#get it because a group of crows is called a murder

[grphicghoul]

a murder

[getouyuri]

like he got a collar on, imma always know where my dog at!

pairing — oyabun!gojo x secretary!reader

summary — your husband, the terrifying oyabun of the gojo-gumi, is as loyal as dog— and as bad as a pent-up border collie that’s been left home alone for too long and turned to destruction as a means of getting attention. after purchasing satoru a collar (that he’s always eager to wear), you put him on a brief sex ban to weed out any and all of his bad behavior. after all, only good puppies deserve treats— right?

content & warnings — MDNI 18+, fem!reader, normal modern au, yakuza au, humor, smut, fluff, pet names, gojo and reader are married, whipped gojo, like absolute wife guy gojo, gojo is actually insane, mentions of murder and violence, submissive top gojo, sub!gojo, implied subspace, dom!reader, femdom, domestic & non-sexual domination, mommy kink, pet play / puppy play, dry humping, the tiniest sliver of foot action but not much cos I’m #not about that life, overstimulation, handjobs

author’s note — had to satiate the demon in me by writing this cos collaring gojo is my weakness 🙇🏽‍♀️ don’t let the summary and tags fool you this is somehow very fluffy and funny for the most part LMAO… until it gets freakay 🙂‍↕️ this is not necessary to read, but if you want a little more background on this au, you can find info here. enjoy 🫶🏽. full masterlist here.

writing © getouyuri. fanart © artofzolaida. dividers © sister-lucifer. wc: 21k.

It starts as a drunken dig.

“You need to be tossed into a cage and locked up like a dog, Satoru.”

You can hear the way Suguru chokes around the tapioca that barrels down his throat. The oyabun of the Sutoraifu-gumi hacks his lungs up into a tissue that was discarded alongside their takeout, eyes watering, while Shoko looks torn between laughing at him and rubbing her temples over the depravity that just came out of her girlfriend’s mouth.

The stripper in question blinks, slow and innocent-like, like a cat that’s wondering why the mouse trapped beneath its paws stopped squirming and putting up a fight. On the other side of her, Suguru’s spouse groans at the direction that this conversation is sure to head in.

Stretching his long legs out on the massive couch with the carefree air of a man who owns the world, Satoru casts his attacker a sardonic smile. “A cage couldn’t contain all this man,” he crows, patting his chest as if he’s hot shit.

“Ew,” Shoko mutters.

Her girlfriend wrinkles her nose, equally as unimpressed. “Better yet, you should be collared. Maybe that’d get you to knock it off and shut you up, Fido.”

“Why on earth are we having this conversation?” Suguru gets out now that he’s not actively dying.

Everyone ignores him.

"If my wife wanted to do that, then sure. Cuffs, a goddamn straightjacket, a collar— I’d wear it all loud and proud for her.” Satoru glances up at you and wiggles his eyebrows. You pinch his cheek, a silent ‘hush,’ but you don’t contribute anything to the rapidly devolving conversation.

The three stooges (Satoru, Suguru, and Shoko) that have been friends since they were wearing light-up Sketchers and trading gachapon toys get together whenever Suguru travels to Tokyo for his monthly arms deals with Satoru, their respective partners typically included, for a weekend of tomfoolery. One time you nearly got arrested. Another time, the group got beyond faded and engaged in a lethal game of dare or dare (no truths were involved). It ended up with Shoko’s girlfriend taking up Satoru on his dare to get her nipples pierced and Satoru in the hospital after you tried to ride Suguru’s spouse’s motorcycle and ran over his foot.

More often than not, Shoko gets sloshed, the biker at Suguru’s side joining in and then calling their sister, Yuki, to drunkenly blubber that they miss her, and them all piling into the Gojo estate for a movie marathon. From there, it’s inevitable that someone gets tried at the stake.

Apparently, Satoru is today’s target— purely because he’s lying on his stomach and so shamelessly nestling his head into the divot of your thighs, pressing his lips there as if considering dragging them higher, arms wound around your middle and hands occasionally groping at your ass in front of all your mutual friends like the dog that he is. He has no qualms with feeling you up despite the eyes on you, getting a kick out of stepping over the line of propriety and showing that you're his and he’s yours all in the same breath.

That, and he just likes smothering you. Even though it’s a little embarrassing, he’s too cute to tell off and send to the pound like Shoko’s girlfriend thinks he (rightfully) deserves.

Long after everyone rags on Satoru— “what the hell, I don’t bark, Suguru. Baby, defend me!” He whined at some point, equal parts petulant and confident that you’d back him up, to which you muttered, “must’ve been the wind,” and turned the TV volume up— you and Satoru retire to your master bedroom. Shoko and her girl flounced off to the nearest guest room to ‘sleep’ (make out), while Suguru let his partner drag him out of the Gojo estate for a few more hours of fun with a cunning grin.

Satoru’s in the bathroom, so you’re indulging in a quiet moment and wiping your makeup off at the vanity, half of your attention on your face and the other half on the tab pulled up on your iPad. You’re quietly browsing through a website, trying to find something that’ll stick.

You can hear the pad of your husband’s socked feet against the carpet right behind you as he saunters over. Before you can slap your hand over your tablet and throw it aside so hard in a fit of panic that it cracks, he’s nosily peeking over your shoulder and reaching out to tap at the screen so that it doesn’t darken. “Oh? What’s this?” Satoru murmurs in your ear, making you shiver despite yourself.

You hope a plane hits the Gojo estate and takes you out for good.

A wide selection of collars and leashes greets both of your gazes. There’s different style of leashes— chained, slip leads that require no collars, bungee-corded leashes— and collars, ranging from classic leather collars to strict posture collars with other bondage elements attached to them (Satoru stares at the one with nipple clamps for far too long). There’s even an option for customizable tags to slide onto the o-rings of the collars. The whole nine yards.

Any and all thoughts of his fly out of the window.

You clear your throat, not so calmly plucking up your iPad and pressing it to your chest. “I’m just looking at these. For science,” you say, like a liar, with a killer poker face keeping your dignity intact.

Satoru doesn’t miss the filled in bookmark on the corner of the page.

“Okay,” he drops it way too easily. Suspiciously so. He points out a diamond-studded leather collar that you definitely weren’t eyeing the most before he swooped in. “That one is pretty. Objectively so.”

“Agreed.”

You’re beyond embarrassed, a shameful heat pooling in your face and leaving you lightheaded. The air is so thick with tension that you begin wondering if there’s a gas leak that’s about to make you start asphyxiating until Satoru abruptly hefts you up and away from the vanity to toss you over his shoulder, making you yelp.

“Let’s fuck,” Satoru says with a little waver to his voice.

“Aht aht, try again.”

“Can we pleaaaase fuck?” He simpers, smacking your ass and earning him a pounded fist against his back.

“Yeah, sure.”

Thank god you didn’t question why he was already harder than a rock when he lowered you to your comfy shared bed, crawling over you to kiss you silly and lazily grind down against you. His cock started filling out in his pants the second he thought of wearing one of those collars, letting you parade him around and show off your pretty puppy before dragging him forward to demand that he buries his face between your thighs.

Neither of you stop to properly talk about The Incident (read: your moment of weakness), but you both sure as hell bring up the subject of collars like your lives depend on it.

When Satoru’s pacing his office at the Gojo-gumi headquarters while you lean against the door, listening to him rave on and on about packing a bunch big enough to put Ryomen, his rival, in the dirt: “Stop barking about him.” “Collar me and I will.”

Other times, he’s bounding off to chase his newest fixation— like his favorite bakery releasing a new line of pumpkin kikufuku to hail in the start of autumn: “Don’t go too far or I’ll have to leash you!” “Ooh, promise?”

It’s safer this way— juggling the idea of it disguised as a joke, pushing and poking at each other with little quips to read the other’s reaction. Just to make sure that there’s no disgust there. No aversion to the topic that shall not be named.

Admittedly, maybe you should’ve had a sit-down with Satoru to negotiate the realms of collars and kinks instead of muttering ‘fuck it,’ impulsively purchasing a collar, and having it delivered to the Gojo-gumi headquarters so that Satoru won’t see it at home and tear into the package before you can get to it, because what’s yours is his and vice versa. You and Satoru aren’t exactly new to freaky shit, having dabbled one too many times in shibari, sex toys like vibrators and strap-ons, food play, spanking (his skin tingles whenever he sees the flogger), the list goes on. You’re always down to try new things with him.

But collars? For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to bite the bullet and flat-out admit to wanting to see him wear one. It’s too embarrassing. Too real. So you stuff the brand spanking new collar, leash, and its matching baggie into your purse, press it tight to your abdomen the entire ride home after work while Satoru chatters at your side, and try to sneak it beneath your bed. To hide it there forever and never look at it again.

Too bad that Satoru catches you.

“Not that I’m complaining, because really, I’m enjoying the view,” he muses behind you, and you’re instantly freezing up, shoulders hiked up to your ears, “but why are you on the floor with your ass in the air?”

“I dropped one of my rings,” you say, popping right back up and brushing your dress down with rigid hands. You side-step in front of the bag pushed halfway under the bed and glance at him. He’s lingering in the doorway, suit jacket slung over one shoulder and his eyebrows slanted upwards in question. Satoru blinks his big blue eyes at you. “I got it, though.”

“That doesn’t really look like a ring, though,” he points out, exaggeratedly leaning to the side to flicker his gaze down to your spoils. “Is that an early birthday present or something? That’s a shitty hiding place. No offense.”

“No, it’s—“ you grumble out a frustrated noise and ruffle your hand through your hair, pursing your lips and weighing the pros and cons of… well, everything. “Can we sit down and talk?”

If he’s thrown off by the serious tone you suddenly take, he doesn’t show it. “Sure thing, sugar.”

Satoru fully slinks into the room as you quickly bend down to snatch the bag back up and perch yourself on the edge of the bed. Before you can even ask, he’s kneeling at your feet, cushioning his chin in the divot between your thighs and soothingly rubbing your calves.

He's close enough that he could push himself further up on his knees and easily feel the warmth of your breath on his skin, your mouth against his, and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to close the distance.

Instead, he waits, head pillowed on your lap and his heart pounding in his chest as he stares deep into your brilliant eyes, searching for any sign of what you’re thinking, then at the little gift bag perched further up your lap, pressed lightly to your stomach. He knows you well enough to know that you’ve got something up your sleeve, some clever scheme plan that you’re just dying to put into action despite your apparent apprehension.

Satoru’s always been a sucker for your brand of trouble, and he has a feeling that this time is going to be no less exciting.

"Well?" he prompts, rhythmically tapping the sides of your calves. "Stop staring at me— I know I’m gorgeous, really— and just get to your point.”

“You and your bigass head,” you mutter, but you don’t deny his claim.

Looking for all the world like you’re about to set off a bomb and then dart off, you finally address the elephant in the room. You hold open the bag in his direction. “Just grab it.”

Satoru obliges. He reaches his hand in and startles when his fingers brush against something leathery. He pulls it out and inhales sharply.

It’s a beautiful black collar with six genuine diamonds the color of his eyes that wink in the light when Satoru turns it over in his hands. The diamonds are small enough that it isn’t overly gaudy and flashy, but it’s still more intricate than most run-of-the-mill collars. A similarly blue, frilly bow sits at what he assumes is the front of the collar and there’s a small ring that dangles just underneath it, a matching black leash already clipped to it.

The exact one that he pointed out on the website that you were browsing. He never in a million years thought you would actually go ahead and buy it.

Satoru rubs his thumb along the outside of the collar before tugging at it gently, testing the stretch, then changes his grip so he can feel the inside. It’s soft and almost velvety, clearly tailored to avoid chafing— it’s almost an exact replica of the material of the sheets on yours and his bed, which he’s very particular about.

His mouth and throat suddenly run dry, his body an hourglass full of sand that’s just been tilted. Swallowing does nothing to remedy it.

He feels— he doesn’t know what he feels. He doesn’t think there’s even a word for this.

Satoru thinks he senses a hint of nervousness in the sideways glance you direct at the wall, a far cry from your usual assured intensity. You crumple the bag up and set it to the side and your hands tightly curl in your lap when you finally look at him again. “What do you think?”

By the look in your eyes, you have something to say. Maybe you’re about to take it back, laugh it off and say, ‘late April fools prank, ignore me,’ but he jumps to speak before you can. “You know I’m far from opposed.”

And truly, he isn’t. Collars are something you had discussed before, but with how it kept getting brought up time and time again with nothing to actually come of it, he had considered the idea scrapped. That hadn’t stopped Satoru from thinking about it, though.

There was a certain appeal in his wife’s hands around his throat, a gentle one-hand hold when he’s being a nuisance to tug him down to your level before you kiss away his quips or fix his hair, a bruising two-handed one when you’re bodily pinning him down and riding him, but a collar…

“What do you think?” Satoru asks, eyeing you carefully and trying to gauge what you’re feeling.

“I think it’s lovely,” you offer, finally unclenching your fingers and reaching down to stroke over the shell of his ear. Those same ticklish fingers slide down and skim the side of his neck as if mapping out the placement of the collar. You’re smiling a little. “It’d be even lovelier around your neck, should you want it there.”

It’s the push he needs. Satoru rolls it over in his hands again, tests its weight one more time. He exhales the deep breath he took. “Okay, then what are you waiting for, slowpoke? Are you gonna put it on me or not?”

You huff out a laugh and roll your eyes but you gently pull the collar from him. Satoru stretches his neck out, total trust and anticipation making his mind slow to a crawl. His pulse settles comfortably beneath the skin of his jaw.

He stays perfectly still as you fit its front against his neck, centering the bow at his throat. You tug the collar and leash over his shoulders before pulling the collar snug around his nape, where his hair curls damply from the sweat budding on his skin.

The metal buckle clicks closed and something molten instantly loosens at the base of Satoru’s skull, dripping down his spine and pooling warm and intense into his hips. With your hands still on his neck, smoothing down the collar, fussily slipping beneath it and testing its tightness, he expects to get overwhelmed under all the stimulation as he adjusts to the foreign feeling of the thin lining of leather gently digging into his throat while the velvet cradles his trachea, but your warmth helps him relax impossibly further.

Satoru doesn’t realize his head is drooping until you cup his face and guide him upwards, thumbs smoothing crescents into the silk of his cheeks. It’s enough to slowly pull him back to earth, leaving its foggy skies behind.

You look oddly charmed, with your eyes syrupy-sweet and crinkling around the edges. “You alright there?”

“Duh.” Satoru is surprised when his voice comes out a broken rasp and he swallows. He can’t even blame it on the restriction of the collar, considering it’s far from tight around his neck. It’s better than he expected. The weight of it is solid and comforting, a weighted blanket, a physical reminder that he’s, in plain words, safe; at ease at your mercy.

(Yours, his traitorous mind whispers. Yours.)

You brighten. “Good. How does it feel?”

“It’s comfy,” Satoru says slowly, the words sleep-soft as if he’s stirring from a dream. He reaches up and rubs over the studded rhinestones. Nothing else comes out of his mouth.

“I’m glad,” you murmur, sounding pleasantly relieved. You push at the back of his neck, finally helping his head continue its orbit to your knees, which he rubs his cheek against like a needy puppy.

There’s a moment where there’s nothing but the sound of you both breathing as one. Eyes burn into his neck, into the collar. Slender fingers scratch at his scalp. Cool velvet slides against his throat when he swallows again. Satoru soaks it all in and categorizes each feeling to somewhat ground himself. A pleasant warmth threatens to pull him into the cloudy recesses of his mind again but he doesn’t allow the mental strings that tether him to the ground to snap.

He feels calm and centered, grounded in a way that he rarely is. It's a strange sensation, but not an unwelcome one. It reminds him of all the times he’s surrendered all control to you.

He can’t let himself idle for too long, though. Desire claws tally marks into Satoru’s rib cage, fiercely scrabbling at the inner layers of his being, trying to escape while he sits prone. He fidgets, drags his cheek against your knee one more time, and blinks up at you with a flutter of his dove-feather lashes. You stare back, admiring the collar hugging his neck.

“I think I could get used to wearing this all the time, sugar. Might have to start a trend in the office,” Satoru chuckles.

“It’s new,” you contribute absentmindedly, oddly spacey.

"Though I'm not sure the others would appreciate seeing their boss prancing around like a puppy on a leash. Might give them the right idea about what goes on behind closed doors,” he continues. A hum is the only acknowledgement he gets from you.

“Fuck,” you whisper abruptly, rubbing your mouth. “This was such a bad idea.”

“What? Why?” He asks, startled.

“I’m so fucking horny.”

(Yet you don’t ask him to do anything about it. That should’ve been the first sign— maybe if he had paid a little more attention, he wouldn’t end up in a future mess.)

“Oh. Ohhh,” Satoru switches tracks so fast that it gives both of you whiplash, the confused lilt of his voice dipping into a rumbly purr. He teeters forward, hands creeping up to curl around your calves. He licks his lips and you intently track the movement with dilated pupils. “Mommy’s got a pretty puppy, doesn’t she?”

For the first time in the years that he’s known you, you go stock still as if you don’t know what to do with yourself.

Interesting.

Keeping a hold on your calves, he gives a deliberate lick to your inner thigh, inching dangerously close to the hem of your skirt and the fine line of the finish line, where the referee blows his whistle and waves his flag. The muscle beneath your skin flinches and he hides a private grin. Poking at the bear a bit just to get a reaction out of you is dangerous, because touching you without express permission is a good way to get his fingers slapped or his cock ignored.

But he can't help himself. He's more than willing to toe the edge of your patience if it means getting even a fraction of your attention, good or bad.

Saliva curls thick and wet on his tongue, his entire being salivating with need as he noses his way further up your thigh. His gums itch, his teeth ache. He wants to bite into the ripe fruit of you, knowing well that you’ll bite back harder.

Then you steel yourself, pressing your palm against his forehead to halt him before he can go any further. “Without a doubt.” The clench of your jaw seals his imminent demise. Your next words crush him. “But I don’t like greedy puppies that think they’re entitled to whatever they want. This isn’t an all you can eat buffet.”

No. No, no, no, no. He was so close.

"Well, I don't like wives that tease," Satoru retorts, his voice low and rough with barely contained desire. Despite his words, there's no real complaint in his tone. If anything, the husky rasp only serves to underscore his arousal.

“This isn’t teasing. This is for your own good,” you say with a graveness that’s almost laughable in this situation. Keyword: almost, because he knows that if he laughed, you’d actually get annoyed. Your lips are pursed into something dangerous as you stare down at him and the collar wrapped snugly around his neck, a tangible symbol of his submission.

“If it was for my own good, you’d let me hit so that I don’t wither away and die. Or let me eat your pussy until you’re creaming on my tongue. I’d take whatever you’d give me.”

“Am I hearing that you’d be alright with receiving nothing?”

“No, that just means you need to get your ears checked,” Satoru grumbles.

“Satoru.” Your eyes cut into him in warning, voice just as sharp.

Satoru’s blue eyes round out in mock innocence, his glossy bottom lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. A theatrical sigh escapes him, sensing the oncoming scolding (which he probably won’t take seriously, considering he’s slowly getting hard at the thought of you chastising him. Honestly, he doesn’t even understand how the fuck this situation spiraled so fast or why you’re acting like this) as he rocks back on his heels. "Aww, c'mon, I was just joking around,” Satoru wheedles, taking on a bratty tone and batting his long white eyelashes.

You ignore him and he blows out a breath, making his bangs flutter. "Lemme eat you out, make you feel better,” Satoru proposes, squishing his mouth into your skin and peeking up at you.

“Why?”

“… so that you can forgive me and stop looking at me like I’m roadkill?” He’s all too proud when he speaks, clearly thinking he’s onto something. His sassy ‘duh’ goes unspoken but heard.

He looks beyond affronted when you openly snort in his face. “Your idea of making it up to me benefits both of us, not just me. That’s a reward for you— and the only way disobedient dogs learn is with punishment. Incentive in order to stop horsing around.”

Satoru’s mouth nearly drops open. ‘Big guns, big guns,’ he thinks frantically, reaching for your hands and pressing placating little kisses to your knuckles in worship.

"I'm sorry, angel. I didn't mean any disrespect. I just wanna make you feel good. Can you blame me? Look, I’ll do whatever you want—“

“Bribery won’t work on me,” you grouse.

“Bribery works on everyone, actually,” Satoru sasses back because he can’t help himself. The audacity… “A little cash here, a few flowery promises there… I could make the world spin in the opposite direction in exchange for nothing if I played my cards right.”

“You’re missing the point. More like purposely avoiding it, actually. Behave. Or I’ll make you.”

