear. He was dressed in a white compression shirt that made his waist look small. Black shorts that were ridden up due to him sitting down. He had a wide grin, his hair messy and wild, with a little dirt on his face.
He was number 12? And a pitcher? You couldn’t remember much about baseball. In all honesty, you never paid attention to him playing. It was one of the things you thought was boring.
But maybe you should make more of an effort now.
Besides…
You glanced down as the video began to replay. Your gaze narrowing at Yuto.
You had a new in to find Arakawa Naoki.
ཆི❤︎ཆྀ
@Naose1224
It’s Teddy’s birthday~ he hates the ocean but wanted sushi as his birthday meal. He’s officially….. 100 years old! ٩(˃̶͈̀௰˂̶͈́)و
His picture showed the teddy bear. And you wondered how you didn’t notice that it was the teddy bear you bought. It was still cute. The fur was still as dark brown as it was when you first saw it.
There was a total of ten photos.
The first was of the teddy bear, a birthday cone resting on its head, almost slipping off. One of the bear’s eye was gone but was sown shut—as if it was brand new. The teddy bear was a bit big in size compared to most. It was resting on a bench in what looked to be a park.
Next it was of Naoki and the teddy bear for a selfie. Naoki’s hair was messy and untamed, looking as if he just woke up. The teddy bear laying on his chest as he gave a peace sign.
Three other photos was just of the sushi Naoki must’ve bought.
You froze at one specific photo. It was Nakamura, the real Nakamura. Nakamura Takumi. The guy who seemed to hate you since middle school. Your classmates had always said he and Naoki could be brothers. And in the photo you almost agreed.
But Naoki was always prettier.
The two of them were what looks to be a karaoke bar, the teddy bear resting on Nakamura’s lap as he pulled at its round ears. Naoki had a wide grin on his face, face flushed. There were multiple bottles on the table.
The last ones were of Yuto and Naoki. Nakamura would occasionally pop his head in. You were about to scroll past when you reached the last photo.
There was a stranger touching Naoki.
The stranger had his arm wrapped around Naoki’s waist, practically pulling him into his lap as he kissed Naoki’s cheek.
You almost passed out at the sight.
You quickly checked the comments.
@baseballlover2002
Nao Nao… why did you post the picture where i have crossed eyes?! Oh god
@Naose1224
It’s fine Taku, Yuto thought it was cute
@Yuto_Kirishima
Soooo cute, Nao Nao~ (^з^)-☆ I wanna eat you up
@baseballlover2002
Why are you calling him that…
@Yuto_Kirishima
Don’t tell me you’re jealous~ it’s a cute nickname
Why is that your username?
@baseballlover2002
I made it when I was like 12, leave me alone
@baseballlover2002
Anyway, Nao, are you gonna text him?
@Naose1224
Him? Probably not, he made fun of Teddy..
@baseballlover2002
Fuck the fucking teddy bear, pls, I’m tired of it!!!
You couldn’t help but smirk. Of course Naoki loved your gift so much. You had spent over three hours in that store back then, almost turning insane as you tried to figure out which teddy bear was the best.
@39730284
I hope I can see you more often, you’re quite fun~
@Naose1224
No promises ⁄(⁄ ⁄ ⁄ω⁄ ⁄ ⁄)⁄ you’re so handsy
@39730284
Only with you, @baseballlover2002 make sure to take him to the after party after the game next weekend
@baseballlover2002
Aye, captain!!
“What the fuck—”
“Momoi-Kun? How’d you get here?”
You flinched, glancing over to see Yuto. He was dressed more laidback compared to the pictures he posted on IG. You quickly stood up—cursing to yourself.
You were currently at the aforementioned party. It wasn’t hard at all to see what restaurant the baseball team were meeting at. So you had come with really no plan in mind on what you’d do when you finally saw Naoki.
There was just something in you that needed to see him.
Yuto hummed, raising an eyebrow. He took in your hat and mask, with your jacket and pants. “Are you friends with anyone on the team? Well, scratch that, you don’t have any.” He laughed slightly. “Why are you here?”
You glared at him. “I didn’t know you were my manager.”
“I’m not but I know her well,” he said, allowing you to fill in the blanks.
You wanted to punt him in the face. “I’m here to see someone.”
“Who?”
“…Arakawa Naoki.”
“Nao Nao?” Yuto asked, speaking about your Naoki as if he knew him for such a long time. “Well, he’s not here. He’s at home—feeling under the weather.”
You perked up at that. “Is he okay? Does he need anything?”
“I dunno. You ask him,” Yuto laughed, shaking his head. “Just go visit him. I texted him earlier, Tak—Nakamura, his friend, dropped off some food.”
“Ok.” You immediately went to leave when you remembered you didn’t know his address. “Uhm, you wouldn’t happen to know his address, right?”
Yuto narrowed his gaze. “You don’t know his address?”
“It’s.. been awhile.” You quickly muttered, “I haven’t been able to visit him since he… moved.”
“Ah. Ok.” Yuto muttered. You felt your body immediately relax just as your phone pinged. “There. That’s his address.”
You were lucky Yuto didn’t ask enough questions. Maybe he should’ve been more careful.
ཆི❤︎ཆྀ
“I don’t think you’re listening to me, is it so hard to literally listen to when I say I don’t care if you’re suddenly a family man. I don’t want you in my life.”
“You’d really say that when your sister is in the car?”
“Like you really care about how a kid feels. You’re not even wearing a seatbelt, you’re smoking in the car as well. Just drop me home, I’m done talking to you.”
“Listen here you little—”
“Why’d you stop in the middle of the road?! There’s a—!”
Naoki sighed, rubbing his hair as he stared blankly at his tv. It was small and aged—but somehow still working like a brand new one. He could remember that night clearly. How his birth father flew out of the window, the sickening crunch of bones.
He wondered if it was good she was sleeping during the ride. At least her death was instant. Because of course that man hadn’t properly secured her in her car seat.
He remembered being feeling his left foot practically crushed, but it was somehow still fine. Remembered managing to push open the heavy door. Collapsing onto the ground as people began to surround the crash. The truck driver somehow okay as he stumbled out of his car, only blood dripping down his face.
No.
What he really remembered was looking up and see your face.
Seeing your advertisement for something. He couldn’t remember. Maybe makeup or jewelry.
He just remembered your eyes staring down at him as he began to laugh. Someone finally feeling brave enough to check on him as others called an ambulance. The person began trying to soothe him as Naoki just laughed and laughed.
Blood dripping down his lips. He hadn’t even noticed the glass shards that were stuck on his arms and face. Everything was just so funny to him at that moment.
He hated you.
He fucking hated you.
Then he began sobbing. Sobbing over many things at that moment. Even delirious he knew he couldn’t play baseball ever again. But he also mourned you.
He had wished you were there, like before, when he had that silly concussion. He needed you.
And yet you were no where to be found.
Maybe it was good he didn’t know you lived in those fancy apartments not even two minutes away from the crash. That you were in a car that drove past the scene. That if you had looked up from your phone, looked right, you’d see your supposed “love” on the street.
“‘Long time no see’? We see each other in class all the time.”
“But you haven’t talked to me in a while. I thought you were avoiding me.”
“I wasn’t avoiding you. There is just no reason to talk to you anymore.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Naoki sighed, instantly feeling pity for the blonde hair student. He placed his empty bowl on his coffee table and turned up the volume of the tv show he was watching. In a way, he felt that way about you a lot.
Maybe you believed you had no reason to think about him anymore.
Well, how could he even be sure that whole diary nonsense was true?
He groaned and shook his head. He was getting a headache thinking about you. When would you leave his thoughts?
Rapid knocks on his door caught his attention as he paused the show. Was Takumi back? Naoki sighed and sat up, using the couch as a leverage. He limped over to the door—pressing his palm against the wall.
It somehow got harder during the night. Maybe he was just tired.
He reached for the door knob, not bothering to check the peephole and opened the door. “Takumi? Did you forget something?”
His was expecting to come face to face with Takumi’s chest, the man being taller than him. But he was met with someone of similar height. He blinked once, twice, before leaning back just a bit to get a proper look of who was at his door.
However that was futile as the stranger immediately rushed into his apartment and engulfed him into a hug. Naoki gripped at the stranger’s waist as a confused grunt left his lips. His lips parted as he tried to form words.
Just who—
The stranger pulled away and despite the hat obscuring half of their face, Naoki got a clear look. He knew you. Not like he could ever forget you now that your face is plastered on advertisements all over Tokyo.
Naoki only stared at you for a moment before his face screwed up in a snarl, his hands sliding up to your shoulders as he shoved you away with a surprising amount of strength.
You flinched away, almost in shock at how he could easily manhandled you. Your cock twitched at the thought.
“Arakawa—”
“—Out.”
“Arakawa-San, let me explain.”
“Get out. How’d you even find my apartment—actually, don’t answer that.” He shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Arakawa-San, please. It was a misunderstanding.” You said, closing the door behind you. Naoki immediately flared up as if he was a dog, now anxious and fidgety. You frowned, having not anticipated he would’ve ever reacted to you like this. “I’m not dating Miki, that’s what you think right?”
Naoki glared at you, moving himself to rest against his wall.
“I’m not, really. Miki is dating my sister but people were beginning to get suspicious, including her family. Miki isn’t ready to come out as a lesbian yet so she asked me to play her fake boyfriend.”