“Get on with it then.”

Those are fighting words if you’ve ever heard them.

Wrong answer, forehead.

You unclip the leash and place it on the bed, standing and forcing him to rear back a fraction so that your knee doesn’t sock his nose. The illusion of free rein lies in the lack of a lead dragging him along behind you, but curiously, he doesn’t take it. Satoru cranes his neck to watch you walk to the doorway of their room.

“No sex until I say so,” you instruct, slowly stringing out your words like putty to get it through his head.

He feels like a dog that got smacked with a newspaper for pissing on the couch.

“Holy fuck. This was such a bad idea,” he repeats your words from earlier, equally as horrified.

You tut at him, unimpressed, and turn to glance at him over your shoulder. “Yes or no?”

Satoru looks at you stupidly. His eyes are gently fogged over, his lips all wet and cherry red from biting them. “What?”

“Can you be a good boy and wait for my recall? Or do we need to settle this in another way?” Your voice is sweet and stickier than honey, yet loaded with a sharp undertone that makes it clear you’re not to be trifled with.

He huffs under his breath. His plans of getting his dick milked switch tracks so fast that it should give him whiplash, because now? You’re the ringmaster of this circus, and he’s the unlucky sucker that got picked from the crowd and fell into your game of cock and ball torture.

“Whatever my wife wants, my wife gets.”

Things are normal despite the abstinence that sits like an elephant in the room.

Since you don’t like relying on a personal chef, you whip up storms in the kitchen. You lightly whack at his wrist with a wooden spoon when he tries to sneak a bite of whatever treat you've made.

You’ve been cooking more than usual ever since you bought him that collar. You can say it’s because the work makes you feel accomplished all you want as you chop away at vegetables with that concentrated furrow of your brows that he rubs away with his thumb, but you both know it’s because you enjoy the sense of control it gives you.

It’s not that you want to own him so completely that he becomes a mindless husk of a man with no will of his own. You have no desire to take away Satoru’s autonomy, no matter how much you enjoy molding him into pliancy as if his blood and bones are clay. You respect him and admire his strong resilience that he’s shown time and time again too much to break him down entirely. And he knows that you know that he would do anything for you, anything at all.

He's used to your dominance, craves it even, but there's something different about it when it’s this domestic. Softer. Warmer. It makes his stomach clench with a burning, heavy affection. He likes it when his brain goes all quiet and you smile at him as you take away all the choices he has in certain matters so that, blissfully, he doesn't have to think.

So Satoru lets you cook for him. He’s a good customer that always clears his plate with gusto and asks for seconds, which you dish out for him with an all too-pleased smile, finding comfort in being the one to feed him balanced meals.

It’s made all the more better when he secures his collar around his neck. You tease him when he enters the kitchen with it on, saying good puppies eat on the floor instead of at the table, and you yelp out a laugh when he gets on the tile and shoves his face in your clothed pussy while you’re standing at the stove. Satoru’ll kneel again for shits and giggles when you set the table with dishes filled to the brim and silverware, rubbing his face against your knee, facetiously pleading with you to feed him until you shut him up with a forkful because you can’t help but indulge this freak and his whims.

You still watch shitty reality shows together, Satoru’s head on your lap or boobs the entire time, and cuss out the people projected onto their massive mounted flatscreen. He jokes and you hit him back with a quip equally as witty that has him falling out. You brush your teeth side by side and wash your faces together before catching a ride to the Gojo-gumi headquarters.

The collar makes appearances for those occasions from time to time— sometimes for bits that are all theatrical play to coax giggles out of you, sometimes because it’s comforting for him. Simple as that. It’s made all the more better when you lavish him with extra attention for it as if he’s your beloved pet.

But whenever you bend that ass over to root through your shared drawers to find your favorite clothes for date nights or suck takoyaki that he buys for you off of the stick (he sooo wishes that that was his dick), Satoru is forcibly reminded that he cannot, in fact, crawl to you on all fours and act like your puppy that’s desperate for attention (and pussy).

You truly don’t mean to make him wait long, but putting the pedal to the metal when messing with him draws out the week that much slower. You’re testing the boundaries of the submission that comes with his collar and this ban with a curious intent, gauging how quickly his timer ticks down for you. It all happens at your leisure even though you’re burning for him as blisteringly as he does you.

The wick of your candle is licking hotly at the wax beneath you, melting you down until you’re weak in the knees for his clever mouth and his cock that fills you so nicely— a glass that’s no longer half empty, but topped to the rim.

Unsurprisingly, he breaks before you do. And on day four of the ban, no less.

You’re both winding down after a long day of business with a side of pleasure. Gambling is highly illegal in Japan, but absolutely no one is gonna contact the authorities and go, “hey, just wanted to let you know that that blue-eyed freak of an oyabun— yeah, the Gojo-gumi one— has been playing back room poker with a handful of politicians for years. Oh, how do I know about all of that? I just heard about it from a friend.”

That’d warrant a death sentence from him.

The politicians gather in one of the side rooms at the Gojo-gumi’s headquarters in Tokyo every few months for the thrill of skirting the edge of illegality over high-quality drinks and to play into his whims— they know that it's in their best interests to keep the backbone of the Gojo-gumi happy. To let Satoru push for bills and policies that benefit him, his men, and the city that he calls home, further shielding his large criminal enterprise from the government.

He enjoys the power play of it all, holding all the cards in the palm of his hand (literally and figuratively) and observing how they scurry about like animals in a maze, desperate to please him. One wrong move, and woops, all that financial incentive he offered them is somehow gone, talks of drugs (that his men planted) in their possession falling into the hands of the media, they oh so suddenly fall into debt and ruin, and Choso is knocking at their doors like the grim reaper to collect the Gojo-gumi’s dues.

Though his nose wrinkles every single time as if he's caught a whiff of something foul— and it’s not the smoke from the pipes the guys puff that makes him want to gag, but the interminable boredom of being surrounded by political dogs— he always quells his frustrations by letting his attention stray to you if you happen to attend alongside him.

This time around, you were perched on his lap like the paragon of victory the entire evening, temptation itself in a satin dress with a tasteful slit up the side that a few men dared to take a peek at before flinching beneath Satoru’s nasty glare. There’s a certain level of amusement he gets out of showing off his wife to jealous onlookers that tend to marvel at the powerful couple, but his threshold for it in all actuality is very, very low. Hence why he kept his left hand either flat on your navel to keep your back pressed to his chest or skimming at the ends of your hair, twirling strands into lazy coils, and his chin on your shoulder the entire time.

(And tried really, really hard to resist the urge to grind against your ass.)

To the room, you always look like a disinterested observer, smiling when need be at frankly awful jokes and staring boredly at the velvet-topped table. But, cloaked by the pleasing ‘fhhwip’ of cards being dealt, chips clattering as they’re gathered up, and the hum of conversation laced with alcohol are your words that you feed into Satoru’s ear.

You keenly observe each and every hand dealt from your lofty throne, playing the game as a false bystander. You suss out each guilty or too-eager bodily cue with a sharpness that could cut through bedrock, aiding Satoru like Nike did Zeus. It’s scary how efficient you are as a team.

"Lucky for me, I've got a beautiful lucky charm with me tonight," Satoru claimed every time he swept up his winnings (much to the dismay of the groaning politicians), mouthing ‘love you’ or ‘my sexy cunning wifey’ whenever you’d glance at him over your shoulder with a smirk, his cerulean eyes swimming with open adoration beneath his polished veneer of arrogant self-importance.

You’re still in your dress when Satoru steps out of the en-suite bathroom back at the Gojo estate. Your back is to him as you sprawl out on your side, the faint glow of a screen spilling over your body. He sidles up to his side of the bed.

With the dramatism of a tragic hero from a beloved shoujo manga, or maybe a child who was just told he can't have candy before dinner (which is fitting considering his maturity level seems to plummet in the face of sexual frustration), Satoru flops back onto the bed behind you and makes you bounce atop the mattress. The only thing missing is the melodramatic rain lashing at his form and soaking him down to the bone, making his clothes cling wetly to every ridge of his lean muscle, drawing attention to his big… heart.

When he peeks over you shoulder at your screen and sees the documents pulled up on your phone, he mentally sighs. You’re such a workaholic.

“Read to me,” he requests with an abrupt softness, his usual vibrancy hushed in the wake of your peacefulness that he doesn’t want to disturb too much. “Please.”

“It’s all boring stuff that you probably don’t wanna hear,” you admit in an attempt to spare him from the horrors of work.

Shaking his head, he burrows his face into its favorite home, your nape, and cuddles up to your back. Satoru boxes you into him with an arm slung over your waist like a puzzle falling into place.

“Don’t care,” he replies, voice muffled. “I just wanna hear your voice.”

On any other day, you’d attribute this request of his to unrelenting boredom. There’s times where your husband buzzes around with a manic energy that you swear makes his white hair crackle and stand on end if touched by static, unable to mentally settle enough to let his guard drop. Watching movies, going on spontaneous outings, or, more recently, busting out the collar are all tried and true methods that work wonders.

In the here and now, though, there’s no boredom that needs to be filled with a quota. Satoru just wants to hear your voice even though he could read it faster than you speak aloud.

You oblige. You end up reaching behind you to scratch at his undercut, the hairs there short and satisfyingly fuzzy from being recently shorn, while you relay the words on your phone screen to him.

Satoru’s lulled into silence for a while. The only signs that he’s awake and listening are his steady breaths against your skin and his fingers that draw swirling patterns against your stomach, his inviting hums whenever you pause for a beat too long. He doesn’t know how long you both lie there as you read, but what he does know is that he never wants to leave this bubble.

Your voice makes Satoru feel… small, in a way. Safe, carefully filed away in a place under lock and key where no one wants to hurt him.

It also makes him stupidly horny.

From where he’s pressed up behind you, Satoru’s hips start to slowly press into your backside with an interest a little too intense to be innocent. You can feel the start of the swell of his third fucking leg that’s begging to make an appearance. It’s impossible to ignore.

Clearly, someone thinks that he’s slick, conveniently ‘forgetting’ about your ‘no sex’ rule in hopes that you already have. As if not bringing it up means that the ban might as well have never been spoken in the first place.

Totally sound logic.

“Can I help you?” You ask, still half-focused on your phone.

“Uh huh,” he hums in a rasp that makes the hair on your arms stand up straight. Satoru’s half-hard cock twitches as he insistently rubs it right up between your asscheeks through the curtain of your dress. His tongue wetly drags over the skin right behind your ear before he pinches your earlobe between his teeth. All of his formerly quiet innocence is flying out of the window.

Your core clenches with the urge to rub back against him until you’re both panting and then bounce on his cock, coaxing delicious whines and moans out of him. You just barely resist. “No, Satoru.”

Your voice has the same effect as a cattle prod, zapping him right in the brain and short-circuiting all delusions of sweet talking his way into your panties, rolling you onto your stomach, and mounting you in prone bone. His grabby hands twitch, plotting, before you cuff him with the pointed look you toss him over your shoulder. “No,” you repeat.

Satoru feebly whines when you squirm out of his grip (only because he lets you— you stand no chance against his strength) to sit up and swing your legs over the edge of the bed. He scrambles to follow your retreating form. “Baby, wait, I’m sorry! I didn’t me—“

He nearly knocks you both over when you abruptly stop in front of him. “Unzip my dress.”

His panic is overridden by spine-tingling desire. Holy shit. He’s free of the ban… isn’t he? This isn’t a delusion. It can’t be.

“Hell yes,” Satoru breathes, turning chipper once more. He mentally rubs his hands together and licks his lips as he grasps your zipper after you brush your hair out of the way, tugging it down to the small of your back and watching either side of your dress unfurl. You slide the straps of it off your shoulders and he groans when it slips like silk down your curves and to the floor, leaving you in a cute bra and panty set that he bought you ages ago.

Not even being a saint in his past life could cancel out the awful misdeeds he’s committed in this one, but he must’ve done at least one good thing right if he’s regained the privilege of being able to stare at his wife’s backside.

You step out of it and continue on your path with him not even a foot behind you, breathing down your neck like a great big husky. “God, I missed showering with you. Missed your sexy body,” he breathes, fumbling to take his shirt off as he goes because he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

He’s gotten it over his head and tossed it aside by the time you get to their en-suite bathroom and turn to look at him downright lecherously while smoothing your hand up the doorframe, stripping him down further with just your searing stare. The mental picture he takes of you could be the cover of a magazine— one that he’d print only for himself. “C’mere, puppy,” you coo.

He mentally white-knuckles the base of his cock to avoid blowing his load in his pants at that.

Satoru’s dick is twitching with the barrage of mental images flooding his head. Soapy suds race down your gorgeous glistening body as Satoru plows into you from the back, water and slick splashing between where you’re joined, both of you vulnerable and oh so comfortable with each other.

Your left hand is clinging to his forearm that arcs above you, his own hand plastered against the slippery tile for further leverage, while your right hand yanks at his leash to force him deeper, weepy blush-pink cockhead kissing your cervix with each bruising slap of his pelvis against your ass. A little silly of you to bring his collar along under the spray when the water is perfectly capable of ruining the leather and velvet of it beyond repair, but eh, whatever. This is all in his head anyways.

Since both of your hands are occupied, you have nothing to brace yourself with other than your front. You’re curved in the most insane arch, the side of your face pressed to the tile along with your tits, nipples probably hard and aching against the cool surface. Sacrificing a fraction of your dignity for control. Although… you look very cute with your cheek smushed like that.

He knows he's at your mercy. Knows that with just a word or a tug on his leash, you could have him scrambling to fulfill your every whim. And god, does he want to do just that— to pour all his overwhelming focus into worshipping his wife until you’re trembling, smiling, and boneless with pleasure.

You’re both moaning like crazy and the noises echo off of the soaked tile like gunshots. Satoru buries himself into your warmth over and over again, deliriously watching the slide of his drenched cock each time he drags his hips back, only to punch them forward again. “Fuck, baby, just like that,” you encourage, trying to catch your breath between thrusts. “What a good b—“

The bathroom door slams in his face and the mirage fades.

Satoru nearly howls as if you shut it on his foot and sliced it clean off. “Don’t lock me out!” He whines, obnoxiously jiggling the doorknob and frowning when he finds that you locked it. He feels like a kid who’s been told they’re going to Disneyland after begging for a year straight, only to bounce out of the car once it pulls to a stop and realize that they’re at the dentist instead.

He huffs and puffs as he knocks a few times in hopes you’ll have mercy on him, totally considering breaking it down or picking the lock so that he can throw himself between your thighs and fuck you sloppy on his tongue.

The pipes chug in the walls when you turn the shower on, the spray hitting the tiles audible through the door.

“Do you mind? I’m busy,” you sarcastically call to him. Oh god, you’re probably naked by now, curves bare between those four walls that close you off from him. Satoru’s quivering in place. He thinks his dick might just fall off from the stress.

“Yes, actually, I do,” he complains, brows furrowed. “Showers are our thing. Let me in.”

You’re quiet as if considering it. The sound of the water changes as it meets your body, sluicing over you in rivulets and painting you in a clear sheen that he’d kill to see. He’s never been so jealous. Sleighted. Betrayed. How dare the droplets touch you but he can’t get in the shower and do the same, scrubbing you squeaky clean and maybe dipping a finger into your cunt if he’s lucky.

“Hmm… no,” you finally say.

“No?” Satoru parrots, scandalized and clutching his mental pearls.

“Don’t act like that. You know exactly why I’m not letting you in. What makes you think you deserve to be in here?”

You’ve got no compassion. You’re killing him in an orderly fashion, laurel wreath on your head and bare skin painting you as something godly, all cool indifference and amusement. A beautiful girl with a criminal smile that should be put in a file for the FBI, because this? This is inhumane. You’re surely violating multiple humanitarian laws.

“You literally led me here. You tricked me!”

“Did I?”

“You’re sick. Vile,” he pouts. “You need to be locked up in a maximum security prison where you can’t cause any harm to beautiful, astoundingly gifted men like me,” Satoru accuses through the door without any real anger.

Then, because he’s terrified of actually inviting his wife’s wrath and landing himself on your bad side, he leaps to correct himself. “Not that I’d ever want that for you! You’ve never done any wrong in my eyes and never will. You’re perfect, princess. You deserve to relax in a jacuzzi or on a warm beach in a bikini and be fed off of a charcuterie board.”

“I know that’s right,” comes your muffled voice, sounding all too satisfied.

Grinding his teeth together, he lightly thunks his forehead against the door before leaving it to rest there. His fingers curl into halfhearted, pathetic fists at his sides.

The desire to touch you outside of kisses, cuddles, and hugs festers by the day like a sore wound. Even though Satoru is content with whatever he gets from you, he’ll always want you. Always. How could he not after years upon years of being married to you? His heart is so full of you and the desire to connect with you in a more intimate manner that it’s set to burst at any moment.

The longer he goes without feeling you against him and studying your body as if you’re a special edition book that’s been signed by the author, the more it kills him. It splinters him, ruins him from the inside out. Like a dead animal’s digestive enzymes breaking down their internal cavity and spoiling the tissue. Self-digestion.

Is he being dramatic? Maybe. Maybe not. He just wants you so bad.

“Go put your collar on, okay?” You suddenly speak up again, voice echoing. “I’ll give you what you need eventually. You just need to be patient and wait. Only good boys get treats, remember?”

He knows you mean business and the last thing he wants is to prolong this agonizing drought. Swallowing his pleas, he nods even though you can’t see him. There’s a lesson to be learnt here, he’s slowly realizing— a hard one.

“Fine,” he mumbles.

Satoru reluctantly pushes away from the door, forcing out one more great big sigh to try and make you feel guilty (it doesn’t work) before padding over to the bedside drawer on his side of the bed. He fishes out the collar and loops it around his neck. It takes him a second of blindly searching to click the buckle into place and the tension leaves his body as if that’s all he needs in order to relax.

Dropping his full weight on the bed, he splays out across the center of it on his stomach and bunches up a pillow beneath his head, slinging his arms around it and holding it in place. He sinks into the mattress and waits.

He only realizes that the shower’s been turned off after god knows how long and that his eyes closed at some point when something feathers across his cheek. He peels his glazed blue eyes open and finds you sitting on the edge of the bed, bundled up in a robe with your hair damp around your shoulders, looking infinitely relaxed and loose.

That expression is what he fights to keep on your face every damn day of his life. Satoru didn’t have a protective bone in his body that wasn’t selfishly for himself until you, and now, all he wants to do is tuck you behind his ribs, right next to his heart, and safeguard you there forever. Keep you safe, happy, and satisfied, wanting for nothing.

Your knuckle rubs back and forth over his cheek and he leans into your touch, coaxing you to flip your hand over and cup his face, thumb petting at him.

“You look cozy,” you whisper, fond.

Your voice makes a soft, blissful smile tug at his lips. Satoru’s aimlessly floating in that liminal space between reality and fantasy, his mind fogged over with a mix of anticipation, trust, and a bone-deep sense of comfort that seems to blend together into one fluffy cloud.

As the pride of the Gojo clan, yakuza royalty in the flesh, he alone sits at the top, splayed out on the throne that the heavens carved out for him at birth. Untouchable, unreachable in a world where strength is everything and vulnerability is a death sentence. Yet here you are, worming your way into his crevices and domesticating the wolf. Dulling his fangs and softening him into something more puppy-like.

There’s a sense of freedom in letting go and being vulnerable with you. Always has been.

Satoru blinks slowly up at you, unable to conjure up his buried thoughts. You smile a little before standing, making him tense up— he doesn’t want you to leave. “I’ve got you, just stay there. I’ll be right back,” you gently shush him, consoling him with one more stroke of your finger over his cheek before you quickly depart, coming back just as fast with a familiar glass bottle in hand and a fresh towel tucked beneath your arm.

“Do you think you could rub this into my scalp for me, baby?” You ask, tilting your head at Satoru and crawling onto the bed.

“Yeah.” He finds it in himself to gradually pull himself up into a sitting position and folds his legs beneath himself. You reach out, fixing up the bow attached to his collar, and duck your finger beneath the hem of it to double-check that it’s not too tight around his throat. It’s instinct.

Humming softly under your breath, you unfold one flap of the towel and spread it across his lap, resting your head there. You look up at him and he brushes some of your hair off of your forehead and out of the way, his touch lingering there. You’re an animated painting, all lazily winding curves and warm skin against the cool comforter beneath you.

He unscrews the top of the bottle of hair serum once you hand it to him. Slowly, he tips it and allows a small amount of oil to dribble into the bowl of his palm— a rich, darkly colored serum that smells faintly of coconuts and warm spices.