“Okay.” Naoki muttered. You tried to get a better look at him but it was difficult with the only lights in the apartment being from the tv.
Naoki pressed his hand against your chest as soon as you got even an inch closer. “So, what? I was wrong about that. I still don’t want you here. So get out.”
You frowned. “Arakawa… I don’t get it, weren’t we getting close over text?”
“You call that getting close? When I was the one handling the entire conversation?”
“I’m just a dry texter…”
“Then we’re just not compatible then.”
“Not compatible? We haven’t even tried.” You couldn’t help the raise in your tone, your hand slamming against the wall, right near Naoki’s head.
Naoki flinched as he stared at you in shock, his eyes wide. “Are you serious? You leave me alone for two years and now you’re suddenly crawling back?”
“Arakawa-San… please, I was just busy, I’ve always thought about you. I’ve always wanted you. I’ve kept everything in reference to you… and you feel the same, you, you kept that teddy bear I gave you. It was me, I wrote that note for you.”
“I knew that.” Naoki said, not even looking at you. “I’m not an idiot.”
You pulled away slightly, feeling panicked that nothing you were saying was getting through to him. With no other options, you dropped to your knees, ignoring that pain that shot through your body. Your hands gripped Naoki’s right leg as you pressed your forehead against his knee.
“Please, Arakawa-San… I do love you. I do want you… I’m just… I’m just not talkative or any type of friendly person. But my feelings aren’t fake, please, believe me.” You rubbed your face against his pajamas pants, feeling tears prickle your eyes.
Naoki shifted his leg, possibly to get away but that only caused him to accidentally rub against your crotch. A gasp left your throat as you quickly clamped your lips shut.
The air was tense and silent. Naoki’s breath was the only that filled the room. You hadn’t even realized you had effectively stopped breathing.
Naoki suddenly let out a humorless laugh, his foot rubbing against your growing erection. You looked up at him shock. He had a slight smirk on his lips as he reached over and took off your hat, tossing it aside. Now free, his right hand found itself gripping onto your hair.
“Go ahead. It’s probably the only human touch you’ve ever gotten, yeah?”
You didn’t even get to say anything as he rubbed his leg. The fact you were wearing sweatpants didn’t help—barely acting like a barricade to his touch. Your hands tightened its grip on his leg, nails piercing through the thin fabric of his pajamas.
Naoki was silent, even no longer moving his foot as you began to rut against his leg. You bit your bottom lip to hold back any sounds. Your left hand reaching down as you attempted to jerk yourself off. But Naoki’s hand suddenly tightened on your hair, pulling your head back.
“I don’t want to see you masturbate.” He said bluntly. “Get off from my touch—you can touch yourself in your bed.” He loosened his grip and was silent once more. You spared a glance up at him but he was looking to his right, over at the small living room.
You didn’t like that. You reached over and began to roll up Naoki’s pajama pants, showing off his bare thighs. Unlucky for you, it didn’t seem like he was the type to go commando. Naoki flinched at the sudden cool air as he glanced down at you.
Feeling bolder at now having his attention, you pressed a kiss on his inner thigh. You continued to hump his leg, it hardly doing anything to alleviate the pain growing in your cock, now leaking in your boxers.
At the mere thought of ruining Naoki’s ability to wear shorts for a few days, you sunk your teeth into his skin. Naoki gasped, his grip tightening on your hair but he didn’t pull.
“I didn’t say I wanted your filthy mouth on me,” Naoki muttered, “but you never listen do you? You don’t pay attention to anything that I want. To think that I…” he stopped himself, simply sighing.
You stared up at him but made no effort to say anything. You could only focus on marking the blank canvas in front of you. Humping his leg was afterthought at this point. The edge of not cumming was almost a pleasure in of itself.
“Arakawa…” you whispered against his thigh, kissing upward to his inner thigh, sucking the skin.
Naoki’s body flinched as he grazed his foot against your erection, “suddenly, ngh, acting selfless? Just fucking get off and leave. Don’t act like you care.”
You shudder, unable to feel any sort of pain from his words. No, you were only emboldened by his cruelty. And fuck did that say a lot about how you were wired deep inside.
“I only live for you,” you whispered against his skin, a giddy laugh leaving you. It felt so good to say it to him. To finally feel his skin on yours. You were almost worried that this was all a dream. “Fuck me… or I can fuck you? Both’s fine.” The words left you with ease.
Naoki scoffed, “that’s enough. Cum already, I’m bored.” He harshly pressed the ball of his feet against your cock and began to rub. It was painful as you gripped at his thighs, nails digging into his soft flesh. Little droplets of blood began to drip down his thigh.
The red liquid immediately catching your attention as you leaned in and licked it up greedily. Despite the pain, you felt your cock reach its peak as you cummed in your boxers. A groan left your lips.
“Took you long enough.” Naoki muttered, pulling away. He reached down and grabbed your hands, pushing them off his leg. You stared up at him in shock, the clarity taking a moment to settle in.
“Arakawa—”
“—Go. Get out.”
You shakily stood up as you tried to think. But Naoki was giving you no time. He roughly placed your hat back on your head and opened the front door. Before you knew it, he managed to shove you out. You crashed into the railing, grasping the bar as you almost tumbled over.
Naoki flinched, his face shocked as if he didn’t consider his own strength. “You’re so… you need to hit the gym more.” He whispered, moving to walk away. You wondered why he left the door open until he came back holding Teddy.
Your eyes widen as a plea was on the top of your tongue. But he beat you to it, tossing Teddy to your feet. Teddy stared up at you with his one eye, as if he was asking you,
“Why is he throwing me away? After four years?”
“Arakawa—!”
“Stop. You’re driving me insane. I was so cruel to you just now. Have some self respect, we should forget about each other. It’s for the best.”
You stared down at Teddy before shaking your head at Naoki. “I didn’t care. I didn’t stop you. I want you, Arakawa Naoki. The good and the ugly. I’ll make it known that I’ll accept part of you.”
“Then you shouldn’t have pushed me away. I’m done chasing you, Momoi (Name).” Just as he moved to close the door, you got a push of energy to stop it, right before it was fully closed.
“Momoi—”
“—then I’ll chase after you. I’ll make up for all the times you felt unwanted. Because I love you, Arakawa Naoki.”
Naoki didn’t say anything. He simply stared at you as if he didn’t believe a word you had just said.
He slammed the door shut, leaving both you and Teddy in the hallway. The sounds of car horns echoed across the street.
HI BFFL YURIKO! HRU???? I JS WANTED TO SAY HI AND I WANTED TO SHARE MY BRAIN ROT?!:&:&&:&2&; i geniunely have been going crazy over jayce talis and wanted to ask if you’ve watched arcane?!?!?!?!?!!;&/&;8/& :3 HAVR A GREAT DAY
-❄️
HIII!!
AND NO, UNFORTUNATELY I HAVEN'T SEEN ARCANE OR ANYTHING IN THE LoL FRANCHISE 😞 literally so many of my friends have seen it and constantly talk and post about it that it's kind of giving me fomo so I might js watch it soon...
HI BFFL YURIKO‼️‼️‼️ I WANTED TO GREET YOU A HAPPY NEW YEAR (im not sure if its today or tomorrow for your timezone eym sorry☹️) BUT ANYHOW I HOPE U HAVE GOOD FORTUNE THIS YEARRRRRRR!
ANYWAY would you write hitoshi shinsou as a frat guy and reader as someone who is apart of the honor roll for me THANK UUUUUUUUUUU HEARTS HUGS AND KISSES ><
-❄️
HIII TYSM!! AND YES OFCC!!!
⋘ brain-dead 👾 hitoshi s. ⋙
pairing: fratboy!hitoshi shinsou x honorroll!gender neutral reader
summary: two presidents, one game of "seven minutes in heaven", and one very annoying ex boyfriend.
cw: college!au, mentions of alcohol, profanity
wc: 1.5k words
nawt proofread! T-T
'why did I even come to this..?' was the only thought you had in your brain as the sounds of people laughing and talking mix with the edm playing from the incredibly bass booted speakers. you stood in a corner of the ridiculously crowded living room, holding a red solo cup filled with whatever the hell was in that punch bowl. this was one of alpha delta phi's "famous" house parties you always turned down invitations to. you weren't here out of choice though.
you were recently elected class president after tenya iida resigned and took your place as class secretary, and the other members of the student council thought it would be a good idea for the president to explore more of the activities that the student body of U.A. university partook in, and to your misfortune, attending one of these parties was at the top of the list. although you had an aversion to the parties they hosted, you weren't unfamiliar with the fraternity itself.
you had a very public relationship with one of its most popular members, eijiro kirishima in your first year of college. he was attractive, yes, but also incredibly stupid and hyper-focused on his masculinity, which ultimately led him to breaking it off with you because your relationship didn't make him feel "manly enough". whatever that means.
since then, you've avoided relationships and the fraternity all together. but all that avoiding was for nothing seeing as you're standing in the exact same building, on the exact same date your hatred for this organization was born two years ago.
you take a sip of the unknown drink only to immediately spit it out. 'gross.' you head to what seemed like the kitchen and scanned around for a diet coke or something to keep yourself sane for the next two hours you had challenged yourself to stay.
while searching for something actually drinkable, you notice a tall figure in the corner watching you. he held a cigarette in one hand, and a red solo cup in the other, routinely taking a puff of the cigarette or a sip of his drink. as you subtly inch closer, you make out his features. he was tall, but no taller than 5'10, he had messy, wavy indigo hair pulled slightly back in a backwards cap. he wore a black sleeveless shirt and some khaki shorts, typical for a frat boy.