He starts by working his fingers through your roots, massaging the oil into your scalp with a careful thoroughness that speaks volumes of how often he’s done this, then he makes his way down to the ends of your hair to evenly spread it all out. You let out a faint sigh of contentment and your eyes flutter shut, melting into putty beneath his ministrations.

Once-violent hands that have snapped necks and used serrated blades to cut off the thumbs of his underlings for disobeying him with no sympathy work over you with a tenderness that belies the brutality that lies beneath the fate lines of his palms.

He keeps going until he’s sure that each strand is spun with the serum. Satoru’s always eager to show you just how much he loves and cherishes you. And right now, that means making sure he does exactly as you ask, redirecting all that eager-to-please sexual energy that buzzes at his nerves into pleasing you another way, no matter how small or mundane the task may seem. Properly executing this feels impossibly good for him.

Satoru leans down and presses a soft kiss to your forehead, breathing in the scent of the serum intermingling with your shampoo and body wash, then presses your lips together in an upside-down kiss. His nose gently bumps against your chin. You hook your finger into the o-ring of his collar to keep him steady against you.

For once, the weight of his responsibilities aren’t on his shoulders. Nor is there his usual quip at his lips or a playful tease that’ll break up the peace. It’s just you, him and this tiny slot of time.

You both pull back at the same time, your sweetened breaths puffing across his lips. His thumbs draw soothing circles into your temples to watch you further dissolve into his lap and he grins to himself, happy that he's able to bring you some measure of peace, before resuming the steady glide of his fingers through your hair.

“I thought you were done?” You murmur, almost a yawn.

“I am,” he admits, “but I wanna do this for you. You look so relaxed… I want you to always stay this way.”

The collar is comfortably weighty around his throat the entire time that he plays with your hair until you doze off— a physical manifestation of the trust and safety he feels in your presence.

"A week?" Satoru repeats a few days later, voice tight.

He hates the idea of being away from you for that long. You’re rarely apart for more than a night or two when something comes up, and whenever you have to venture outside of Tokyo or Kyoto without him for too long, he gets antsy with worry and a selfish need to keep you cooped up in his arms forever.

But he also knows that you hate the idea of leaving your old man alone when he isn’t doing too well and is actively asking for your presence in your childhood home. Just for a little while.

Satoru remembers all too well the state your father was in at the behest of Satoru’s own father— a mountain of debt that shackled your dad to the Gojo-gumi and threatened to crush the man before you stepped in to help, sacrificing your own ambitions and desires to free your family from the trappings of the yakuza.

It was the catalyst that brought you back into his life as a more permanent fixture, a blessing disguised as a burden. It was also a testament to your incredible character that he was witness to back when you were both in high school, long before Satoru’s old man passed and he was forced to step into the role of oyabun as the heir apparent.

"I suppose I can survive a week without my better half," Satoru finally sighs, drooping with sorrow as he walks by your side through the parking garage across the street from the Gojo-gumi headquarters. "Family comes first. Go spend some time with him while I hold down the fort. I know you’ve been missing your dad, anyways.”

Then, softer, “I just... I'm going to miss you like crazy, you know? A whole week without my beautiful wife by my side? I might just die.” He knows he's being a bit needy, but he can't help it. You bring out a softer side of him that he never shows to anyone else.

You stop next to the car, Satoru clicking the unlock button on the fob, before you finally pull your attention away from your phone. There’s a devotion there that’s packed tight with regret. “I wish I could get someone to drive him here so that he could stay with us, but this city is just… it’s not good for him.”

You suck in a breath. “Maybe I should stay and send one of my cousins to—“

“Gojo,” it slips forth, stirred to perfection with careful heaps of cinnamon and sugar and butter, a skinny spoon tapped against the rim of the bowl upon finishing it to make sure all the excess sweetness drips forth and rejoins the rest. His name, your name, engraved on the twin bands gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights of the parking garage. They clink together like toasted glasses when he interlaces your fingers, kisses them all.

You stare at him, all gentle-eyed and pretty as you lean against his sports car and look up at him. Hopelessly besotted by the sound of your surname.

He pauses, swallowing hard. When Satoru speaks again, his voice is low and rough with emotion. "Gojo. Just... be careful out there, okay? I’ll send you off with some of my men, but keep your eyes open since you’ll be close to Ryomen’s hunting grounds. Stick with your dad. And if anyone, and I mean anyone, tries anything funny or looks at you strangely for even a millisecond, you call me. No one else.”

Long after he drives you to their favorite restaurant then back home, he waits until you go to the bathroom to scroll through his contacts. It’s ingrained in him to be overprotective of you. The thought of anything bad happening to you... he doesn’t even want to entertain the thought. Everything would crumble beneath the furious weight of his wrath.

He wouldn’t even burn the world, too weak to even lift his hands because he’s at his weakest when you’re not with him. His caving in chest would suck up the entire planet into his black hole heart, trying futilely to use the big patchy continents on its surface to blot out the agony. Ice cold in its intensity.

His wakagashira, Nanami, and wakagashira-hosa, Choso, have enough going on right now. Yaga, shateigashira of the Gojo-gumi, is too out of the way to get involved in this (and would probably hang up on Satoru if he even tried asking him to tag along with you). Grumbling a little, Satoru caves and calls one of his trusted kyodai. Ino picks up on the second ring with a cheery, “hey, boss!”

“Hey, Ino. Got a job for you,” Satoru says, rubbing his thumb over the back of his phone. “I need you and some of the boys to accompany my wife to her old man’s place. Don't let her out of your sight whenever they decide to go out, but keep your distance and give her space or she’ll bite your head off. Make sure that they’re both safe at all times. Understand?"

His kyodai turns serious at the dangerous ridge of his tone. “Crystal clear, sir.”

“Good. Don’t fuck this up or I’ll string you upside down by all ten of your toes and cut your dick off so that I can send it off to the Bratva. And I’ll let Nanami watch me hack away at your dick with a machete. Do you want that?” He poses this scenario a little too cheerfully.

Ino’s choked breath makes the phone line crackle. “No, no I don’t. I won’t let you down.”

Satoru is a clingy mess for the rest of the night, nibbling at your earlobe, snuffling at your neck and arms and chest like a wet-nosed puppy, refusing to let you budge even an inch away from him in search of air. It’s hard to tell where your body ends and his begins with how tightly you’re wrapped up in him.

(“Want a goodbye quickie?” “No, Satoru.”)

He’s just as bad when you pack come morning. Hair mussed from fitful sleep and his sleepy voice cracking with each whine he lets loose, he tails you around with an expression bordering on offense. ‘How dare you try to hurry this up by asking for my help. Are you really so eager to leave me?’ is what his eyes convey the second you ask a sulky Satoru to help you fold your clothes.

His melodramatic wail when you take your toothbrush out of your joint holder while gathering your toiletries, separating yours from his, should make you laugh but it only makes you ache to throw everything down and jump into his arms like a fool to a siren. A very beautiful blue-eyed siren with a boyish grin that's charmed you since day one and elegantly sculpted fingers, his infectious laugh, that addictive warmth that makes it hard to not give into him…

Don’t fall for it, you tell yourself.

"Don't think for a second that I won't be counting down the days until you're back in my arms. Because I will," Satoru pouts at the front door. A sleek black car rumbles at the foot of the steps leading down to the driveway, Ino’s mop of brown hair, slightly covered by his ski-mask that’s been pulled up to his forehead beanie-style, visible through the rolled down window.

He watches the kyodai leap out and trot up the steps to grab your luggage and carry it down before turning to you. There’s no smirk on his face, only a displeased purse of his lips that begs for your attention. You can practically picture the droop of fluffy ears atop his white hair.

So cute. You could eat him right up.

“I know,” you reply, slinging your arms around his neck and nuzzling your noses together. Your hands clasp at his nape and he can feel the chilly line of your wedding band against his skin.

Satoru melts into your embrace and drapes over you like a great big dog. When you wiggle a little, he holds on tighter, practically squeezing you to death. “I’ll text and call you every day. Keep your phone on you at all times just in case something happens. If you don’t answer me after five rings, I’ll throw up,” he continues as if you haven’t heard this spiel a hundred times already.

“Mhm,” you agree with a wheeze from the lack of proper airflow. You duck your head and smush your face between his pecs. You could happily die right here. He has no business having pecs plumper and rounder than a woman’s rack.

He releases you and all your bones pop back into place. His blue eyes are shimmery and sad as they peer into your very soul. “I love you,” you tell him softly.

“What was that?” Satoru cups one ear.

“I love you to the moon and back,” you oblige with a fond roll of your eyes as you stretch upwards.

“And I love you more than infinity times infinity,” he finishes, bending down to meet you halfway for a kiss.

(After kissing and hugging on the doorstep for much too long, you gaze out of the window of the car as Ino cruises through traffic. Thank god for this impromptu trip. You think you would’ve folded and let him hit after another hour of just… him being him.)

Satoru keeps busy with the Gojo-gumi while you’re away, but instead of his workload stifling the achey clench of his heart, it only forces him to confront how awful all of it feels without you. He’s gotten so used to seeing you not just at home, but at headquarters where you both work, too, that his brain bluescreens every time he passes your empty desk and doesn’t see you squinting at your laptop or ruffling Yuuji’s hair after helping the teenager out with something.

Each and every meeting and errand he has to run to ensure that the Gojo-gumi continues merrily rolling around in their gains feels unnatural without your hand in his. It swallows him down dry and spits him right back out. This is his personal hell.

Whenever he gets the chance to talk to you for even a second, he barrels over his responsibilities to do so. You called him during a meeting once and he walked out early with hearts in his eyes and his phone longingly cradled to his ear. Satoru sends you selfies of him holding up mochi with a dimpled smile that’s much too adorable to be found on a man of his reputation’s face, long texted paragraphs about his days, whatever comes to mind. Nonsense.

You charge things to his card instead of your own that connects you to your shared bank account and he giggles to himself. You want him so bad. Even better, you sometimes send solo selfies back in return or ones with your dad roped into them, and he saves them all to his photo album titled ‘wifey 🩵.’

But none of your calls or texts match up to the bliss of having you here with him in person.

Satoru wakes up every morning, the luxurious sheets, pillows, and blankets that he spent more than a couple of bands on doing nothing to chase away the lonely chill in his bones created by your absence. The length of the bed feels too vast for even his long arms and even longer legs. You’re not there to squirm away and laugh as he blows raspberries into your neck to wake you up before hoisting you up from bed, wrapping you up in a robe, and carrying you off to the kitchen so that you can have breakfast together. Nor are you there at night for him to cuddle up with.

During the day, he’s the suave yet feared, ruthless oyabun that all of Japan knows by name. He offers hand and coin to all the businesses that rely on him, only to snatch it back when their dues aren’t paid, leaving him no choice but to forcefully take a cut of their profit ‘for their own protection.’ The thousands upon thousands of his underlings that cower before him, equal parts reverence and fear, are his to keep in line. To provide for.

It’s a cutthroat and downright draining job that calls for no sympathy. No sweet kisses. No soft, encouraging words and a hand to grip tight when the blood he’s spilled clouds his vision.

Yes, okay, he misses having you beneath him, gasps escaping your lips as he pistons into you. Yes, he misses you riding him like a pro, body lazily undulating and your hands shackling his wrists so that he can do nothing but lie there and take it.

But it’s not even the sex he misses when you’re gone. It’s not entirely about that. You mesh with him in a way that has him cursing his teenage self for not getting to know you better in high school and having to wait all those years after graduation for you to sweep into his office like a harbinger of justice.

Call it corny, but he’s convinced that you’re soulmates. There’s nobody else out there for him— nobody else that he wants, because you’re it for him. You’ve given him much more love, happiness, and freedom than anyone else in his life has.

And that’s exactly why he respects why you won’t let him make you feel good, won’t touch him in return. There’s a reason for everything, even if he’s too prideful to admit out loud that this is due to his own shortcomings.

Satoru toys with the collar around his neck and stares up at the ceiling from your shared bed, where he’s tucked in all on his lonesome. He knows that he’s a handful of a pet. Bad puppies like him, they don’t respect other dogs’ spaces. Satoru goes sniffing where he shouldn’t after bounding off without your permission, making Ryomen growl and snap at his heels for his audacity and chase him from his territory.

Sometimes, he does shit that he knows will piss other people off or worry you, the one person who matters the most. That he knows he’ll regret later. But at the moment, it always feels too good not to do it. Like he can’t help himself— too stubborn and always looking for the next excitement, the next thrill.

(But he’ll always be that overbearingly affectionate puppy that’s so big and excited that he knocks you over in his haste to get to you, smothering you in kisses and dirty paw prints. Satoru has a problem with resource guarding, snarling at others that get too close to you even if there’s no threat in sight— he’s just protective, that’s all. It’s all out of love.)

And worse, bad puppies like him don't always respect their owners' boundaries and rules either. He can be greedy; always trying to sneak extra treats off the table when your back is turned. He goes pawing at you even when you’ve told him no, because sometimes he doesn’t take your discipline in the form of rejections seriously. Satoru understanding the gravity of your words until you’ve scolded him, making him droop all sadly.

You’re always gonna find your push and pull with him fun, but sometimes, you just want him to submit without a playful fight. That’s what you’ve wanted the entire time.

He can do that for you.

Satoru gets a call on day thirteen of the ban.

“You okay?” He asks the second he answers.

There’s the slight bustle of chatter on the other line. He pictures you somewhere nice, your dad sitting across from you and you gazing out of the window with a cup of liquid warmth cradled between your palms. Bathed in sunlight and looking oh so serene. Satoru keeps his phone pressed tightly against his ear, afraid that if he lets go, you'll disappear.

“I’m fine. Just calling to check on you. Are you okay?” You flip the question back on him. Your concern never fails to make his heart flutter— as if he’d ever let anyone else come close to beating him, not when he has you to always crawl back to.

After pausing to overanalyze your voice and the background noise just in case you’re trying to hide a smidgen of pain or something, he relaxes. Putting his phone on speaker and setting it on the counter, he grabs his loofah from the shower, wets it under a stream of hot water from the sink, and pumps a spurt of soap onto it. Satoru sets to work on scrubbing the blood out from beneath his nails, bubbles frothing forth in a pinkish white and spilling over his split knuckles.

“You don’t even need to ask, baby. I’m invincible, remember?”

You’re quiet for a beat too long, clearly waiting for something that he doesn’t give. Satoru can feel the look of mild exasperation you’re giving him from miles and miles away. “Right. Is that why I heard you picked on a certain wakagashira?”

Jesus. People tattle on him to you more than Shoko and his other informants spill the beans to Satoru on what the other syndicates are up to.

“What, Suguru’s wakagashira? I’d never hurt a hair on Miguel’s bald, shiny head,” he drawls with a smirk. “Who fed you that bull and why’d you believe it?”

“You’re so annoying,” you laugh. Score. He’s mentally twirling his short white hair between his fingers and kicking his feet at the sound. Chancing a glance into the mirror, he finds himself beaming brighter than the sun. “Nanami told me that my big strong man and Uraume got into it.”

“Ohhhh… is that what Ryomen’s wakagashira’s name is?” Satoru plays dumb.

Your snort makes the line crackle. A dish clinks. “Satoru.”

“Okay, okay, maybe I did,” he relents with a melodrama only seen in really shitty Hallmark movies. Twisting the faucet off after rinsing the loofah free of blood, he deposits it back in the shower then hurries back to his phone to stare almost longingly at your name on the screen. “Let’s talk about that later, though. Compliment me some more instead— call me your big strong man again,” he dreamily sighs, rocking back and forth on his heels.

“My big strong man, my big strong man, my big strong man,” you repeat.

“Did you really have to say it three times? You might summon something into the bathroom,” Satoru clicks his tongue with a searching look around the room.

“I hope whatever it is gives you a noogie,” you deadpan, and this time, he’s the one that laughs. “I have to go in a second, but I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be coming back tomorrow. I’ll meet you at home, give you a nice reward for how patient you’ve been these last two weeks. How’s that?”

The excitement that rushes through him makes his stomach drop as if he’s being tossed around on a rollercoaster. It’s nearly enough to wash away the loneliness that’s dogged his every step while you’ve been away. “Good,” he breathes. “Sounds good. Really good. What’re you thinking exactly?”

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” you croon, teasing. “So, aside from the Uraume incident, tell me about your day.”

“It’s been straight ass. The Gojo clan elders are on one, Kento’s been exceptionally boring, and my wife isn’t here to kiss my booboos better. God, and later I have to go downtown and squeeze a late payment out of one of the ryoteis I own…”

The rest of the conversation, your shared goodbye’s and love you’s included, go by in a blur. By the time you’ve hung up, his blood pressure is through the roof. There’s no mistaking that you’ll be on him in more ways than one tomorrow. The anticipation weighs heavily on him and refuses to let up, making his cock twitch.

“Get a grip,” he coaches himself, dabbing his hands dry to avoid scraping at his hurt knuckles. “All she did was talk to you and tell you that she’s coming home. It was just her voice. Don’t get turned on.”

Straightening up, Satoru looks himself over in the mirror. His white hair is lazily tousled— the look of someone who just crawled out of bed looking infuriatingly good, his blue eyes like twin stars beneath the fluorescent lights. He winks and cheeses at his reflection, perfect white teeth on display.

But the second his smile slowly fades, you sneak your way back into his head. He can practically envision you standing behind him and peeking around his body to look at the two of you, fingers dragging fire down to his waistband, your voice dipping into that register that drives him batshit insane as you whisper exactly what you’re gonna do to him and chuckling when he groans, pained.

There’s no stopping Satoru as he instinctively palms at his budding erection through his slacks, having to brace himself against the bathroom counter with one hand at the shock of how electric even the barest of friction feels. Through the mirror, he watches himself slowly flush in real time, blooming color spreading over his high cheekbones and arcing across the bridge of his nose before crawling down his neck, brushing him pink. His perfectly glossy lips part around a strangled noise.

You’re not even here and yet you’re making him crazy.

Everything in him wants to dig a pair of your panties out of the laundry, bury his face in it, and fist his cock until he’s spilling all over himself.

More than anything, though, Satoru wants to be a good boy for you, to make you happy. His own hand is nothing compared to the warmth of yours on his body— he wants you to physically unravel him and hear your voice in his ear, soft and commanding, telling him what to do whether that’s how to please you or just relax as you take care of him.

Doing this on his own isn’t the same. You’ve broken him.

Or maybe he’s just very, very well-trained.

Satoru groans, gives his weeping cock one last squeeze, and drops his hand. His chest strains against his shirt with each desperate breath he takes. In the mirror, his cerulean irises gaze back at him, the frustrated hue to them slowly being overshadowed by determination.

He’ll wait for your recall.

On the day of your return, he smells you his first step into the door of the Gojo estate.

You use this specific perfume whenever you’re traveling— jet, ferry, car, it doesn’t matter as long as an engine is purring— and nowhere else. You leave all your ‘goods’ behind in the bathroom and atop the vanity, relying on your dingy little plastic bottle of liquid warmth and sin that you spritz on your skin. Satoru knows that scent better than he knows Newton’s laws.

And he was really fucking good at physics back when he was in school.

It’s a shame that you beat him here, he thinks as he floors it down the long hallway. He could’ve greeted you at the door with the full princess package, helping you out of your coat, taking your purse off of your hands, getting down on his femur to work your high heels off and then carrying you to your room where he can massage any soreness out of your feet.

But alas. He makes a mental note to move quicker next time— not that he’s letting you leave him for an entire week again for another few months.

Upon reaching the bedroom, he throws open the door with gusto. "Oh princesssss, your hubby is home—!”

—And he’s greeted by an empty room.

“Lame,” he sullenly mutters to himself, all that vibrant energy escaping him in one big whoosh. He blows a raspberry to himself and strides inside, stopping by the elegant chaise lounge tucked against the wall. Undoing the knot of his tie, Satoru quickly pulls it off, then tugs his suit jacket down his shoulders and drapes both atop the seat to be dealt with later.

He takes a longer look at your shared master bedroom— the bed is made, the room is clean, and the en-suite bathroom door is ajar but the lights are off. He’s about to turn on his heel and blaze through the estate to find you and smother you to death when he hears shuffling in the walk-in closet. Instantly, he perks up.

“Is that my wife I hear?” Satoru calls, and you respond, a faint ‘mhm’ that makes excited chills bubble up to the top layer of his skin, forming goosebumps.

And then you step out of the closet.