"take a picture, it'll last longer." you say to the figure, pouring a can of soda in a clean cup. he chuckles, taking another puff from his cigarette. he steps closer, coming into the light. he had prominent dark circles under his eyes, made visible by the light. he appeared slim through his shirt, but his arms were muscular and really defined. this must be one of those "sleeper builds" everyone talks about. you continue to examine this strange man when suddenly, he clears his throat.
"now you're staring." he says, slightly smirking. he looks you up and down, analyzing you. "why haven't I seen you before?" he asks, this time throwing his cup in the trash and continuing to take puffs of the cigarette. "I don't normally come to parties." you say, taking a sip of your soda, "I was kinda forced to this one." you explain your situation to him, telling him about your challenge from the student council to stay at the party for at least 3 hours to "mingle" with the student body at this, according to your words, "stupid party". "damn." he says, "class president, huh, you're y/n l/n then, right?" puff. "I've heard a bunch about you, people don't seem to like you very much." puff. "I guess my reputation precedes me." you say, filling up your still half full cup with another can of soda. "on the topic of names," sip. "what's yours? maybe I've heard of you." sip. "hitoshi shinsou." says the purple-haired boy. shit.
unfortunately for you, hitoshi just so happened to be the newly-elected president of the fraternity after the former president graduated your freshman year. hitoshi was also the one in charge of throwing the parties hosted on campus grounds.
"I am so sorry oh my gosh. I promise I don't mean what I said about the party, I-" "It's fine." he chuckles, "I hate parties. I didn't even want to be the one in charge of them, I'd rather be in bed watching tiktok or something." hitoshi said, which sent a huge wave of relief over you. "Is that why you're not out there with the rest of your brothers partying like an animal?" you said, pouring yet another can of soda. he chuckles again, "yeah I'm not really the people type, and besides, all these guys do is just hump on each other and think it's hot." you laughed at this.
it's funny because it's true. come to think of it, the night you met kirishima, the first thing you saw was him twerking on his friend denki. "I wasn't planning on going back out, but I will if you join me." you offer, kind of happy you found someone normal at this stupid thing. "fine." he says, "but, you have to play at least one game with me." puff. "deal." you say, and you both walk to the crowded danger-zone of a living room.
games? did they play games at things like this? you'd always pictured college parties to be a bunch of people groping each other and pouring alcoholic beverages all over the place. it brought you some comfort to know that they played games. monopoly maybe?
you walked into the living room, where a bunch of people were sat down criss cross apple sauce in a big circle. perhaps duck duck goose? no. it was a stupid game with a misleading name. "seven minutes in heaven", bullcrap. it felt like hell. the moment it was your turn to spin the bottle, it just about landed on kirishima. if it weren't for some angelic force that inched the bottle a little over, you would've been seriously screwed. instead, it landed on...hitoshi?
you didn't think that hitoshi would be the type to kiss a random person he'd met, so you were fine being trapped in a room with him for seven minutes. immediately there were "ooohs" and "aaahhs" from the rest of the people in the circle, and your face started to feel hot. hitoshi suddenly grabs your hand and runs upstairs. his hands were cold, slightly bigger than yours, but his grip was firm. he opened the door to a room and locked you both inside it.
the room was nice, there were LED strip lights decorating the tops of the walls. they were purple, like hitoshi's hair, as was most of the decor of the room, so you assumed it was his. you sat down on his bed, analyzing the room. he sat down on a black and purple gaming chair, his arms behind his head, and his eyes closed. "now, we wait." you couldn't help but stare at him, his arms, he really was built.
"take a picture, it'll last longer." he said, eyes still closed. "whatever.." you scoffed, rolling your eyes. you could hear the people outside of the door, giggling and shushing each other, when you heard kirishima tell someone to shut up. your jaw clenched and you felt your face getting hot. it was stupid, just hearing his voice seemed to have such an affect on you, like nothing else mattered, like you were brain-dead. suddenly, an idea popped in your head.
you get up from the bed and race toward hitoshi. "kiss your hand." you whisper. "huh..?" hitoshi asks confused, "are you drunk? I mean you did have a lot of white claws.." he asks. "wait, white claws aren't sodas..?" you ask. "no.." he responds. "just do it." hitoshi begins planting kisses on his palm, still looking at you confusedly. "louder." you say, typing something on a doc on his computer. and he kissed his hand louder, loud enough to where the people outside of the door could hear. the giggling became louder.
you had finally finished writing on his computer and signaled him to look.