He expected a long coat with a fur-lined collar, maybe a sharp turtleneck or a blouse. Something travel-friendly and effortlessly classy that you wore on the drive home and haven’t yet peeled yourself out of.

This, though? This is so much better. You’re a mouth-watering treat that he wants to sink his teeth into, chew at, tear into with slow rips until his taste buds are graced with the buttery, gooey sweetness that ripens the core of you and seeps over his tongue like melted caramel.

“Hey there, sugar," he croons, flashing you that same charming lopsided grin that cracked your heart open and feasted on it all those years ago. Satoru takes his designer sunglasses off and folds them with a neat click. Tucks them into the breast pocket of his baby blue waistcoat that clings to him as if to tell you, ‘let me get a good, long look at you. Give me a twirl.’

The thing about Gojo Satoru is that he is the city that he rules. He embodies Tokyo, all blinding neon lights and flashy billboards, his very eyes the morning skyline that pops out at everyone and calls them to action, to put on their shoes and hustle out of the door.

His light blue eyes now, though, are just full of love and a crushing longing vaster than the sea, waves crashing and twining together, hiding its boons deep beneath the tumultuous surface. It makes your steps stutter. But you right yourself like always, stalwart in your efforts to take all his affection that bears down on you and hold yourself up.

You’ve already dressed down to curl up in bed for the rest of the evening, wearing a skimpy leopard-print nightgown that slices half-diamond slits up the sides of both of your thighs. The short hem glances off of your thighs like curtains swaying in the breeze when you shift your weight and the iPad clutched to your chest does your tits wonders, making them squish against the screen. The nightgown is so skin tight that you may as well be naked, clinging so sinfully to you and emphasizing every curve and dip of your body. It leaves very little to the imagination. Shit, he wants to dive into the ocean of your hips and drown in them.

But it's the warm look in your eyes behind those reading glasses that really gets to him. You rarely wear them in the first place, so seeing them perched delicately on the bridge of your nose… he’s never felt weaker.

Your whole ensemble is slutty. The pinch of adorably sweet domesticity that makes him wanna bite your cheeks and the refined deadliness of an office siren (which you very much are) wraps it all up nicely. Soft yet sexy. The look he loves the best on you. You absolutely did this on purpose.

The rush of affection that pummels at his chest makes him a little sick.

He doesn’t miss the way your mouth twitches in a futile attempt to beat back a smile. “Stop staring,” you warn.

Mmmm. That voice of yours could’ve single-handedly halted the Trojan War.

“I can’t help it,” Satoru sighs, dismissively waving your comment away and sauntering over to you. It takes everything in him to not sprint. “You’ve got that new mom glow.”

“Excuse me?”

He nods at the iPad you’re still clutching. “You’ve been extra radiant ever since I bought you that thing,” he jests.

“You are so fucking…” you rub your forehead. You exhale a laugh. “God help me. Just come here and welcome me home properly.”

“Already on it, boss,” he purrs with a cheeky grin right as he sidles up to you. His hands sneak into the slits of your nightgown to grab at your hips, fingers sinking into the soft, pliant give of them. They prickle with the urge to slide around, dip beneath the hem, and cop a feel of what you’ve got stacked behind you. “Holy shit, I’m the luckiest man alive. Do you have any idea how sexy you look right now, titties sitting pretty in this nightgown and everything?” Satoru dreamily sighs as he drinks you in.

“Mm, tell me about it,” you murmur, a twinkle lighting your eyes. Your free hand smooths up from his navel to his chest, where his heart pounds entire sonnets in your name.

“Well, you look phenomenal. So fucking phenomenal. I’d fight 3 mountain lions in a McDonalds handicap bathroom stall with my hands tied behind my back, my only weapon a shake weight glued to my forehead, just to get a chance to stare at you for the rest of my life.”

You laugh immediately, that look in your eyes deepening. You look so light with amusement and fondness that it seems to rejuvenate you, making you glow like you’re lounging in the gentlest, warmest of sunbeams with the grace of a feline.

Satoru smiles dopily, his cheeks hurting from the force of his grin. “I missed you, wifey. This place isn't the same without my pretty girl in it." He leans down to kiss your forehead and breathes you in. “Did you miss me just as much, or did you enjoy your time without me buzzing in your ear like a gnat?” He jokes, hating how a hint of pleading slips through.

“Oh, spare me. You were up my ass over the phone,” you tease before turning sincere. A cocktail of emotion spills over your features, relaxing your browbone and softening you around the edges. “But yeah, of course I did, baby. I missed you so, so much.”

It’s silent for only a mere second, a silence that sits heavy and oppressive like the stillness before lightning crashes through the heavens, and suddenly your torsos are colliding as you rush to touch each other.

He seals your mouths together with a needy groan, his grip finally slipping around to your backside to squeeze at your ass and keep you flush against him, and you press one hand to his waist to hold steady as you crane up towards him like a flower unfurling and stretching for the nurturing comfort of the sun.

Despite you both walking the line of desperation, the press of your lips is rife with affection. Devotion. An ‘I’m home,’ and a ‘welcome back.’ It feels like eons have passed rather than a week since the last time he’s been able to indulge in you. Two weeks if he counts the distinct lack of intimacy.

Distance may make the heart grow fonder, but it also makes the soul weaker.

“There’s nothing normal about how much I’ve been thinking about you,” he manages between kisses, voice cracking a fraction. The wet glide of your tongue sends a little shockwave through his system and he breaks before you, letting you slip in where he’s most tender and lick your way over his teeth. “I’m so obsessed with you. I’m stupid for you. Being without you is unbearable.”

The way you sigh into him at that, the soft hitch in your breath as if you can finally relax in his hold, only kindles the flame he holds for you. His hold tightens reflexively, fingers curling into the fabric of your nightgown. Trying to make sure you’re real and not a figment of his cruel imagination.

When they finally part, Satoru’s baby blues flutter open to meet your gaze. He’s sure there’s a vulnerability to his ocean-dark eyes and expression that he only allows you to see, to coax out of him. You blink up at him almost hazily, those pretty lips of yours glistening with saliva.

“Promise?” You seek out.

If he’s needy for you, then you’re just as bad. Hide it behind that coolness as much as you want, but it doesn’t change a damn thing.

You’re the one that approached him to almost dejectedly ask why he stopped sending flowers to your desk every day before you even started dating because he assumed you were rejecting his advances (turns out, you hadn’t been throwing away his bouquets but taking them to your former apartment to cover your countertop in them, pressing the prettiest ones to preserve them forever).

You're the one that seeks him out in the dark of night when you’re startled into the realm of the living, grumbling and whining in a manner that you’d never show in the light of day when he’s too far away and only settling when you’re wrapped up snug in his arms, your head on his chest and ear over his heart.

You’re the one that said ‘I do’ at the altar and teared up at the same exact second that he did, and when you fell into his kiss, you gripped his arms with an amorous ferocity that said ‘I’m never letting go of you. I can’t.’

You want him more than you want most things.

“‘Course. I’ll throw all of that into our vow renewals,” he declares.

“God, I love you,” you say. Satoru echoes you with a just as reverent ‘love you’ and murmurs your name, low and rough with emotion, and you press a chaster kiss to his mouth this time. A peck. “I have such a perfect husband. Have you been good? Everything that I’ve read in reports is correct?” You ask much too slowly, relearning how to function now that you’re not entirely intertwined with your other half.

Satoru can see the finish line. Finally. He inhales sharply, releases it, trembling with anticipation. He can’t resist drawing you in one more time, breathing into you, tongue dragging over the crevices of your mouth before sucking on your tongue with so much sensuality that you shiver before drawing back a hairsbreadth, teeth scraping over his bottom lip.

He can’t get enough of you. But he tries to anyways.

He bobs his head in a nod. “Yup. Good as can be, sugar. Everything’s gone smoothly, no hiccups at all. I handled all that’s necessary and now... now I'm all yours.”

You assess him over the rim of your reading glasses. While you do, he rubs his thumbs into the dips of your back before gliding them over every inch of you available to him as if refamiliarizing himself with you. He knows it’s an unnecessary effort, because really, he could never forget even an inch of your beloved body, but it helps him feel more connected to you.

You seem satisfied with whatever you find. “Perfect. I’m impressed.”

Satoru nearly passes out with how quickly his ego inflates.

Walking backwards, you guide him to hasten forward, stopping only when the backs of your knees hit the edge of your king-sized bed. You pull away from him and plop down heavily on the cushy mattress with a sigh, making Satoru immediately miss the feel of your soft body pressed against him.

You toss your iPad further up the bed. Then you’re smiling, smirking, drawing your leopard-print nightgown up, up, up and parting your legs to give him the most delicious view of the print of your perfectly plump pussy against your flimsy panties. Watching you prop yourself up on your elbows on the silk duvet, back arched slightly and tits pushed up and out, the fabric of your nightgown thin enough that he swears he can see your nipples through it, does him further in.

Fuck.

You’re trying to kill him, aren’t you? This is domestic warfare at its most lethal, more thrillingly terrifying than any shootout he’s been in the center of. A trial of Nike that he absolutely cannot fail. Satoru swallows thickly, tongue feeling too big for his mouth as he stares at his wife with a hungry, almost feral expression.

He takes a step closer, then another, lifting his leg to sink his knee into the mattress between your legs and forcing you to bow yours further apart. Satoru leans down and crawls forward, bracing his hands on the bed on either side of your head, his white hair falling messily over his forehead.

"You're a cruel, cruel woman, you know that?” Satoru whispers, sounding helpless and small even as he looms over you. Pouting down at you, he huffs out a little noise of frustration. “Teasing me like this... I've been thinking about this sexy body of yours for ages, and now you're just... showing it off?"

Tilting your head, you poke your lips out in a teasing mimicry of him. “All I’m doing is lying down, babe.”

But what he hears with his incredibly selective hearing is “all I’m doing is some obedience training. Light work!”

‘Sicko’ Satoru mouths at you and your laugh that follows is borderline evil. The sound turns fond, somehow, sweeter than any treat.

A nail presses into the divot of his chin. Satoru blinks as you drag your pointer down to his throat, running up and over the natural curve of his Adam’s apple. His pale neck is bare and open for you. The slight prick of your nail undoes him the same way the spindle undid Aurora, drawing him into a deep hypnosis-induced trance. His plea for more rumbles low in his throat, the noise vibrating against you.

“Okay, okay, I know. I’ve got you. Scoot back, then I want you to do something for me,” you smoothly coo.

He’s nodding almost solemnly before you even finish speaking. “Anything,” Satoru swears. No clarifications needed. No hesitation. Just pure, blind obedience that’s like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, leaving him feeling higher than a kite.

You and Satoru learned about mantis shrimp on an aquarium date that you went on a while back (he rented out the entire building for a day so that only your laughter would ring through the halls that were empty aside from security guards, the people feeding the marine life, and janitors. Perks of being oyabun). According to the placard with information sitting in front of the tank, mantis shrimp move so quickly that the water around them briefly skyrockets in temperature until it reaches that of the sun’s.

He swears on everything that the air turns scalding with how swiftly he sidles backwards until he’s sliding off the bed, sinking to his knees between your calves. The action is so natural, so instinctive from doing this so many times that it's almost as if his body moves on its own accord, eager to make his wife happy.

Satoru doesn’t touch you once he gets comfortable on the carpet. Doesn’t slide in some sly comment to try and get his way that much faster.

He just waits.

Since Satoru’s always on a hair-trigger around you and could get hard if you snapped your fingers at him and demanded that he get his dick up so that they can hump, warmth is already starting to pump into his cock, making him fill out impressively fast. He itches to relieve the building ache, but still, he keeps his hands on his thighs and doesn’t try a thing in order to prove to you that he’s good. He’ll actually fucking die if he squanders this chance you’re giving him.

You look him up and down, pleasantly surprised. The silence is slaughtering him.

Then you have mercy on him and break it. “Good boy, baby. Go get your collar. The leash, too.”

Satoru instantly gets up and crosses the bedroom to obey you, because this is what he was put on this earth to do— follow you like Eurydice did Orpheus to the edge of the underworld and beyond, listening to your every word without question. There’s nowhere in the world that Satoru would rather be than at your side. At your beck and call.

He’s quick to return with both objects in hand and kneels before you again. You take the leash from him, clip it onto the collar, and wind it around his neck to buckle it into place. Just like always, he goes all gooey the second it’s on. Head empty, heart full.

He blinks when warmth lands where his knees touch. Satoru, still ramrod-still, looks down at your socked foot sitting innocently on the divot between his knees. How you landed there with such precision without sparing his bottom half a glance, he’ll never know.

You nudge his knees apart even as Satoru pushes back against you a little, squeezing his thighs together just to see what you’ll do for the hell of it, but his playful resistance proves fruitless when the softness of the carpet and your sudden angelic giggle at his behavior work together against him to make him relax and open up. You push aside muscle and bone like he’s made of the lightest of silks, all while watching him from beneath your lashes with the most regal of bearings.

“There’s no need to hide,” You admonish, amused. Your heel digs into the inside of his thigh and Satoru has to resist snapping his hips forward so that you can put your foot where he’s burning the most for you. “I wanna see you as I give you a reward for all your hard work. Indulge me.”

Satoru tips his head back enough to keep his eyes locked on yours, the diamonds on his collar catching the lights high above and sending tiny flickering rays arching across your throat. He pushes his knees out further, spreading his legs without any pretense of modesty, until his ass is practically bowing into the carpet. Why be shy when he has a gorgeous wife who likes checking him out?

“Satisfied?” He asks breathlessly.

“Yup, that’s perfect.” You have to huff out a breath to disguise the laugh that you can’t help. You sound awfully endeared. “You’re such a well behaved puppy, aren’t you, baby?” You jangle his leash in emphasis, reminding him that he looks like— that he is— a mere pet at your feet.

The pull jerks him back and forth. Satoru openly moans at the rough treatment and the petname and the noise levels out into a disjointed hum when you let it go slack again with a coo. “You look so pretty chained to my hand.”

It's hard not to preen under your approval, especially when you use that particular tone. Your praise is a drug stronger than heroin and he's a junkie who's been craving a fix for far too long. “Yeah, well, I'm the best at everything I do. Looking good included," he boasts, smug and sure despite the slight tremble of his words.

“You are, aren’t you?” You muse conversationally. “Mommy’s pretty puppy. Handsome and all mine.”

You love Satoru for all that he is. You love his selflessness that he disguises as selfishness. You love Satoru’s wit that matches yours stride for stride, all your stupid inside jokes that your exclusive club of two have created.

You love his unwavering loyalty. The heart-rending puzzle of a man behind the title of oyabun. How quick he is to protect you, his family, with blue eyes full of cold fury as he repeatedly slams someone’s head in with a car door until the car alarm goes off from the sheer force he exhibits, then later beam at you with a little dollop of cream from the latest treat he’s eaten by the corner of his mouth all in the same day.

And you certainly love Satoru like this, all his jagged edges sanded down by your equally weathered touch.

There’s something more than appealing in having the oyabun at his knees, the cutesy blue bow of the collar stark against the column of his throat, smiling like he can’t help it when he’s in your presence. He was meant to be on a runway with those brilliant eyes that his white lashes hang low over and soft, fluffy angel hair.

Finally dropping your gaze, you ogle the obscene bulge tenting the expensive fabric of his slacks. Your foot pushes forward towards his inner thigh and his stomach clenches.

“There were so many things I could’ve done while I was away that I didn’t do,” you start, eyes gleaming behind your glasses, and just that has Satoru’s heart leaping up his throat to hang onto your every word. “I thought about calling you in the middle of the day with my fingers already buried in me. Make you listen to me moan and touch myself while you could do nothing.”

“Don’t talk like that,” he groans, not a warning nor a plea.

“Like what?”

He opens his mouth and out comes a strangled whimper rather than anything of substance when you abruptly push your socked toes down over his hardening, sensitive tip, just because you can. His hands fly up to grip the edge of the bed on either side of your legs, knuckles turning white with the force of his hold. His hips give a quick twitch that he can’t contain. The pressure is just enough to make Satoru throw his head back, his cock twitching beneath the layers of fabric separating you.

This isn’t the kind of touch he wants, but it’ll do. He’ll scrape up whatever he can get from you.

“Like that, saying all that in that tone,” he chokes out.

“Why can’t I?”

“You’re asking too many questions,” Satoru complains breathlessly, trembling with how hard he’s holding himself back from moving another inch. “They’re all ones that you know the answers to, anyways.”

“Is that right?” You laugh, reveling in the frustrated jut of his bottom lip at yet another question. You roll the ball of your foot over his crotch, teasing, ensnaring him further. “All you have to do is answer ‘why’,” you coax, deceptively light, “or I’ll stop.”

The bold curving lines and spots of your leopard-print nightgown blur slightly as his vision swims with want. Satoru seems to visibly fight himself for a moment before a shameless grin unfurls on his face, appearing more composed than he actually feels. “You’re gonna make me cum if you say stuff like that.”

You lean forward. You calmly unbutton the first button of his shirt and his smile dies faster than it sparked in favor of dropping open in a loose ‘o’ of anticipation. You get the next two open and your hand eases into the cleft of his partially-undone shirt, drifting over one of his nipples. His flush stretches down to his chest.

“Right… so I guess I shouldn’t say that I thought about buying a Bluetooth-controlled plug and having it delivered to the estate.” You emphasize your words with a light pinch, tweaking the bud pinned between your fingers.

Satoru visibly shivers, more so due to your words than your touch, and his eyes grow glassier. You release his nipple and he arches towards you a fraction, borderline mewling when the action pushes him against your foot more firmly.

“I wonder how fast you’d crumble,” you muse. You watch him. Waiting for something. “I would’ve had you wear it all day, throughout your meetings and checking up on your businesses and your deals and all. Our little secret that I could control with a click of a button, forcing you to think of nothing but me as it buzzes away.”

Satoru whines. He’s literally salivating at the thought, drool collecting in his mouth that he forces himself to swallow.

God, you’re one freaky ass woman. You’re a match made in hell.

“Aww, that eager for it? Cute. I can feel you getting harder the more I talk about it,” you coo adoringly. “We’ll save that for a rainy day.”

“Are you trying to kill me?” He croaks. You know exactly what you’re doing.

“No. I’m just trying to get you off,” you murmur. You fully extend your leg, planting your foot into the carpet and shoving your leg right up against his cock.

You then grasp the leash attached to his collar, giving it the most tender of tugs to avoid hurting Satoru, aiding him in sitting up straighter. The sensation of the collar lightly squeezing at his throat before the leather relaxes once more sends sparks flying up his spine to burst behind his eyes. “Since you’re so desperate, go ahead and hump my leg like the dog that you are.”

He doesn’t hesitate now that you’ve tossed him a bone.

With a low groan that comes out almost feral, Satoru starts to move. His hips shift forward in desperate little thrusts, rutting his clothed erection against your leg. Soft grunts escape him, lost in the simple pleasure of the friction.

Your legs twitch in an aborted move to squeeze them together, blocked only by Satoru’s body. You groan, heady and low and approving as you watch him, and Satoru can’t get his hands on you fast enough.

His fingers dig into the give of your hips, the warmth of you seeping through your thin nightgown. He holds onto you tightly because you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

"Fuck, sugar..." Satoru moans, eyes rolling back and pristine white lashes fluttering, changing the angle of his thrusts to grind the thick bulge of his cock along the line of your shinbone. He’s throbbing with a second heartbeat, so wound up that his stomach twists and turns with it.

“Look at you, so quick to obey me. That’s a good puppy,” you coo, his actions earning himself a borderline condescending yet much-needed pat on the head that he nudges into, beatific. “Does it feel good?”

“Y-yeah. Like heaven. Been needing this so bad,” he slurs.

When he starts to slide his hands down to your thighs, you tut at him and he freezes. “No moving your hands.” Your voice is saccharine sweet, forbidden fruit dangling from the branches of a tree. “Just keep them there and take what you need. You’re doing so well.”

He could so easily steamroll over your order, flip you over without breaking a sweat and pry your panties off so that he could find his release in the sweetest, most heaven-sent way possible. But he doesn’t. All that power and dominance that comes with being a rich yakuza boss is gone, wisping up and away to the ceiling.

His throat bobs as his hands rejoin your hips. Satoru's head tips forward, his forehead coming to rest against your stomach for further support as he rocks to and fro. He’s panting now, his breath coming out in sharp gusts that rattle through his seizing chest. He can feel the damp patch on the front of his pants growing, the fabric of his boxers clinging sticky to his hardness as it leaks and leaks, pumping out precum with each eager twitch.

“You don’t really need my leg, though,” you then reflect with an air of sureness. “All I’d have to do is talk in this sweet tone you love so much, wouldn’t I? And you’d cum on the spot just from that, completely untouched… I know you could. Happily— maybe with some tears, too. But I won’t do that today. You’ve been too good for me to be mean. Haven’t you?”

Satoru’s so focused on humping your leg and listening to your gentle stream of filth and praise that he doesn't even realize he's whimpering, needy chorused sounds that catch in the back of his throat. Each rhythmic pull at the leash makes him buck forward that much harder in a display of deference for your lead, desperation mounting into an uncontrollable wildfire that ravages his mind as he seeks the sweet spot of your shinbone over and over again.

“Haven’t you?” You repeat.

It takes way too long for his fucked-out mind to catch on. It feels like it’s fizzling around the edges. “I’ve been good,” he keens, peeking up at you.

You smile. “That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”

Mean, mean woman.

Your eyes barely part from the soft shine of Satoru’s darkened slacks as they grow wetter and wetter with each jerky rut, further adding to the equally slick sheen swathed on your leg from how much precum is pooling out of his neglected cock.

The friction is delicious, the pressure and the slight drag of the fabric against his sensitive flesh making his eyes flutter shut in pure bliss. He's already so close to the edge, the psychological ass edging from the past two weeks ensuring his body is wound tighter than a bowstring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. He stutters out a silent moan. “Not— not gonna last long. M’close, sososo close,” he whimpers.

“That’s okay. Be good for me and cum. You’ve earned it, puppy.”

You lick your fingers before lowering them to twist at Satoru’s nipple again, and the cool wetness of your saliva coating your pads that squeeze at such a sensitive spot, paired with your order and praise, is enough to do him in.

His bitten lips part around a choked groan while he spills into his boxers like clockwork, making the fabric uncomfortably sticky with cum, and the spurts just keep coming like it’ll never end with how backed up he is. Satoru’s cumming in his pants like a teenager and he isn’t even remotely embarrassed. The haze making his ears ring and his brain fizzle out doesn’t allow him to do anything but feel instead of think.

Two weeks of no relief makes his release all the more sweeter. He barely knows what he’s saying between helpless whines of your name and thanks, every word coming out fragmented and feverish.

He jerks up against you with zero finesse, dragging out the earth-shattering ecstasy as much as he can. His flush further overtakes his features and bleeds wantonly across his skin, painting him as something ethereal. More god than man, with its selfishness and its cold metal weapons.

The entire time, your cunt throbs mercilessly in your panties, desperate for the full brunt of his cock inside of you so deep that he strikes your cervix in one shot, because gravity is a law of attraction that draws you both together and you’re so besotted with this man that it should be illegal.

When he raises his head again to look at you, those angel eyes of his are wet and wide with supplication. Milky skin reddened. He looks like a man possessed, desperate for more but unable to find the means to grab it. He doesn’t remember his name, what day it is and what he even did today, but you’re a beacon of clarity that he latches onto.

Satoru makes a noise that sounds like a distinct mix of a groan and a whine, helplessly frustrated.

“Oh, poor baby,” you soothe, drawing circles into his ruddy cheeks with the pads of your thumbs. “It’s okay. Are you overwhelmed?”

He shakes his head so fast that his pupils shake in his irises like 8-balls. “I just— want you to touch me more,” Satoru desperately heaves as he gathers himself. Desire heavily coats his tongue, and it drips out when he opens his mouth and speaks. “Please, mommy?”

He is not a man that begs for anything— except for you. Satoru’d plead himself hoarse if it would make you happy.

To anyone that doesn’t know you well enough, he’s sure that you would seem as unruffled as ever. But Satoru knows exactly where to look. The muscle in your jaw jumps the tiniest bit, your gaze sharpens, and, more noticeably, you shift your weight atop the bed as arousal courses through you at the form of address.

“Say that again.” Your voice is hoarse but sharp. It’s not a question. You command his obedience in the same way a brilliant lightning bolt cracks like a whip against the ground, demanding the surface’s attention. The hand holding the leash suddenly twists and pulls until he’s leaning forward, his breath fanning across the front of your dress where it folds and creases at your crotch. Tendrils of saliva drip, drip, drip from his mouth, drooling all over the fabric like a puppy that can’t control itself.

The air surrounding you is suddenly so thick that he could choke on it. Satoru feels like he’s shaking apart at the seams as he sucks in a gasp.

“God,” Satoru manages. His pounding heart echoes in his ears. “Please touch me, mommy. Please, please, pleaseeee.”

On any other day, he knows that you’d make him work a little harder for it, make him beg and beg until he’s hot with humiliation and wrecked between the knees, any and all lingering defiance fading into worked-over, stupidly pliant putty.

What Satoru also knows is this; you know exactly what he needs, just as well as he does— to be a mindless, pretty pet for a few hours after being denied for so long. He needs to be coddled. It’s why you drop a hand into his hair, scratching at his scalp for a moment, placating, before softly ordering him, “Up. Take your clothes off, nice and slow. I wanna see every inch of my handsome husband.”

He likes it when you boss him around, when you make your needs known so that he can scramble at the opportunity to please you in whatever way you want. It’s obvious in the earnesty plastered on his face.

“Coochie?” He asks a little too excitedly after you release his leash to give him wiggle room, bouncing up with a fresh gust of wind under his sails. His knees threaten to buckle beneath him, his body refusing to let him forget how wrecked he is after his orgasm. He has to blink away the spots lingering around the edges of his vision.

“Later, dork,” you laugh, making his pulse quicken.

Fine. That’s fine with him.

Eager to get this show on the road but wanting to give you a little performance, Satoru takes his time unbuttoning his shirt the rest of the way, revealing inch after inch of his pale, toned torso and the hollow valley of his v-lines that disappear into his pants, followed by the silvery stretch of fine hairs that make up his happy trail.

The muscle beneath his scarred skin ripples like the glistening sea off of the coast as he peels the fabric down his arms and tosses the shirt aside. Your gaze sears into him, branding.

“You like what you see, wifey?" Satoru asks teasingly as he undoes his belt and drops that too with a metallic clink, the sound loud in the charged silence of the room, then hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his slacks and boxers.

“I more than like it, hubby. Now lemme see my cock,” you purr back, crooking a finger at him to continue.

Obedient as ever, Satoru starts to inch his trousers and boxers down, slowly, torturously slow. The two waistbands slide over the prominent tent in his pants, chafing, the cum drenching his boxers making the glide uncomfortably sticky. His cock finally comes free when he tugs them down enough, flaccid and hanging heavy between his thighs. There’s a slight curve to him that you could write sonnets about.

He’s flushed a deep, angry reddish purple and soaked in a mix of his release and pre-cum, the cocktail of sticky fluids wetting his white pubes and making the coarse hair curl. The scent of his seed and sweat thickly permeates the air as he fully steps out of his soiled pants and boxers.

Standing still now that he’s fully bared before you, he watches your eyes roam over his body with obvious hunger, taking in every inch of exposed skin. His collar and dangling leash offer him no modesty, baring him wholly to you.

“God, you’re a stunner. So gorgeous,” you compliment, making his worn-out cock give a feeble twitch like it’s trying to come back to life. “Oh? You like that?”

You stare like you want to devour him whole, eyefucking his dick the most in particular.

“Um, hello?” He circles his face with a finger. “Flirt with me instead of my cock. I know it’s big, I know, but I’m feeling a little neglected.”

You laugh, the sound sweet and genuine and so you. Even that turns him on. “But baaaby—“ he shivers. He’s dying. “You react so cutely to me. It makes me wanna eat you up.”

Satoru quirks his brows. “Then eat the rich, pretty. I know you won’t gag. You never do. My throat goat,” he says cheerily.

“Shush.”

So he does.

He looks back at you with what must be the same expression of lust and affection, because even looking like you’ve just rolled out of bed in your alluring night attire (or, well, about to roll into it), you’re still the most gorgeous woman he's ever seen. Body crazy, curvy, wavy.

When he peeks down at your nightgown that’s still hitched up to your hips, he catches sight of the wet patch blooming at the gusset of your panties and groans low in his throat. You’re just as turned on as he is. Seeing you lounging about like this is a visual that’ll have him stroking himself off in the near future.

“Fuck,” he mutters shakily. His lips purse into a cute pout, wanting. “Are you sure you don’t wanna fuck just yet? Because I have six different positions in mind and I wanna be inside you so bad. Or better yet, strip and lemme just look at you? It’s not fair that I’m standing here naked and afraid and you’re fully clothed.”

It’s rhetorical, pointedly not pushy. He’s no fool— he knows who makes the decisions around here.

You lick your lips and pat the bed next to you. “I’m sure. Again, later, okay? Just get over here.”

Practically vibrating with anticipation, Satoru crawls onto the bed next to you, your warmth searing from this close. He’s pliant, letting you push him to spread out on his side, his leash merrily jingling as he moves. You match his pose, tits nearly spilling out of its flimsy barrier as you roll over.

“Hi,” he whispers as if they’re two kids at a sleepover.

“Hey,” you say, lips quirking up.

He can’t resist nipping at the tip of your nose, just because he can and now that you’re in reach he doesn’t know what to do with himself, making you frown and bat at his squishy chest. “Okay, teeth to yourself or I’ll choke you with your collar, nuisance.”

Satoru moans, so dramatic and loud and lewd that you shake with laughter. “Talk dirty to me some more.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

“Oh, happily.”

His chest rises and falls rapidly with each shallow, excited breath he takes when you grasp his leash again and you draw him into a kiss, your mouth pillow-soft against his own. You angle him so that your noses don’t squish together. He pours all of his love and need into the press of his lips against yours, lazily licking into the honeyed cove of your mouth.

Mid swapping spit, you drag a singular finger up the underside of his softened shaft with no warning and he gasps into you. It feels like you’re pressing a lit sparkler against his cock with how sensitive it feels from his previous release.

“Too much, mommy. F-fuck,” he whimpers with a quiver of his bottom lip, which you sink your teeth into almost greedily before releasing it with a wet, dragging suck.

Your eyes are dark behind your fogged-up reading glasses. “You’re the one who asked for this. You wanted me to touch you, right? Or do you want me to stop?”

His words launch out of him. “No! Nonono, want your pretty hands on me, don’t stop. You’re so good to me. Don’t stop, mommy, please. Wanna let you use me, touch me 'til you're satisfied because my cock is yours. Wanna be your good boy.”

“You’re always my good boy.” Your warm, soft hand fully wraps around his cum-soaked cock, your fingers barely able to close around its thick girth. Satoru's head lolls and drops down against the mattress when you give his cock a lazy pull.

The muscles in his thighs flinch as if he’s torn between escaping the excruciatingly delicious pain and pleasure coursing through him and falling into it. Every fucking nerve ending screams with sensation.

Your teasing touches, thumb rubbing into his weepy slit, fingers tracing each prominent vein, is almost too much to bear, but he forces himself to endure it, clenching his jaw and gripping tight at his unraveling sanity. He’s too weak to jerk away anyways— and you’d probably haul him back with your grip on his leash regardless.

He’s a toy for you to play with and tease and use for your pleasure. A good puppy that sits still and heeds your every word.

It’s funny, really, getting such unconditional obedience from an oyabun of his caliber and reputation. Larger than life and domineering— that’s how he needs to be at all times to survive in the cutthroat underbelly of the world. You’d think he’d be the same as he is on the streets as he is in the sheets. But he’s not.

Satoru’s docile and malleable for you. He’s this vulnerable, chest cavity peeled open and the muscle of his aching heart that you hold bleeding between the gaps of your fingers, just for you. Always for you.

In the scant space between you, he gazes at you with dreamy, lust-drunk eyes, his plump lips parted in a constant stream of breathy moans and hiccups. The little sobs that crest in his throat whack you with the force of a sledgehammer.

You’re biting your own lips to keep ahold of the self-restraint you’ve been showing in the face of his wantonness. Your sweet husband curled up at your side, lashes damp with tears and skin a pretty pink, is a siren-song that you’re barely resisting. You’re shaking with how much you want to pin him down into your king-sized bed and drop down on his cock or drag him over to the nearest window to let him fuck you hard and fast against it as you control the pace with his leash. But you’re stronger than your own desire.

“There you go,” you coach. Satoru can feel every soft ridge and valley of your hand as you drag it up and down the length of him. “Breathe with me, baby. Feel all that warmth spreading through your body? Let it flow down to your core and breathe it in, then out. Relax into it.”

He shivers at the sound of your molten voice, a full-bodied thing, but matching the tempo of your breathing. Giggling a little, you ease him impossibly closer with a leg that you hook over his hip and another pull of his leash, mouthing at his neck just above the slab of his collar. His skin is flushed and slick with sweat, pulse beating heavy just beneath his jaw. You press forward, both of you keening when his cockhead bumps against your swollen clit through your sopping panties.

Satoru’s head is blissfully empty. It’s just you, you, you. The world around them is rendered null and unimportant, the fog from the recesses of his mind seeming to seep out from his ears and cloak you and him in its nothingness. The collar looped around his neck only adds to the drugging feeling, pulling him deeper into the warm, staticky fuzz of submission.

Coaxed forward by all your overwhelming touches, his cock slowly fills out again the longer you play with him. “See? Feels good, doesn’t it, puppy?” You croon, finally starting to truly jerk him off, squeezing tight on each upstroke and forcing him to feel the cold weight of your wedding band against his sensitive skin.

Your smile is as sweet as it is devilish, promising your victory. It makes your nose scrunch up. You’re taking your time with him, content to let him feel every ounce of pleasure.

In seconds, he’s hard, dripping, excited, all for you, so much so that it’s killing him. Satoru's hips slam forward involuntarily, seeking more delicious friction. He's leaking like a faucet, pre-cum drooling out of his cockhead to coat your fingers and make the glide even smoother. The obscene sound of slick skin being stroked fills the room, accompanied by Satoru's ragged panting and mewls. Beneath him, his propped up elbow quivers with the effort of holding himself up.

"Shit... yeah, feels so fucking good. Spoiling me so good. Your hand is so soft. You have no— hah, no idea how much I've missed your touch. I've been so desperate for you, mommy. I’m all yours," Satoru babbles mindlessly, eyes knocking back in his skull.

He ruts his cock in and out of the sleeve of your grip and you let him, reveling in how his plush cockhead rubs right up against your clothed cunt. He’s undulating to each tug of leather, letting you manhandle him as you wish, because at the end of the day he’s just a puppet wrapped tight around your finger like a red string of fate. "I swear, if you stop now, I'll... I'll die and haunt you forever.”

“Shh, I’m not gonna stop. I said I’d reward my puppy, yeah? You don’t need to worry about a thing. I’m all yours right now,” you murmur silkily. “Touch me and I’ll think about letting you fuck me after this.”

Satoru’s hands are on you instantly, big hands dragging over your chest and grabbing handfuls of your boobs, greedily squeezing and kneading them like a loaf of bread. Or a stress ball. You’re his emotional support, after all. A hiss streams out from between his teeth when you twist your wrist, milking more pearlescent streams from his cock and making him urgently thrust forward into your grip.

He looks utterly debauched, snowy white hair disheveled and sticking to his sweat-slicked forehead, drool marching down from his parted lips and dampening the comforter beneath his head. A painting in motion, marble skin and sky-blue eyes.

He’s so strung up that he’s already being pushed towards the edge, balls drawing up tight and eager to spill another release. You could probably let go of him to spit on his cock, breathe on it, and he’d nut from that alone. “Hnnngh... I'm gonna... mmm, I'm gonna cum soon," he warns breathlessly, needily pulsing and twitching in your gentle hand like he needs you to keep rubbing his dick more than he needs to breathe. His pace is fast and sloppy. “Can I?”

You hum your assent, pleased by his manners. “Good boy. One more time, just for me. Cum for mommy, show me how much of a mess you are for me.”

“Fuck, fuck, thank you, I love you more than anything,” he yaps, squeezing more enthusiastically at your tits.

You draw the leash over his shoulder so that the ring it’s clipped onto is at his nape instead of the front of his throat, the blue bow tickling the bottom of his undercut. From there, you tug, one long constricting second that clutches at his windpipe. Satoru’s throat bobs automatically and the action is cuffed halfway, the leather bending and noosing tightly around his neck.

The added restriction is enough to do him in. His vision wipes clean, dizzying black waves crashing forth as he shudders in the most delighted way possible. He cums so hard that he swears it fries him stupid. He spills wetly over your fist and up his chest in white streaks, choking out what almost sounds like a wail, the sound simultaneously dry and wet.

He convulses next to you, legs jerking against the sheets, toes curling and head swaying back and forth as noises flow from him like water. His cock pulses through the aftershocks, balls aching with how much cum is pumping out of him.

Trembles travel through wrecked his body and the muscles in his navel quiver like a second heartbeat. Crying out, tears and drool slipping down his face, he still keeps weakly pumping in and out of your slippery fist. Ecstasy keeps humming low in his bones even when he finally shudders to a stop after a few erratic twitches, leaving him spent and boneless.

When he dizzily blinks, more tears escaping his lash line, recentering himself, and everything slowly comes creeping back into the limelight, he catches the swipe of your fingers dragging up his wet abdomen and leaving his overstimulated cock behind. You gather up his cum, lewdly sucking it up with siren eyes and a pink mouth. You even wipe some off of his collar since he sprayed his release all the way up to his chin. More pools on the sliver of comforter between your bodies, staining the expensive fabric.

You jolt a little when Satoru, eyes fogged over and brain no longer on this plane, tugs your nightgown enough to drag your breasts out. Eyes fluttering shut, his lips latch onto your pebbling nipple and he just sucks, going even more boneless as if that’s all he needs to relax.

He’s like a puppy that’s been weaned from its mother too early. Too cute.

You stroke over his damp hair for who knows how long, letting him suckle and play with your other tit to his heart’s content as he comes down. But you eventually get antsy, throbbing for him, so you spin his collar back around to its rightful position, blue bow curling prettily at his Adam’s apple and diamonds winking at you. You grip at his leash where it clips to his collar and you jostle him a little.

Satoru pops back up like a meerkat, peering at you. His lips and chin are wet with tears that tracked all the way down his face and saliva. A pretty ruined angel.

“Feeling okay?” You check on him. He nods a little dumbly, dopey smile lighting up his face. He looks higher than a kite. “Use your words.”

“M’fine,” he mumbles, glueing closer to you and hissing when his spent dick brushes your silky smooth nightgown. He smooches your sternum, then your throat, chin, and lips. “More than fine. Feels good. I needed this. Thank you, princess.”

Your heart goes all soft and gooey. “You don’t have to thank me, baby. You did so good, listened to me super well. I appreciate it.”

Something about that makes a sliver of clarity return to him. Satoru paws at his eyes almost sleepily before squinting at you through half-closed eyes. It makes him look like a golden retriever.

“I feel like my dick got beat up,” he slurs, making you sigh amusedly because his word choice never fails to tickle you, “but I could get it back up. Or I could just put my mouth on you. Wanna make you feel good, too.”

Admittedly, you’re burning with the urge to be fucked into oblivion in every surface and position possible, him at your beck and call and pulled taut by his leash, nonexistent tail wagging behind him as he pleasures you. But you also want to stay up late into the night until even the nightlife quiets down to make room for the two of you, just listening to him and scratching at his scalp the way that he likes, trading words full of affection and baring your hearts to each other all over again.

You’d do anything as long as it’s with him. You’d chase him to the ends of the earth if you could. Not that he’d let you— Satoru’d spin on his heels to let you catch you up, sweep you off your feet bridal style so that your legs don’t get sore, and run with you in his arms as you laugh into his neck.

“Well, let’s see… does my puppy know how to roll over?” You ask, tapping your chin.

Corded arms fling themselves around you, and in a second flat, his world flips around him with you at its center, always the eye of the storm, and he smoothly drags his hands down your chest the second he’s flat on his back with you atop him. Satoru gazes up at you, grinning a little cheekily, a little drunkenly. His head is tilted back proudly to show off the glittering collar around his neck.

You shift a little to straddle him properly, thighs cupping his hips as you sit strong astride him, then you’re dragging your soaked panties against his spent cock, making you both hiss.

“I sure can, sugar. Woof.”

author’s note: CRAZY? I WAS CRAZY ONCE

this literally was meant to be like a 3k-5k drabble idk how I got here 😭😭 couldn’t shut my ass up while writing

this pic is oyabun gojo core

perma tags: @libr4sonsa @spirit-kat @kaitospo @m1nrrva @enchantinghonymoon @exc3llentshot @dairyfaerie @pvmpkingod @skz8stay @floriophrastus @originalsaucy @loyalguma @wormplant @amane1271 @oporotheca @teachmehowtodokiaye

[imgonnaeatyouhyugosugitmoto]

“I wanna see it, wanna feel your love…”

-Love Taste, Moe Shop

Art by the lovely: @ alyysah._ AKA Waza on Tiktok!