"Look, I know we just met, but I have a huge favor I wanna ask, I don't want to actually kiss you, which I'm sure you also don't want to do, but I was wondering if just maybe you could help me get back at my ex?"
hitoshi grins, "sure, what were you thinking-" you shush hitoshi and put his palm back to his lips, starting to type again. you finish typing on his computer again, and wait for him to look. he looks at the screen and pauses, and then a devilish grin paints his face.
the timer goes off and you hear knocks from outside of the door, "okay love birds, you can come out now!" hitoshi grabs your hand again, opening the door. he takes you downstairs to the living room with the crowd still following you. "did you guys actually kiss?" you hear a girl say behind you. "of course we did", he says, "why wouldn't I kiss the person I'm dating?"
.
.
.
a/n: I really hope you enjoy this! I've never really watched mha so I don't know if this is in character for shinsou or not, but I still hope you enjoy! pt.2 maybe?
⊹˚.⋆ synopsis . . . A member of the prominent youtube group “ENHYPEN” accidentally donates a significant amount of money to a very well-known gaming creator sparking rumors and forced collaborations by their managements.
The rumors were true. Ni-ki’s parties were truly one of a kind.
The alcohol buzzed in your mouth as you sipped on the solo red cup in your grasp. Your nose scrunched a little as you swallowed the liquid down. Alcohol was never your forte. Yet here you were. The music boomed loudly in your ears, forming a headache. The energy was suffocating. How couldn’t it be though? This was a Ni-ki party— infamous in their intensity.
The lights were dim and multicolored, LEDs being the only lights in the house. Seductive reds, chaotic greens, and dreamy blues had turned the house into a club. That, along with the alcohol supplied. When you had entered the kitchen earlier on in the night, pushing past the flirting couples and the drink hoggers, there had been a large arrangement of jellow shots, bottles you couldn’t even name, and more red solo cups than you could count.
Everyone was caught up in the revelry, but your mind had been elsewhere for a while. You had done your cameo for Ni-ki’s vlog maybe 30 minutes ago, so you had taken it upon yourself to sit down on the couch and people watch. People you’ve only heard of through various social media platforms littered around the living room playing various drinking games, socializing, etc. However, none of them were of your concern. Only one person was, and he wasn’t even there.
Sipping on your drink once more, your eyes scanned the room for Heeseung. He was supposed to be here, yet he had been absent since the party started. You pushed yourself off the couch with annoyance. You did your cameo, and now you just wanted to hang out with a familiar face who wasn’t the star of the party— surrounded by people. Where was Heeseung?
Going up the stairs of the familiar house, you went to his door. Turning the doorknob, your entrance was rejected. The room was locked. Your fist pounded on the door as you yelled out, “Hee! Let me in!” An annoyed look was displayed upon your face, ready to get away from the scene downstairs.
Thankfully, the door was quick to open, and you smiled at the boy before you. His doe eyes were wide as you pushed past him, sitting upon his bed. It was comfy, and you let out a sigh of relief as you relaxed into the plush blanket laid out on-top of his comforter. “Y/N?” Hee asked as he shut the door. He locked it once more before crossing to sit with you. His eyes traced your appearance, catching sight of the cup in your hand, “Why aren’t you downstairs?” Heeseung smiled cheekily as he said this. He nodded his gaze down to your drink, obviously sensing you were just partying moments prior.
You sipped on your cup teasingly, a smile spread across your lips as you faced him, before replying with a shrug and a plain, “Too much for me. Plus, I wanted to see a familiar face that wasn’t flocked by more people than I can count.” Heeseung chuckled, his nose scrunching cutely, “Fair.”
You bumped your shoulder against his, “You? I was looking for you, you know.”
Heeseung coughed a little in shock. You were looking for him? He couldn’t help the giddy smile that spread across his face before looking away from you towards his gaming set up. “I’m on Fontaine.. I got a little too absorbed.” He said embarrassed, but the way your eyes lit up gave away how his answer seemed to please you. You jumped up and headed to his computer, seeing a shot of Furina speaking to the Traveler.
“It’s the best written region, so I don’t blame you.” You said as you leaned against his chair facing him, now turned away from the computer screen. You had a wide smile, and Heeseung stared at you with a glazed look in his gaze. Just like your streams, there you were smiling so delightfully over this game. Yet you weren’t a computer screen away, and Heeseung wasn’t hidden behind a username. He was here. In front of you. And you didn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, you came to him. Him. Heeseung. Not even y/nsupremacy ever got this pleasure.
Heeseung had followed in your steps as he nodded, and stood in front of you. His eyes traced your face before flickering from your lips to your eyes. Your hair was styled nicely, sticking to your aesthetic but fitting the vibe of the party. It looked so soft. Heeseung couldn’t help the way he leaned in further towards you, almost wanting to plant himself close enough to feel it. Then his eyes drifted, you had two nice necklaces framing your neck. God, was your neck pretty. And your outfit? He always had admired your style, and it was true you always dressed well. Especially now. As his eyes lingered, he spoke softly, “Mhm… You look nice, by the way.”