Reverse Crowe Headcanons

Okay so we know that Reverse Crowe is basically the yandere in the AU and obviously emo lmao. Reverse Crowe will also be referred to as R! Crowe and Reverse Sol as R! Sol for Convenience fyi! Sol or “normal” Sol is mentioned here to.

⚠️Sensitive Topic Warning: Murder, Violence, Suggestive topics. You have been warned

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Headcanons🐦‍⬛

If the friendgroup is the same where its; Britney, Jessie, Deryl and Geo then maybe they’d be emo or just the same (just a thought), If his friendgroup is the same as his “Normal” group then he would be the random emo looking kid they adopted but they’d still get along, though R! Crowe would be paranoid that his friends also like you and if so, he would NOT spare them.

If Reverse Crowe was friends with Hyugo you can imagine he’s gets annoyed with Hyugo like Sol does, but it’s also a possibility that R! Crowe is more calm compared to Sol

You can imagine Reverse Crowe being a more calm and calculated Yandere who’s obsessed with you, rather than a irrational one like Sol. For example in the “No Witnesses Ending” You wouldn’t even discover the body in the shed. R! Crowe would have likely killed R! Sol in a more remote place. And He definitely used R! Sol’s phone to text his friends and you that he was “moving away” (obviously he’s dead). R! Crowe would be better at hiding his tracks and hiding his aggression.

R! Crowe would also be very obsessed with you but he can hide it better than Sol. Obviously he stalks you! He’s just inconspicuous about it…

He would definitely use a Crowbar instead of an Axe, yk since his name is “Crowe”. And when he eventually murders R! Sol he beats his head in with the Crowbar, but no decapitation atleast! (Tbh a head getting bashed in is still quite disturbing)

R! Crowe would dispose of bodies in the Ocean in trashbags (Dexter Type shi) since it’s less suspicious compared to burying a body. (I doubt Sol disposes of them himself He probably has Hyugo do it)

Even though R! Crowe’s nickname is Crowe the reason behind it in this case is that he prefers it because Jericho doesn’t fit the vibe and Crows (the birds) are cool (he just wants to aurafarm)

Definitely wears Guyliner and dark eyeshadow

(Heavy Headcanon) but you can imagine that he uses silver loc jewlery in his hair especially on his braid

Seems like the type to wear a lot of silver jewlery, such as leather bracelets and silver necklaces. ALSO! Silver Studded Belts!!!

He is a natural hair color person, and doesn’t dye his hair not even bleaching either

Gives off CD Collection of really niche emobands

(Personal Headcanon) but he seems like the kind of guy to go to punk shows/hardcore shows basically small emo (ahhh) concerts.

Would still be a nepo baby since regular is hinted to be welloff/rich but an emo rich kid who hides the fact that he has money

Has definitely been called a “poser atleast once on campus

Has Vertical Nipple Piercings

Also Imagine R!Crowe with a anti-eyebrow piercing

Seems like a knife collector. Not the Kitchen ones, the very fancy butterfly ones. He’d also know how to do the fancy tricks and spinning with them too so he can impress you.

I also see R! Crowe as a more consensual Yandere (like Ren from 14 days with you)

He has definitely snuck into your apartment but instead of getting all freaky with you, he’s probably cuddling you or sniffing you. Atleast he’s not rubbing his dick all over you (unlike a certain guy named Sol).

He’s creepy but not freaky (haha)

Actually I lied he’s probably masturbating to you but more so in private instead of a bathroom stall on campus.

When he draws you, his artstyle would be closer to Realism but I can also see him making abstract art of you like Picasso (yes quite contrasting art styles)

Definitely prefers graphite and ink as his art medium but he also know how to work with pastels

I would like to think R! Crowe similar to Crowe enjoys holding your hand (similar to how seaotters do it, I saw this in a comment section)

Speaking of Animals R! Crowe would like seaotters just like Crowe. There wouldn’t be any swapping where R! Crowe likes horses and R! Sol likes seaotters. Some characteristics would stay the same/similar sorta… (Crowe and seaotters is confirmed on Fantasia Tumblr, along with other TKATB characters)

R! Crowe is definitely not as friendly or popular as his counterpart. He would also not be on student council. Though R! Crowe could be in some sort of campus club, maybe the music club or art club

Speaking of Campus Clubs, R! Crowe would show up to meetings whenever he feels like it and usually goes alone, maybe he’d bring a friend with him… But he would prefer to ask you, only if you don’t mind!

If you and R! Crowe are at the dating point you and him have atleast done a mall date.

R! Crowe has money dw! He’ll spoil you!

At the mall, you and him have definitely gone into a hot topic or spencers. Bonus Points if you’re also into alternative fashion.

Random but R! Crowe definitely has a studded phone case

I think R! Crowe would call you “Pumpkin” just like how Sol does but I can also see him calling you a different pet name maybe “Sapphire” for example “my Sapphire” or something. Why Sapphire? Well…because his eyes are Sapphire Blue (idk the discourse with this)

OR R! Crowe wouldn’t use nicknames at all, it depends on how you feel about it. Likely he would ask you about it during a hangout.

R! Crowe is paitient about courting you, he waits and he doesn’t mind because he knows he can get rid of potential threats with ease.

As stated before R! Crowe isn’t irrational as Sol, he’s plotting on you and is smart about it.

If R! Crowe played an instrument he’d play Bass (just a feeling)

He’s probably gotten bullied before but doesn’t care and finds it a waste of time especially if it stops him from seeing you. Rather than getting beatup he just walks away. Non-Reactive and is able to get out of bad situations.

Similar to Crowe he doesn’t mind fighting for you, and would gladly get beat for you. Only for you though.

The manipulative type of Yandere. R! Crowe is Cunning. Has definitely gaslit you before but it’s not like you would know any better. He can lie like nothing plus he’s always Calm, or atleast is Calm in front of you.

R! Crowe is care about your opinion more than anything. He does not want to give off a bad impression of himself to you.

—————————————————————

Excuse any writing errors. This may be my longest one! Let me know if you have any ideas especially with the nickname one. Also I appreciate the support I’ve been getting on my last posts tysm! Ygs are perverts/degenerates but twin…I plan on writing (normal) Crowe headcanons and also actual fanfiction in the future. Funfact I’m mutuals with the artist I mentioned hehe 😈

[ultravioletbrit]

“murder” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 312 words

“I want a crow.” Regulus announces as he passes the last of a joint back to James.

Regulus and James were bored. It’s a Sunday night, they don’t have any classes tomorrow, all their friends are busy, and James had a joint left over from the party last weekend.

One thing led to another and now Regulus is lying on his back on the floor with his hands in the air. He interlocks his thumbs and is flapping his hands like a bird.

“You want a what?” James giggles from where he’s lying on the couch.

“A crow.” Regulus repeats. “You know… like the bird.” He flaps his hands in James’ direction for emphasis.

“Why do you want a crow?”

“Because they’re really smart and if you’re going to get a bird, you should definitely get a crow.” Regulus tells him.

“Who said I wanted to get a bird?” James asks.

“I did! Right now. Aren’t you listening?” Regulus drops his hands and rolls on his side to look at James.

“Sorry, love. I thought you wanted a crow.” James smiles at him.

“We should both get crows. We should get a whole murder of crows!” Regulus says excitedly as he crawls towards the couch.

“You want to murder the crows?” James asks with wide eyes.

“No, silly, that’s what a group of crows is called.” Regulus giggles and climbs up on the couch to snuggle in beside James. “We should get a whole group of crows, and we can feed them, and they’ll bring us little gifts.” Regulus yawns and cuddles even closer to James.

“Will they, now?” James says sweetly and wraps his arms around Regulus.

“Yup. That’s what they do.” Regulus says but his words are slurred with sleep and his breathing evens out almost immediately.

James squeezes Regulus one more time before he also falls asleep and has a very weird dream about crows.

[kabsey]

also sorry (not sorry) if i’m bothering you but rook de riva and lucanis calling their family a murder (bc a group of crows is a murder lol) is so funny to me, someone is like “oh do you have kids” and one of the pair is like “yes! we have a little murder” and they forget that Oh. Not everyone Gets It

Oh, my Rook would say things like that on purpose just to mess with people.

She cuddles up to Lucanis, looks up at him adoringly, and says, "We just love our murder, don't we, darling?"

Then she looks back at their audience with a winsome smile. "Our lives are so much more interesting with a little murder. It's not for everyone, of course, but for us, a little murder was exactly what we needed."

The person they're talking to glances at Lucanis—who just smiles placidly through the whole thing like the king he is—and then back at Rook. "Murder?"

"Oh." Rook lets out an airy laugh. "That's what we call our children. A little joke. Because we're Crows, you see."

And then she looks them dead in the eye and says, "So we've both been killing people since long before we were together."

That's usually when people decide they have somewhere else to be.

Meanwhile, Spite is cackling.

[a-brilliante-mariposa]

‼️‼️JASON TODD LOVERS ATTENTION ‼️‼️

Attention all Jason Todd/Red Hood enjoyers, fans, simps, and everything in between!

Could we call ourselves crows? Hear me out on this!

So someone in a discord server was confused why it was called “The Crowbar” and thought we all just called ourselves crows. They just accepted that we called ourselves crows because a group is called a “murder”, and you know what Jason does. Someone else pointed out that since Jason is the “Big Bad WOLF” of Crime Alley, the people he protects and his intel suppliers could be his “crows”. HEAR ME OUT!

This reflects nature where scavengers like ravens and crows have symbiotic relationships with wolves telling them where prey is and then the wolves break the food into pieces for the bird scavengers to eat more easily >:O 

Jason being a wolf also ties into how in his family he is the “lone wolf” and they don’t really appreciate him, so he finds solace in the crows that flutter around instead of the pack he isn’t accepted in…

AH MY BRAIN AND MY HEART ARE HURTING FOR THIS MAN

Don’t get me started on the muzzle… its like Jason will always believe that he needs to be muzzled because he bites too quick and barks too loud and AUGH. THE PAIN THIS MAN GOES THROUGH. MY SHAYLA 

So my plea goes out to all Jason enjoyers, WE ARE NOW CALLED CROWS! ONE OF US! ONE OF US!

@ghostf1ux @noideawhatshappeninghelp

[motimatcha]

"nostromo"

PART 2. White crow.

parts: one | two | three | four | five

dbd Xenomorph (alien) x fem!reader. attention: murder

“Let me introduce myself, my name is Ellen Louise Ripley. I am the only survivor of the Nostromo crew.”

Ellen spoke without pride or enthusiasm. Her voice was filled with bitterness and sadness, with the horror and fear of facing a monster from the depths of space one on one. Ripley looked like a woman who couldn't be broken no matter what the odds got in her way, and that made you respect this strong woman.

The fire from the fire was crackling steadily. The thrown firewood slowly turned black, turning into coals. The flame did not warm, but gave everyone present a phantom feeling of calm and safety. The territory of the survivors, fenced off by a white soothing fog, did not allow killers and creatures from other universes to reach the fire, but many still preferred to stay, if not in groups, then at least in pairs. Because it’s so safe, because it’s so comfortable. So profitable.

And among all this multitude of people, you alone felt out of place. White crow among black crows. It would seem that you could maintain a dialogue with each potential team member, taught and learned something new, but you did not have the same mutual understanding as Dwight and Claudette . You couldn't talk to Mikaella and Honas about enchantments any more than your basic knowledge of totem blessings allowed.

You were yours. But you were a stranger and in case of danger, they would be the last to save you.

“I will share with you my knowledge regarding the Alien or Xenomorph , as it is also called. This is a new... killer, as you call them here, who has a number of abilities.”

The conversation around the fire began to gain momentum. From time to time you asked your questions to Louise in order to better understand what to expect from the Alien. The information was, to put it mildly, depressing. You sincerely wanted not to compete in the tests against this monster, but everything was the will of the Entity and a little of your luck.

For the next three trials, you come face to face with the xenomorph . Perhaps he remembered you and holds a grudge, otherwise you cannot explain to yourself how it happened that in the first test you were sent to meet with the entity in the first place, the second time you were allowed to leave through the gate as the only survivors, and the third time you have successfully stumbled upon a hook.

In every unnatural-looking shadow, you saw the outline of a xenomorph's vertebrae . You heard his cry when he got caught with his paws or tail, seemingly behind his back. You could feel his saliva on and under your skin as the sixth test passed, and the creature from outer space continued to pursue you.

When for the seventh time, having completely resigned yourself to your fate of being an eternal victim of the Alien, you are incredibly lucky. You were ready to go to Ghostface , if not kiss, then something like that. And although the latter would be glad to get his first victim so soon, the other survivors looked at you more than strangely and would have suspected you of colluding with the maniac if they did not know your situation.

Laurie patted you on the shoulder sympathetically whenever you managed to cross paths.

“I’ve never felt so disgusting,” Claudette said irritably , sitting down on the edge of a fallen tree near the fire. You sat a little further away, so you could hear her words. “All this time it stood almost behind us, while we... while we...”

“Let’s be honest, we were lucky that we at least escaped without injury,” Jake Park, who apparently underwent the test with Morel . “It wasn’t pleasant for me to run through the bushes with my bare ass.”

“Do you think I really liked it?”

The guy wrinkled his face and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingers. You, interested, eavesdropped on someone else's conversation, trying not to frighten off the source of information; It will be better for you if the couple believes that their most interesting conversation was left without due attention.

You shivered when clouds of cold fog touched the bare skin of your legs and pulled them towards you, bending them at the knees. Wrapping your arms around yourself and adjusting the jacket thrown over you, you looked at the sky: beautiful and cloudless, strewn with stars - almost the same as you saw on the Nostromo , except that the satellite was much larger or closer to the surface of the planet.

Jake about something . Her active gestures and talking face clearly hinted that the girl did not agree with the words of her boyfriend, but the latter was unshakable and calm to match the emotionality of his partner. Soon their quiet conversation died down, and you understood only one thing: a stranger was watching them while the couple had sex.

Funny. And scary.

Ellen said that the xenomorph is evolving.

“It looks like my next test will be with you,” Ripley sat down next to her , oh which you thought a second ago, smiled warmly, and then looked at the stars. “I liked looking at them too.” In childhood. I dreamed that I would explore space and make discoveries, but...”

There was a moment of silence, which became awkward with each passing second. Did the girl deliberately leave the sentence unfinished to make you feel uncomfortable, did she want you to ask your question, or did the silence seem tense only to you?

The wood in the fire continued to crackle rhythmically, breaking the silence in the clearing. As you watched the once glowing scarlet wood turn to jet black, you couldn't help but notice the analogy with human determination and faith. You believed that the xenomorph would someday leave you alone when he satisfied his desire to take revenge on you, reveling in the feeling of the chase.

Faith, like a weak flame, faded away.

"But"?” you ask, hinting to hear the continuation of the story.

“When I thought that death was about to take me away and I would get rid of this nightmare, I ended up here. And he too.” Ellen shrugged. Her tired gaze turned to your figure, slightly trembling from the cold; Louise herself did not care about any weather, be it the stuffiness of an abandoned cemetery somewhere in the desert or the bone-chilling cold of Ormond. “Honestly, I thought that the monster would hunt me more than others, but watching you, I made a small assumption...”

You raised an eyebrow in surprise and anticipation . You were very interested in other people’s words, but at the same time you felt somehow uneasy. If a stranger really needs something from you, then you can safely assume that his pursuit will never end and someday his razor-sharp fangs will end up in your body. The prospect of becoming his prey did not please you at all, but so far you have managed to escape even while being possessed by him.

“So, what's your guess?”

The former officer is silent. The look of her dark eyes slightly alarms and frightens you, and the next moment the girl will turn into her sworn enemy and attack you. The acidic blood will burn through your skin and reach your bones, with its claws it will open your stomach to tear and devour your insides with its sharp fangs. Fear bubbled in your chest.

“The next time you meet him, pay attention to whether the monster has left its scent on your body. Saliva, blood...”

...The xenomorph is behind you. He hisses when he receives a blow to his chitin-covered head from the boards. A nail driven into the wood manages to scratch the strong armor, causing green poisonous blood to spill. You scream when drops of acid fall on your legs - running immediately becomes painful and difficult, a stranger can easily catch up with you and hook you with his tail. But when you turn around to see if the killer is following you, you find that he is simply standing still and watching, and then walking in the opposite direction of you...

...The viscous saliva of the xenomorph spills across the floor in front of the locker in which you hid. The secretions of a creature from deep space are mixed with your blood, flowing down your arms and legs after a recent attack - the xenomorph's tail brushed your side. With a sharp movement, the monster opens the iron cabinet door, but instead of immediately picking you up with its main weapon, a huge paw hits the back of the cabinet next to your head. The big head creeps closer to you, and you think that your end has come, that now the second mouth of the xenomorph will make a hole in your head. The xenomorph's saliva running down your cheek makes you think about a lot of things...

“Suppose, if it was, then what?..”

Ripley sighed heavily before giving her answer.

“Then I have bad news. He chose you as his mate to create a new colony here.”

Finding yourself on the Nostromo again no longer seemed something scary to you, rather than meeting one-on-one with a xenomorph . The faint hope that in today's test there will be some other killer, and not your personal nightmare, was dispelled to dust as soon as one of the points of movement of the monster was noticed. The control center located directly in front of the generator gave the alien easy access to attack from behind without being noticed. Your hands trembled weakly from fear, but you went to the generator at your own peril and risk.

You retrieved and installed the remote fire turret before sitting down to repair the generator. Fearing the worst-case scenario and knowing your luck, you specifically made the fruiting of the Entity to successfully and quickly repair the generators in order to quickly escape from the cage created by the Entity. Your comrades: Meg , Ellen and Claudette , should have tried to buy you as much time as they could.

“Most likely, his next step will be courtship. For these creatures, it is the presentation of corpses as an indicator of their strength, so that the future couple will evaluate the abilities of the future partner.”

Ripley ’s words came at the wrong time, because you almost miss the reaction check, almost blowing up the almost finished generator. A nervous chuckle escapes your lips, but then you have to hold your attention as soon as the turret begins to warn you that the killer is close.

Having finished with the generator, you took the turret and moved to the next point, marked for you by the Entity in red. It was difficult and long to move with the installation, but it was better to do so, constantly knowing whether an alien was nearby, than to run away and evade the attacks of its tail. The generators marked in red formed a good triangle, depriving the killer of which was your first priority - the ideally close location of all three points allowed you not to waste time.

The fire turret began signaling almost hysterically as soon as you approached the generator and installed the equipment. In a couple of seconds, you reach the nearest stone shelter, which completely hides your figure behind it, before a tall xenomorph figure appears from the control room . He screams heart-rendingly, as if in pain, and you yourself also wince, either from the unpleasant sound, or because the creature is somewhat pathetic. With one blow, the creature destroyed the turret, which brought it out of its crawling state, depriving it of its main weapon, after which the killer looked around in search of the next victim.

The perfect weapon was so evil that during the long chase he failed to catch a single survivor, and now he was completely set on fire by the turret.

Not finding his next victim, the alien returned back to the dungeon, but you understood that it was too early to leave the shelter - perhaps the xenomorph was only hiding, and in fact was sitting near the exit from the tunnel, waiting for the brave man who had installed a weapon here. Long minutes pass and only then do you decide to return to the strong point, get a new fire turret and start repairing the generator.

When the generator was half finished, Meg's scream was heard . Most likely, the creature touched her with its tail or claws, then there was the sound of falling boards and another scream - acidic blood fell on the girl. You couldn't go help her even if you wanted to because your main task was fixing the generator.

This is how helplessness feels.

A heavy feeling settled in your chest. As if if you were there, you could help, but being obsessed with the xenomorph , he simply would not pay his attention to you, continuing to chase other survivors until you are the last one left. And one Entity knows that a creature from deep space will rise up, who also wants to make a new colony with you.

It is impossible to have children in the world of the Entity. This is an indisputable fact proven by many survivors, but hardly the stranger knew about it, otherwise why does he continue to haunt you? Unless, of course, the reason lies in close communication with Michael Myers. Thinking about this, a faint shadow of a smile appears on your exhausted face. The picture in your head of how a silent killer telepathically conveys some instructions to an extraterrestrial being, and he shakes his head and wags his tail like a dog, amused you. Perhaps you had simply gone crazy, but now it was difficult to imagine the xenomorph as a serious threat.