“Thanks, I probably smell like booze and sweat though. Ruins the whole thing, huh?” You joked, still not the most responsive to his flirtations. It still felt awkward for you, knowing your history, but Heeseung only knew the tip of the iceberg. Since he clearly didn’t remember, you remarked in your head bitterly. Despite, trying to brush it off, it still hurt thinking about the past. You sighed as you glanced from the floor back up to Heeseung. His gaze was scarily intense, and his brows creased in frustration. Noticing you making eye contact with him, Heeseung shook his head as he leaned in, towering over you with an odd expression. “Not at all. Never.”
Your mouth opened to respond, yet nothing came out. Heeseung was usually rather.. awkward or even shy around you. Which made sense. How could he act suave when you very clearly didn’t like him in the slightest? Yet things had changed over the past couple of weeks. You seemed to tolerate him, at bare minimum. Enjoy his presence even. I mean, who calls every night, plays each other’s favorite video games, and stares at each other like that if they didn’t? So maybe that’s why he was behaving like this.
He fixated on you as he waited for you to say… well, anything. Your eyes, you hair, you. Anything to give away whatever was going on inside that head of yours. He frowned a little. Why were you so unresponsive all the time? It frustrated him. The progress gained from you hating him to those small moments between you two where you seem to return even an inkling of his feelings surely meant something, so why were you still keeping him at a distance? What were you hiding? What had you been hiding? Why didn’t you like him?
He closed his eyes as he thought. You came up to his room for a reason, right? The way you’re looking at him has to mean something. Surely, you don’t hate him anymore? Maybe he isn’t delusional. Maybe you wanted this even a little bit. Maybe this isn’t just for clout cause he made that stupid, stupid comment. His eyes flickered back to your lips before licking his own, testing something, “What would you do if I kissed you right now?”
“You— what??” You say shocked as you stumble back a little, yet your back hits against his gaming chair. Your chest heaved slightly as you processed his sudden words. “You’re gonna what?”
“Kiss you.” He said firmly.
“I.. well. I would—“ You paused as you stared back at him with wide eyes. Why was he asking that? You looked off to side before dragging your gaze to his shoes. Quietly, you whispered, “I guess, I would kiss you back.”
Heeseung’s brows furrowed slightly before he leaned down to brush his nose against yours. Not how he expected you to answer. He expected a dumb joke, a diversion, yet you answered him. “Promise?”
Despite the air catching in your lungs, you nodded as your eyes flickered to meet his lips, barely touching yours. “Promise.”
Heeseung smirked a little before sliding his lips against yours before a soft smile spread across his face, his teeth clashing against the soft surface of your lips. He hummed as his dreams came true. Months of fantasizing of feeling your lips finally coming true. The kiss, tentative and hesitant, a soft brush of your lips upon each other, ignited those feelings boxed away. Your hands grasped onto Heeseung’s broad shoulders as you couldn’t help the tears that spilt from your lips. They fell into the kiss, turning the sweet softness of it salty. Heeseung hummed as he tasted your tears, peaking his tongue out against the plush feel of your bottom lip. His eyes fluttered open as his hands caressed your face, “Why are you crying? Did you not like it? Did you not wanting to kiss me? Fuck, y/n.”
More streams poured from your eyes, but you smiled that charming, lopsided grin that made Heeseung’s knees weak. You moved your hands from his shoulders to wipe away your tears embarrassed— just like the first time you had kissed him. He still didn’t remember. Maybe you thought that sense of Deja Vu would hit. Heeseung’s hand, large and warm and cradling your cheek moved up and met yours. He cupped the hand that you had used to wipe your tears before kissing your cheek. “Why are you crying?” He asked again, softly. Begging, almost.
“You don’t remember,” you replied, “I do. I still do, and I always have. I can’t forget it. Even though it was so insanely long ago. I can’t. Yet you can.”
Heeseung held your hand tighter, “What? What did I do? Tell me, please.”
You laughed before glancing up, into those eyes that had taunted you for years. “Middle school, there was that party. You didn’t know me. I was the weird emo kid who played FNAF in the back? Ring a bell?”
Heeseung’s eyes went wide, “I do remember.” His eyes scanned your face, seeking the resemblance. It was your sister’s party. His older brother had been invited, but their parents were out of town, so he dragged Hee along. Heeseung hated it. All these kids he didn’t know, the smell, the noise. He just wanted to go him and play on his computer.
“I.. I had walked into that random room with the FNAF poster, and there you were.” He said breathlessly, “You were watching some anime, and I was so nervous. Yet you patted that spot next to you, and we sat and binged the whole series for like two hours!”
You nodded, “And?”