Until the moment you come face to face with him again.

Suspiciously quickly, Ellen is hung on a hook, and she comes to the point of fighting the Entity. The girl, who is not quite used to everything, loses several times in the fight, and you can clearly hear her bones cracking and crunching. This makes you feel uneasy, but you forcefully hold yourself in place and finish fixing the generator. Wounded Claudette is forced to run from the killer, and Meg is too far away to save Ripley . At your own peril and risk, hoping that the killer does not decide to change course, you run up to the brunette hanging on the hook and save her from the clutches of the Entity.

“Thank you,” the survivor nods gratefully as you begin treatment. The toolbox remains lying nearby while, armed with someone else's first aid kit, you heal the wounds of the former officer. “Next time, don’t take risks. I have no more attempts to save myself.”

Biting your lower lip, you could only nod obediently, agreeing with the words of others. If the girl is telling the truth, then it really won’t be possible to save her and the next hanging will send her to a meeting with the entity. I wonder if others have at least some attempts to save themselves or are you the only one who can still try to get off the hook? After saying goodbye to Ripley and picking up your tools, you go to fix the next generator.

A body that fell nearby made you scream in fear, and then the generator exploded, illuminating the area with hundreds of sparks and revealing your location to the killer. You froze, like a rabbit in the face of a boa constrictor and don’t know what to do: run, attracting attention to yourself and, perhaps, the stranger will be distracted by you, abandoning his prey. But the stranger who notices you is only watching.

“...presenting corpses as an indicator of one’s strength...”

Excruciatingly long.

“...so that the future couple can evaluate their abilities...”

You don’t even know where this creature’s eyes are, but you can say with certainty that the gaze of the alien monster is sliding over your figure.

"...future..."

The xenomorph slowly pierces Ripley's body with its tail. Lifts him in the air, turning him to face him. You see the grimace of horror on Ellen's beautiful face. A second later, the xenomorph's second mouth pierces her head, leaving a large hole in her forehead.

"...partner..."

With gloomy calm you watch the alien creature. It throws a lifeless corpse at your feet, as if it is appreciating its work. You can clearly hear that unspoken “are you satisfied, my future couple?” in the shrill squeak of someone else. You manage to stand still with all your willpower, especially when the monster comes inappropriately close to you. You feel the iron smell, heavy cold breath above your ear, and viscous saliva mixed with blood that flows down your shoulder below.

The xenomorph suddenly turns its head to the side when it senses the presence of another survivor. It was Meg, who came out at the wrong time from around the corner of the Nostromo wreckage. Her gaze darted from Ellen's corpse to the xenomorph standing next to you.

originally there was a paragraph in this chapter where the reader reflects on the outcome of his ordeal, but does not remember how it all ended. this is due to the fact that I am an adherent of the theory of amnesia of survivors and killers. Unfortunately, I had to abandon this, but I do not exclude the possibility that references could remain somewhere in the text.

[thelocalconstellation]

I'm having Thoughts about physical manifestations of Chat. Y'know, like Tubbo has bees, Ranboo's would be the particles, etc. Etc. Etc. and having recently (in the last month or so) fallen down the rabbit hole that is Lifesteal smp, I wonder! Who has what?

Kaboodle's is bunnies, I think. Stream starts and a whole bunch just poke their heads out of the ground and follow after her. On brand!

Part of me likes to think the default form for a Chat is either voices or ghosts, so for Clownpierce part of me thinks he'd get a standard version of chat, but part of me also likes to think crows. Because a group of crows is called a murder, and seeing crows or ravens can be an omen of death sometimes too. I feel like he has mischief birds. Vibes.

Still slowly wiggling my way around more POV's, but lmk? Thoughts?

[loquatsloquatsloquats]

Cookie Run as Incorrect Quotes

Part 2! The Deceit Quad

( Plus Some Adjacent Characters For The Last Few )

|

Truthless Recluse: I’ve become a bread crumb dealer to four crows at the lake. They pay me with a bit of everything. Like shiny things, fabric, or pens. But recently they paid me with a 20 dollar bill they found somewhere. So I decided to buy them some more expensive bread. They loved it. So they understand what to do. Give me money. I’ve probably racked up about 200 dollars at this point. Is it morally wrong though, I mean. They’re the ones who steal the money from others. Or perhaps they just have a big pile laying somewhere. Should I keep on doing this?

Black Sapphire: You sound like the start of a Batman villain.

<>

Candy Apple: So, Black Sapphire, do you have a crush on anyone?

Black Sapphire: The only crush I have is this crushing anxiety.

<>

Shadow Milk: Ugh, there’s always that one in the group who isn’t down with murder.

Shadow Milk: *glares at PV*

Pure Vanilla: Well, sorry I have morals!

<>

Shadow Milk: If you aren't someone The Witches wanted dead 3000 years ago, are you really living?

<>

Shadow Milk: .. .----. -- / … --- .-. .-. -.-- (translation: I'M SORRY)

Truthless Recluse: What's that?

Shadow Milk: Remorse code.

Truthless Recluse: I'm even angrier now.

<>

Black Sapphire: Please could you go to the shop and get a carton of milk, if they have avacodos get six.

Candy Apple: *comes back from the store with six cartons of milk* They had avacados!

<>

Shadow Milk: Pure Vanilla is off at an appointment, so while they’re gone, I’m going to cut the sleeves off all of my shirts.

Black Sapphire: Why?

Shadow Milk: They’re like 90% of my impulse control.

<>

Pure Vanilla: If you took a shot for every time you made a bad decision, how drunk would you be?

Black Sapphire: Maybe a bit tipsy?

Candy Apple: Drunk.

Shadow Milk: Wasted.

Truthless Recluse: Dead.

<>

Pure Vanilla: Do you even, cuddle, bro? Do you even lift, bro… each other up with kindness? Do you tell your loved ones that you care about them regardless of who is listening? DO YOU EVER RESOLVE CONFLICTS, EMOTIONAL ISSUES THROUGH COMPROMISE AND COMPASSION RATHER THAN ANGER AND DENIAL?!

<>

Candy Apple: You know, sometimes dandelions remind me of Pure Vanilla.

Black Sapphire: Aww, is it because they’re like a little sunshine, spreading light and hope everywhere?

Candy Apple: What? Gross, no, it’s because they’re like a weed that you can’t get rid of!

<>

Black Sapphire: I want a bf.

Shadow Milk: Do you mean best friend, boyfriend or bread feast? Because you’re being really vague here.

<>

Pure Vanilla: I am an expert at identifying birds.

Shadow Milk: Okay, what about those ones flying over there?

Pure Vanilla: Yeah, they're all birds.

<>

Shadow Milk: I learned a valuable lesson from this.

Black Sapphire: I’m guessing they are all horrible distortions on the lesson you actually should’ve taken away…

Shadow Milk: DEATH ISN’T REAL AND I AM BASICALLY GOD!

<>

Truthless Recluse: Do you see yourself as a glass half-full or glass half-empty kind of person?

Shadow Milk: Half-full, definitely.

Shadow Milk: Half-full and constantly rising.

Shadow Milk: Soon the water will escape its container and consume us all.

<>

Silverbell: I bet you’re wondering why I gathered you here today. It’s because we need to have a discussion about how some people in this room aren’t getting along with other people in this room.

Black Sapphire: Why did you say that so vaguely? Mercurial Knight and I are literally the only people you called in here.

<>

Black Sapphire: See, the problem is, Mercurial Knight, you’re playing 3D chess. I’m playing 4D.

Mercurial Knight: I’m playing checkers. I don’t know what you’re playing.

<>

Silverbell: You know, Black Sapphire, when you generalize, you tell general... lies.

Black Sapphire: ...Are you trying to teach me moral lessons through puns?

<>

Mercurial Knight: We’re all in this together. If one of us falls, we all fall. Nobody is expendable on this team.

Black Sapphire: Sounds fake but ok.

<>

Silverbell: I’m this close to falling in love with Black Sapphire.

Mercurial Knight: Your fingertips are touching.

Silverbell: Exactly.

<>

Black Sapphire: We should be partners.

Silverbell: You mean like- partners in crime?

Black Sapphire: ...Yeah ...that’s precisely what I meant.

|

1 | 2 (Here) | 3 | 4 | 5 | ?

[ijustwantjohnmcnamaratobehappyok]

Big Into (your) Energy

In many ways, Grantaire is like a crow. That’s not even taking into account the black hair / black feathers thing. He, like crows, is very good at remembering faces. Ask him someone he’s known his entire life’s name, and there may be a 25% chance he’ll know it. But if he’s walking down the street and there’s someone who he got mad at five years ago on the other side? He’s running through traffic to get to them because he told them it would be on site. 

He prefers to be in a large group of friends (even if he has been forbidden to call them a ‘murder’ ever again. Cops just have no sense of humor.). He’s even taken it upon himself to help raise a kid running around in the area (Gavroche, that adorable little hellion he is).  

But above all, Grantaire loves giving little gifts to the people he cares about. Anything he finds that reminds him of his friends, he has to get and bring to them. Bottle caps with an inspirational quote on them (those Jones sodas have been his go-to since he promised his friends he’d stop drinking after a very heartfelt intervention), a hair ribbon, those sorts of things. 

So when he was walking by a store and saw those little monster key chain things, the La Bubus, in a window, featuring a red one on the display case, he was in the store trying to convince the owner to sell him that red one. Grantaire didn’t know they were blind boxes and, determined to get that red one for Enjolras, he walked out with a whole case of them. And he refuses to think about how many fights he’ll have to do to make back the amount he spent on these little things. Naturally, of the six boxes, he opens the red one last. 

“Yes!” He cheers, holding the little creature tightly in his fist. The box that had been in his lap tumbles to the ground, the small card inside falling out. Grantaire sees it and bends down to scoop it up. 

“Love, huh?” He reads the name off the card. He looks at the little red creature. It’s appropriate. He’s been in love with Enjolras for years, even if the other man either doesn’t know it or refuses to acknowledge it.  

After the next time their friend group gets together (Enjolras calls them “meetings”, Grantaire calls them “hang-outs”), he goes over to the other man. 

“Apollo! I got you something.” Enjolras turns and rolls his eyes at the moniker. The sun shines through his blond hair, framing his face like a golden halo, almost as if the world agrees with Grantaire.

“Grantaire.” He greets him with a slight tilt of his head. “You didn’t have to get me anything.” 

“I know. But it made me think of you. And you’ve been so stressed lately, between law school and trying to figure out how to fix the world. I thought it might make you smile.” He pulls out the little creature from the pocket of his comfortable, worn-in hoodie and hands it to him. 

Enjolras takes it gently, as if it’s the answer to world peace or something as precious. 

“It’s a La Bubu, right?” 

“Uh, yeah. How do you-”

“One of my classmates won’t stop blabbering on about these things.” 

“Oh.” He almost sounds annoyed about it, and now Grantaire is worried he made the worst possible choices he could have made. 

Enjolras looks at Grantaire and then back at the stuffed creature in his hands before looking back at the other man. 

“Did you happen to get the green one as well?” 

Not what Grantaire was expecting. 

“Um, yeah. Yeah! I did. Hold on.” He digs into his bag and comes back out victorious with the requested item. 

“Serenity, right?” Enjolras asks, taking it. 

“You know their names?” 

“Like I said, non-stop.” He smiles down at the little creature. “I could use a bit of serenity sometimes. And I love the color.” He looks back up at Grantarie with a genuine, but small, smile on his face. Grantaire feels pinned to the spot, feels like he’s gotten too close to the sun, and he’s going to burn in place and he’s going to relish every moment of it.

Enjolras leans in close, and for half a moment, Grantaire wonders if maybe he’s going to be kissed, but instead he tucks the red La Bubu into Grantaire’s jacket, right over his heart. 

“You should keep that one. Love suits you.” 

[possiblyunhinged]

I keep trying to write about the Supreme Court ruling on the definition of “woman” in the Equality Act and how it affects trans people—but I can’t. Not because I don’t have anything to say, but because my brain short-circuits from the sheer, mind-splitting exasperation of watching people talk about lives like they’re theory.

Watching cis men—many of whom wouldn’t lift a finger to stop a cis woman being assaulted in public because “what if I get stabbed”—now crowing about “women’s safety” in comment sections like it’s a sport they just won? Fucking nauseating.

These aren’t feminists. These are people who’ve found a socially acceptable way to be cruel and dressed it up as virtue. It’s not safety they want—it’s a socially sanctioned excuse to hate.

This ruling isn’t going to stop women from being murdered, assaulted, or harassed. In fact, I’d go as far as to say it’s going to have virtually no impact at all on the vast majority of cis women. So what will it do? It’ll make life harder for people who are already struggling to survive.

If you’re celebrating that? I’d suggest you go outside, touch some fucking grass, and try making a friend who isn’t a hateful little prick from the internet—because honestly, I think you’re starved of kindness and compassion. You just want to feel something. And for some reason, you’ve chosen cruelty as your weapon.

And no, I don’t think your average person is running around Sainsbury’s flapping about whether a trans woman is using the bog next to them. I think they’re tired. I think they’re broke. I think they’re being told, every single day, who to blame for the erosion of their quality of life—and trans people are just the next ones being handed the bill.

What people forget is this: A tiny number of loud, hateful people make up most of the online discourse, and the rest of us are left with a bleak, terrifying impression of what everyone thinks.

What reflects reality? Cis male violence. What gets conveniently ignored in all this panic about toilets and changing rooms and “safety”? Cis male violence. What still isn't adequately being addressed? Oh yeah... cis male violence.

You think I’m walking extra quick down a quiet street because I’m scared Dylan Mulvaney’s going to jump out from behind a bush? An impassioned TikToker? Get a fucking grip. We are spending our lives navigating the behaviour of cis men. Our quality of life is shaped by them—whether they’re legislators or the men we (most likely) knew who harmed us.

And look—I do think there should be space for reasoned, open debate. I think any so-called democratic country should have that. But first, you’ve got to be honest about where you’re coming from. And right now, the level of disingenuous bollocks surrounding this discourse is fucking disgusting.

Where’s the outrage over the growing wave of violent misogyny being flagged by teachers’ unions in classrooms? How many more teenage girls need to be murdered by radicalised boys before these so-called “real men” are charging through the streets demanding actual legislative change? Or do they only do that when it gives them an excuse to be racist, crack open a couple of tinnies, shout slurs, and lob bricks at the police?

Where’s the legislation for that?

People call this “whataboutery.” I call it being fucking sick of bad faith arguments about something that, frankly, has very little to do with most of the people frothing over it.

Because I’ll tell you what this isn’t: a win for women. If anything, it’s a win for the exact kind of men who never cared about women’s safety—until it gave them permission to punch down.

And while people are busy foaming at the mouth about trans teens trying to survive school, we’ve got an entire generation of boys radicalised online into believing women are inferior—and no one seems half as outraged.

If you think banning trans girls from the bathroom at school makes anyone safer, you are not protecting women—you are telling the most vulnerable group in society that they are acceptable collateral damage in your war to feel righteous.

And if you think I sound angry—good.

I’m fucking fuming.

I can’t reason with this decision, because it’s unreasonable. It’s senseless harm, designed to appease a growing culture of cruelty that’s poisoning the UK. And it won’t just make life harder for trans people—it’ll hurt the people who love them, too.

It’s about the bloke I see at 6am every day on the dog walk, who has a trans daughter who doesn’t leave the house. Who’s too scared to go to school. And he walks this dopey, beautiful little dog he only rescued for her, because he’s trying everything he can to keep his little girl alive. Because there’s no healthcare for her. No support for him. And what does this country think is sensible? Making it harder for them? Fuck off.

And if we can’t make room for truth, fear, compassion, and basic fucking sense all at once—then what the hell are we even doing?

If you feel equally as helpless, here are some great charities to donate to: notaphase, transactual, genderintelligenced.

[love-x-deepspace-headcanons]

Sylus' info~

comes from a broken home (his drug-addict mother left when he was 5, father was an abusive alcoholic and gambler)

was a constant troublemaker in school

self-taught genius (had extremely high IQ but was too bored by how ‘easy’ school was, so he put no effort in and failed out time and time again; spends most of his free time not at home, reading and learning)

naturally exceptionally talented in physical activity (sports and dance), as well as music (singing and playing instruments) that all his teachers lamented that all his talents would go to waste and he’d end up in jail his whole life

was transferred to different schools many times for how many fights he’d get into (especially anyone who learned about his family situation and tried to humiliate him with the truth around peers)

by 9, he’d joined up in a street gang of middle and high schoolers for somewhere to belong, starting off as a scrappy grunt who was treated like a nuisance younger brother

by 13, he was the right-hand of the gang leader (who was 19) because of his intelligence, skills, natural fighting ability, and his talent for always getting something done discreetly 

by 15, he challenged the leader to a fight and won, taking over as the gang leader

he rebranded the gang, calling them now ‘Mephisto’, and making their symbol a crow/raven

by 16, Mephisto had challenged and defeated/dissolved/absorbed many rival youth gangs, having total control over the troubled youth of the city 

by 18, Mephisto had become a full-blown underground criminal empire, evolving from petty thefts and fighting to ‘legitimate’ underground business

when 19, he was discovered by a kpop agent (Rafayel’s paternal aunt) when he upstaged a performance at a formal event to rap while his best Mephisto boys (Kieran and Luke, who are half-Asian/half-American) worked to hack certain businessmen’s accounts to acquire funds.

Sylus was so damn good that Raf’s aunt immediately dragged him to the Agency after his performance and a deal was struck- the Agency would try to ignore and sweep Sylus’ bad youth record under the rug if he became a new group’s rapper (that group was Love x Deepspace)

he keeps his bad boy personality and the fans stan him because they love it and think it’s just a stage persona, when he really is just that way

he still leads Mephisto, of course, but subtly because he’s so skilled by now to not get caught

it is a requirement for all Mephisto members to buy his albums

Luke and Kieran attend every show, and to the public, they’re his ‘younger best friends’

His father died when he was 17. Sylus came home to leave at least a little money for food (though his father only spent it on booze), and his drunk father stumbled home before he could leave. He began to beat Sylus (who could have killed him easily but took the beating on purpose), even smashing a bottle on his head and making him bleed profusely. His death? An accident, of course. His drunk father stumbled over his own feet while following him to beat him more, and simply slipped down the stairs. Sylus *definitely* didn’t nudge him.

many suspected the troubled teen of murder but the violent evidence of how badly hurt Sylus was proved to investigators that he was a victim (“i took the beating because I just couldn’t raise a hand to my own father even after all he’d done, officer”, an obvious lie for sympathy)

a year into his kpop debut, info of his father’s death and his abusive childhood were leaked (coughs in Luke and Kieran), and it garnered sympathy among his stans who loved him even more for what he endured

he likes to be shirtless so much on stage and in music videos to show off his huge crow wing tattoo. To stans, he just looks like a sexy bad boy. To those in the underworld who see him, it’s a threat to not mess with Mephisto because the kpop group is internationally famous

bro is a bird whisperer whom all the crows/ravens seem to adore

Sylus’ most prominent tattoo is the set of large crow wings on his back/arms, but he also has a small ‘N109’ tattooed over his heart. In interviews, he never answers questions about what his tattoos mean

his tattoo kind of looks like this

[ronanlynchdefender]

The Raven Cycle Arcane AU

Combining the two things I love and imagining what would happen if the trc characters existed in Piltover/Zaun.

SPOILERS FOR ARCANE SEASON 2 AND THE RAVEN CYCLE / DREAMER TRILOGY

1. Ronan and Jinx would be best friends. She’d tell him about how she murdered her whole family, he’d say something like “damn, that’s hardcore.” Then him, Jinx, and Ekko would all blow up the hexgates together to save the tree or something. Also, Ronan probably dreamt Ekko’s tree.

2. Adam would be a Zaunite living in Piltover just like Viktor, but they would be rivals. Cue the “there can only be one of us at the top” societal commentary.

3. Blue Sargent would be demanding the council to do shit to help the impoverished and sick populations of Zaun. All the topsiders would be side eyeing all her wacky outfits but she don’t give a fuck.

4. Blue would 100% be helping Ekko run his refugee community.

5. Gansey would be a councilor although he’d hate his job. Gansey brings Adam in initially as an assistant, similar in how Mel has Elora, but then he would have heard how Jayce calls Viktor his partner and insists on calling Adam his partner. Adam is so fed up with Gansey because dude is like um you know all the other councilors are manipulating you, right? And Gansey would say something like oh? Are they? How unfortunate.