“And.. and,” he murmured as the pieces clicked in his head. “Our hands touched.”
“Yup, and you looked down, yelled I had cooties and ran away,” you remarked with a bitter laugh. “Then before I even knew it, I was the kid with gay cooties who no one wanted to be friends with in school.”
Heeseung gulped nervously, “I can’t believe I forgot that was you.” His eyes now looked sad and more doe-like than ever. That was you. Weird gay, FNAF kid was you.
You bit your lip before continuing, “I know you weren’t the ones spreading the rumors. I know you probably only told your bother or your friends, but they ended up spreading it. I was bullied relentlessly. It was awful. I ended up moving schools.” You sighed. “And it got worse. I.. I tried apologizing to you for fuck sakes! Remember that?”
Heeseung’s eyes almost popped out of his head. Behind the school. You stood shaking like a little lost puppy, playing with your sweater sleeves as you whimpered out that apology. He didn’t know his friends were there. He didn’t know that they had followed you. Yet they did, and that’s when they snuck on you two. Pushed you. Into Heeseung. And you two had kissed.
“You kissed me.” He said softly as his thumb rubbed your hand comfortingly. It was awful. Your lips were chapped. And the audience was no help. The little boys laughed as you pushed yourself off of Heeseung, and ran away crying. God, it was humiliating.
“Glad you remember now,” you remarked with an awkward chuckle. “Had to retell you my middle school nightmare for you to.”
Heeseung faltered, “So that’s why you hated me.” His brain was wrapping around the information, taking it in word after word.
“After first,” you started, “I didn’t blame you directly, but it was hard. I thought we could’ve been friends. And even though I knew it probably wasn’t you spreading those rumors, I was still wandering about it. That you made everyone hate me even more just cause I accidentally held your hand. I had no friends before then, and it just got worse after that. It’s why I started streaming in the first place— I just wanted friends. Luckily, it worked out after a couple years. Plus, I meet Lix and Chan.”
Heeseung nodded, “And I didn’t even recognize you.” He laughed in disbelief. How didn’t he recognize you? Yeah, you had moved schools, but he never even noticed.
“So when you hit on me about a year ago… I was pissed. I couldn’t help the resentment towards you that had built up. I thought you were doing it on purpose. To humiliate me all over again.” You told him honestly, ignoring the heavy feeling in your heart.
Heeseung immediately shook his head wildly, “No! No! Not at all! I thought you were so cool and beautiful and awesome and—“ Your hand cupped his mouth as you smiled up at him softly, “I know.”
“Now,” you finished with a little eye roll, “Not then. That’s why I avoided you. Hated you, even.”
“Cause of those rumors,” he said understandingly.
“And,” you said awkwardly, “You were kind of my gay awakening. That night in my room? I held your hand on purpose, and it backfired. Then that kiss? I liked it!”
“What?” Heeseung said with a boisterous laugh. “You were my gay awakening. When I found your streams? You changed my brain chemistry. Girls, girls, girls to just you.”
“So, I guess we’re even,” you said awkwardly. The conversation was bound to happen, yet you still hated it. Hated having to admit everything behind why you acted that way you did towards him. Heeseung nodded before he took his hand from your face, and moving it away. Then he hugged you. Strong, comfortingly. He hugged you. “I’m sorry.”
“I know. I’ve known that for a while.” You say teasingly. “I forgave you before I even knew I forgave you.”
Heeseung quirked his brows as he smiled, “What does that mean?”
“I think I always kinda held feelings for you even in my little ‘I hate Heeseung’ era.” You say embarrassed as you lean your forehead into Heeseung’s chest. “Chan and Felix called it.”
“Then you’re right— we’re even,” he said softly as he pressed a kiss to the center of your head. “Cause I’ve had feelings for you even when I felt like you hated me, and I never had a chance.”
“You had a chance,” you snickered. “Obviously, I let you kiss me.”
Heeseung rolled his eyes before tickling your sides, forcing you to burst out of his grasp in a fit of giggles. After pausing his touch against your sides, he ran his fingers through his hair, pushing his bangs back away from his forehead. “You did not make it obvious!”
“That’s cause you didn’t see my private Twitter!” You exclaimed with a joyous laugh. “Felix and Chan were dogging on me for them!”
Heeseung wrapped his arms back around you, “I’ll have to ask them about it sometime then.”
You huffed before letting yourself melt into his hold. It felt nice. Nice to admit your feelings. Nice to bury the past. Nice to be here. To be his.
“Does this mean I can hard launch us?” You said mischievously.
“Yeah.” Heeseung laughed before kissing you once again. With a joy that surged from his body to yours. You smiled harder than ever before backing away, “And I’ll let you meet my cats.”
“Yes!”
prev || masterlist || this is the end :). thank you for reading!!
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