6. Declan Lynch would absolutely FOLD for Mel Medarda. A beautiful, powerful black woman who can paint? Yeah he’s a goner. Also Declan/Mel/Jayce/Viktor polycule.

7. Jayce and Gansey would stare at each other awkwardly and with confusion. Sorta like looking in a funhouse mirror. Wait. Am I the golden boy or are you the golden boy?

8. Jayce, Gansey, and Henry Cheng make up the most ridiculous friend group you’ve ever seen. The Academy Boys or some shit. Henry finally gets to live out his dream of being close to Gansey. Adam and Viktor are additions to the friend group later, and Henry happily enjoys the drama that ensues.

9. Ronan would absolutely be getting drunk and crashing out along with Vi and going through a pit fighter era because Adam went to live in Piltover to work in politics.

10. Vi is the big sister Ronan never had. Declan is jealous of their dynamic.

11. Ronan and Opal would be the cutest editions to the Sevika, Jinx, Isha found family. ISHA AND OPAL SISTERS. ISHA AND OPAL SISTERS.

12. How Ronan and Jinx meet probably:

Ronan: Get that pistol away from my bird.

Jinx: What do you care? It’s just a stupid crow.

Ronan: It’s a raven, fuckface. Her name is Chainsaw.

13. Sevika, at some point: It’s not enough I got deal with Jinx by herself. Now I gotta deal with the fucking chaos twins and their pipsqueaks.

14. Gansey would probably develop an interest in Zaun, but soon discover the horrors that exist down there and meet Blue. Similar to how Heimerdinger does and meets Ekko.

15. Gansey: So you fell in love with a mage?

Jayce: Yeah. And you fell in love with a witch?

Gansey: Apparently. She acts as a magical mirror.

Jayce: Huh, that’s weird. My girlfriend is a magical mirror too.

Gansey: Really?

Jayce: Yeah.

*more confused funhouse mirror staring*

Jayce: Well… my girlfriend used her powers to save my life in an explosion.

Gansey: Oh okay. Mine is destined to kill me with a kiss.

Jayce: Oh, well that’s totally different.

16. In the end, Gansey would give up his seat on the council to Henry Cheng. Henry and Sevika are the only people on the council getting shit done.

17. When Viktor is taking over the world with his glorious evolution, he takes Adam and Jayce’s souls. Ekko and Ronan work together so Ronan can save Adam. When Viktor touches Ronan to evolve his soul, he appears as a giant eldritch horror in the astral plane. Him and Viktor have big boss god battle in the cosmos. The jayvik and pynch soul merging scenes happen separately in the astral plane.

[colorisbyshe]

List of my Veilguard Complaints... just all together... getting it out of my system and then making it reddit's problem:

This game felt so emotionally flat. I think... the reviewers calling out the game for "therapy speak" weren't entirely wrong. It's more exposition speak and the fact that EVERY SINGLE feeling EVERY SINGLE trauma EVERY SINGLE event needs to be processed, out loud. It's not "too woke," it's just emotionally... spacious. Because you're forced to explore EVERYONE'S interiority... it feels like they have none left, does that make sense? No one has hidden depths because they announce and process every thing they go through, often immediately after it happens. It's hard to imagine any additional depth

It's also hard because... no one... has that much depth. Everyone has weaknesses and bad things that happened to them but it feels like there was a lack of... real character arcs? People had character sub plots. "Accept this thing about myself" was the main one. Which... doesn't help the therapy speak accusation.

No one is a bad person. The crows? The human trafficking, child soldiering, murderous gang? They're the good guys and we should be happy they rule Treviso! Lucanis is just a good guy doing good work. Neve works with Magisters and Templars and some of them are bad... but not her friends. She only works with the good ones! The dalish form a group with Qunari and human members and they're just a diverse coalition who... love mages now (despite having kicked them out last game?? okay). Literally NO ONE is allowed to be EVEN A LITTLE morally dubious unless they'er a Bad Guy or they're fucking solas

I MISS BIOWARE GREY MORALITY! THATS HOW BAD IT IS! I FUCKING MISS IT I MISS IT I DO BRING BACK ANDERS BRING BACK ZEVRAN BRING BACK MORRIGAN AND FUCKING CULLEN AND FUCKING BLACKWALL BRING BACK ISABELA BRING BACK MERRILL AND HER DEMON SHIT! BRING IT BACK

"Oh, we're treasure hunters but we're not COLONIZERS! We don't steal cultural artifacts! We return them to the real owners, we're pirates but we're NICE AND RESPECT PRONOUNS!" CHRIST ALIVE!!!

EVERYONE WE MEET IN TEVINTER IS NICE??? EVEN THE GANG??? THE THREADS GANG IS NICE!! THEYRE SCAMMRES BUT THEYRE SO GOOD ITS A HAPPY ENEDING IF ONE OF OUR COMPANIONS RUNS THEIR GANG??? WHAT???

It was... a little bit awesome to have dorian become a violent revolution man but like????? Then Minrathous gets nuked so the game is too cowardly to even do that shit

AND THATS THE OTHER THING! This game made sure NOTHING matters choice wise! Oh, you chose to save Minranthous? It gets nuked at teh end. Oh, your choices fro previous games? Only matters if you romanced Solas but Dorian might call your Inquisitor "Amatus" in a non-cut scene dialogue. FUck you if you romanced anyone else. Southern Thedas is just.... all dead now... it's over... so any choices you mad ether eare NEVER going to be relevant. The companion personal quest choices really don'tmatter and won't matter next game.

THEY KILLED THE DNA OF A DRAGON AGE GAME! No grey morality, no meaningful choices, fuck... barely any romance once you flirt (NO POST-ENDING ROMANCE SCENE!!! EVEN MORE SHY ABOUT NUDITY!), AND NO FUCKING THEMES!

What was the theme of this game? Following Solas' story, it might be redemption or letting go of the past, I guess, but?? Do the main stories tie into that? Not really. We have ONE part of a hcapter be about Rook letting go of regrets... for deaths that jUST happened not even anything lingering.

Plots around OPPRESSION ANTI-ELF AND ANTI-MAGE DISCRIMINATION?? Gone... IN A STORY ABOUT TAKING DOWN SLAVERS... LIKE THE OG SLAVERS??? Yeah, it doesn't matter. We have idle talk about slave revolutions and that's... it?? I'm an elf in Tevniter and no one cared. What? Qunari and Elves and humans are all besties except the Antaam (some of which still become besties)... what? How do yo drop the single strongest through-line in the series?

"Oh, well it takes place in the north, it's different rfrom the south!" OKAY BUT THE FALL OUT IN THE NORTH LITERALLY NUKED THE SOUTH OUT OF EXISTENCE, I CAN'T GET SOME LINES ABOUT CULTURAL DIFFERENCES! Or like... a line referencing what happned to the southern wardens after... y'unno... the whole betrayal thing last game? That's all chill?

Varric's plot twist was fucking stupid. See: this post.

The romance with Neve was sooo promising btu felt passionless towards the end. Maybe there are better choices but... the lack ofreal closure burns. No final kiss, just a wobbling "I love you" that sounded like it came after pulling teeth like... no passion for real?

Taash's nonbinary plotline sucked. I'm sorry. It did. As a nonbinary person I can say that.

Harding was so OOC it fucking hurt.

I chose her for the mandatory death because that wasn't my harding. It's absurd that that limited the mandatory death thing to two potential characters?

Larger casts are always hard but it feel slike they rly struggled to make all characters relevant to the main plot. Taash's mom/gender struggle could've been skipped. Emmrich was amazing but felt like he was a part of an entirely separate game. Bellara's archive plot felt close-ish to teh main plot of letting go of the past but the fact that you can choose to keep it going kinda... makes it less relevant. Idk.

Besides... Lucanis... and sometimes Bellara and sometimes Harding no one feels like they're reacting to the plot. The fact that a character can die but it's skimmed over after a scene and some chats is insane. The pacing is terribleeeee like oh I can watch Harding and Taash's terrible romance (I'll say it!! Harding acts liek a doting mom and NOT in a sexy way) in dialogue across several missions in the Lighthouse but we zoom past companions dying? THe world ending??

The world was beautiful BUT THE WORLD BUILDING SUCKED! Sorry but SOOO many locations make NO sense construction wise. Why is a chest in the middle of street? Why does this bridge only appear when I have a quest? It's hard to tell when an area is inaccessible because you haven't figured out how to get there vs you literally aren't allowed to go there yet. It makes the world feel more like Oh I'm playing a game rather than you're exploring a real place. They did not navigate inaccessible areas well as a concept.

CHARACTER MOTIVATION EQUALLY AS FUCKING MESSY! I still don't know what Elgar'nan/Ghilan'nain's plan rly was even though Ghilan'nain literally wails about them. They wanted to rule, they were blight addled so I guess they're insane, but... why did they have to do it this way? What were they gonna do as rules?

Solas wanted to tear the veil down ti imprison them even harder except tearing the veil down lets out the blight except letting them out of prison also lets out the blight and don't worry when he tears the veil down he'll imprison/kill them again and make sure the blight isn't too bad even tho the veil was the only thing keeping the blight in?? And oh haha killing them lets down the veil. Also, AFTER killing htem, the veil takes a while to be torn and actually stays in place long enough for Solas to feel bad and patch it up with his own essence... okay?

The Butcher Antaam dude looooves Treviso so he accepts the blight into his body to rule it but you have to fight him.. to prove you're worthy of keeping him... from destroying Treviso? He loves it and also wants it destroyed. Again, he's blighted so he's CRAAAZY but... what?

Even with Emmrich! He's scared of becoming immortal because he's a afraid of death. So you resolve that by either pressuring him to never die by being immortal... or by not letting his friend die? Huh? We conquer fear of death by just... not letting things die?What?

Not the same thing but why would dorian stay up in the north to become an archon if he romanced an inquisitor who is fighting for their life in teh soutH? again this continuity SUCKS

[usuallydyinginside]

⚠️This entire post is one big spoiler for Dragon Age: The Veilguard. You’ve been warned. ⚠️

I accidentally created the most angst-filled story possible my first time playing, and I desperately need to tell someone so here it goes.

Okay, so we begin with Rook as all DAV games do. Mine is a mage from Treviso. A Crow who is in trouble for ignoring orders to save a group of prisoners (Varric among them). When she does this, it endangered a larger operation, and she basically got sent away as punishment. That’s okay, though, because she gets to go help Varric on his fun little mission to stop Solas.

Enter: Neve Gallus. She’s beautiful, funny, and my god is the absolute icon of a detective I never knew I needed in my life. It’s love at first sight for me (though less so for Rook). Their banter is 10/10 from the get go.

At the ritual, we’re tasked with choosing someone to go with us into further danger. I was terrified the person would die, and I came into the game SO excited to have Harding on the team, so I couldn’t risk her. I brought Neve with me instead.

Which, of course leads to Neve being visibly hurt for a solid first bit of the game. Literally just me standing over there flirting while she’s got a massive bruise across her face that came from my decision. Yay.

When The Choice comes up it takes me by surprise. What the hell does the game mean I have to choose a city?!? How can I choose between my own hometown and the deeply beloved home of my one true love? (Because yes, by now Rook is smitten but I have given this woman my whole heart). Because of the way the choice is presented (that it’s civilians most in danger in Treviso) and based on it being my backstory-related place, I figure the best narrative is saving them.

Besides, Neve will understand…… right?!?

As anyone who’s gone this route knows, Neve is PISSED. She leaves the party for a while and sends notes you can just feel the hurt wafting off of. It’s obvious why when you visit Dock Town. The choice warns you about the cult taking over… but not that basically every single Shadow Dragon will be murdered, blighted, or absent for the large majority of the rest of the game. Not that Neve’s own home is destroyed along with every possession she has that isn’t currently in the Lighthouse. Not that the literal base of the SDs is destroyed and the org is basically no more.

Like, of COURSE she’s mad.

By this point, I miss Neve, and I feel guilty as hell, so I go down all of the quests that I can in her city. It changes nothing because approval doesn’t happen when she’s not in the party and Neve’s return is based on the main plot moving forward. Which means that I basically shot myself in the foot and made it ten times harder to win her approval, because most of the easiest quests are done and gone.

So when Neve gets back, she stays pissed and sad a LONG time. I have her in my party for every quest and it takes nearly all of them to get her even with the rest of the party in Act 2, because now she has the “hardened” status.

But finally, eventually, I do get her there and I’m able to romance her!! She understands my impossible choice now that she’s had some time, and we get adorable cut scenes.

All through these, the theme is clear: Neve’s driving character arc, particularly in romance, is that good things don’t last. Every spot of luck comes with a catch.

So you? You must be a temporary thing to her. She can’t count on you to be there, because somehow, she will lose you.

Which, of course, takes us to the point of no return.

Neve’s final romance scene before you go off to face the gods (again) is essentially an argument. She refuses to talk about you both having a future together because it scares her to even try to believe it’s possible. She calls you her favorite nickname a lot—Trouble and even notes she chose it well. That you’re loads of trouble for her once carefully protected heart.

On the choice between Bellara vs Neve, I chose Bellara because I do not trust this game, and I am finishing this goddamn romance at this point or so help me. This is actually the more tragic outlook for Neve though! 🙃 First, she disapproves and believes that it shows you don’t have faith in her as she suspected, confirming her belief you can’t be counted on. Then, she’s not lost in a fog of blight for days.

Oh no. She gets to be there to feel ALL of it.

When Solas tricks Rook and locks her in the prison of the fade, Neve’s worst nightmares come true. The catch has made itself known. The tables have turned. Fate has proven her cynicism right once again.

Good things don’t last.

Neve spends TWO WEEKS kicking herself for believing it could be her have been different. The whole world is doomed as far as she knows, and that’s not what she’s thinking about. Even with Dock Town at the center of the fight—the city she adores and never stops talking about—that’s not where her head is at.

It’s locked in the fade with you. Her heart.

When Rook reappears, Neve can scarcely believe it. She talks about the fact that somehow after all that, she did have hope you’d come back. That part of her was holding onto Rook’s personal brand of optimism even through her panic.

Her first words to you in that cutscene are “You came back.”

You can hear her surprise. Like even then, she can’t quite believe it.

Finally you hit the turning point where Neve stops living so cautiously she can’t enjoy the present and what you have together. She’s able to admit she loves you.

And when the game ends, Dock Town is even more destroyed from the events of Act 3, but this time, Neve doesn’t use it as a way to push you away. This time, she knows you’re in it together. They you’ll help rebuild together.

After every impossible choice… every tragedy… every hardship, you’re together.

Now, you can only prove it was worth all the trouble. ❤️

[stusbunker]

Spotless: Vivace

Chapter Twenty Five

Featuring: Dean Winchester/Reader, Dean/Bela

Other characters: Bobby, Tiny, Lee, Kevin, Annie, Pamela, Sam, faceless fans and support staff

Word Count: 2900

Warnings, etc: Mutual pining, jealousy, grief, musical backstory and hope

A/N: The band played on.

Series Masterlist

You held your breath as Bobby gathered the band backstage. Two dozen roadies, stage crew, and security stilled as he looked past the boys and Pam to their support staff, only Charlie and her team were missing, already in place in the booth. You shivered and waited. Jody’s voice echoed behind the bend thanking the crowd and promising a great show from Phantom Traveler to come. Andy slinked around and continued to snap pictures, despite the glare it earned him anytime Bobby caught the lens pointed toward him. The ragtag group buzzed with excitement and you silently prayed that it would go off without a hitch. 

Finally, Bobby began to speak, “I know a lot of you are nervous about tonight, ‘bout this tour— hell about this band. But it means a lot that y’all signed on for another round of nonsense with these idjits. It means you believe in them, that you’ve got faith they can pull together and get it done. Well, I’m here to tell you it’s not a time to worry, because ain't no other band that can do what these guys do. It’s a time to celebrate. Let’s get out there and fuckin’ rock’n’roll.”

Lee hooted and people cheered, you couldn’t help but clap and shriek along. Then everyone crowded in for the circle of hands and chanted “Phaaaaaantom TRAV-ler!”

The band and crew maneuvered in the dark, letting the interim instrumentals keep the crowd distracted as they set up. You scurried back to where you had left Bela in the wings, under Tiny’s care.

“Everything alright?” Bela asked out of the side of her mouth, shifting in place as she tried to clock Dean amongst the many moving shapes.

“Aces,” you replied, bouncing on the balls of your feet as the crowd started to clap with an increasing beat.

You spotted Sam and Kevin’s silhouettes high five and then Lee strummed a teaser chord. Walkie talkies crackled around you as the all clear was called. You kept an earpiece in, but without much left for you to do, you turned it to the lowest setting besides mute. 

It was go time. 

“Bring ‘em up, Charlie,” Bobby prompted over the line and the Forum erupted. 

Lights and wavelengths of sound shot off in every direction and Phantom Traveler took off.

You wouldn’t have stopped yourself from screaming bloody murder even if you had remembered you were directly beside your very posh best friend and her security detail. 

It was happening. They made it back home.

“Good evening Inglewood!” Dean greeted, pointedly accurate. Plus you could tell he was grinning from where you stood, from just the sway of his head and a glimpse of his profile.

There was no other chit chat, no grand speech thanking them for coming out, it was just the band, the music, and the audience.

They started off with ‘Woman in White’, their first major single and something high energy enough to get people out of their seats. Then on to the B side of their first EP, which was a cult favorite called ‘Playthings’ that featured something affectionately referred to as ‘the beat off’ between Sam and Pam.

But at the time it was written, it was played by Sam and Cas.

Pam did it better.

It was like someone was racing up the stairs or against time itself as the two rhythm setting musicians fought for dominance. The crowd ate it up. And you could tell they both were already dripping sweat by the time the song ended and they tuned it back and finally jumped into their last fateful album.

‘Scarecrow’ was haunted and foreboding, reminiscent of early 90s metal that you knew Dean adored. It was also Cas’ favorite track off that entire album. And Kevin killed the bridge as the keyboard turned into an ancient organ chasing the crows away with the dawn. Charlie even added a cackling Vincent Price at the end that couldn’t be topped.

“How’s everybody doing tonight?!” Lee took the words out of Dean’s mouth, which earned him a kick in the ass. They were having a blast up there and it was infectious.

The crowd roared.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Dean bellowed. “I hope you don’t mind, but we’d like to bring somebody out for this next number.”

Shrill ruckus pierced the air, they knew what was coming.

“She’s our very dear friend and we just so happened to convince her to tag along with us this tour. You know her, you love her, please— give a very warm welcome to the incomparable Ms. Annie Hawkins!”

Everyone screamed and stomped, watching as the spotlight followed Annie from the farside of the stage towards the standing mics centerstage.

“Oh, she looks amazing,” Bela spoke for the first time since you’d gotten back. And she wasn’t wrong.

“The girls probably had a blast with her in their dressing room,” you tacked on thoughtfully.

“Her top though,” Bela continued. “I want it.”

You chuckled at Bela’s priorities and quickly got sucked back into what was happening barely thirty feet away.

“You sure you’re ready over there?” Annie teased as Dean adjusted his mic after rushing to set down his guitar.

The crowd laughed in unison.

“I’m ready, do you think they’re ready?” Dean asked coyly, gesturing to the crowd.

All around you camera screens glowed and flashed burst through the darkened arena. Concert security lined the stage and guarded the partitioned areas for the crew and band to navigate the area. Until that moment you really hadn’t been able to pull any single response from the cacophony. You hadn’t been trying anyway. But when Annie goaded Dean a cluster of women in the pit got your attention.

“And here I thought you were out here warming them up for me?” Annie teased.

The crowd loved it, but one catty comment made it feel like you and Bela were right there up on stage with them. “Bela needs to get her man before that cougar gets too cozy up there.”

They eyed your little corner below the VIP suspiciously. You missed whatever Dean said in response, instead watching the women glare and Bela adamantly ignore them in equal measure.

But then the song began. A slow and slinking start reminiscent of Springsteen’s Fire. Which you clocked the first time you heard it, but that was just the intro. The lyrics started up as a quick conversation, a compromise even and then they were harmonizing into the chorus. 

The band hadn’t done many duets, even with such talented singers in their ranks. It wasn’t their style. But this song felt like it had always existed, it was timeless and familiar and really fucking catchy. Annie beamed at Dean when he slipped closer on stage and they belted out the final lines.

It made you feel like they were performing only for you, for their people. It was honest and intimate, but this wasn’t rehearsal or karaoke and the audience would not be forgotten.

Everyone cheered. Even the judgy bitches that kept watching Bela at your side.

Dean hugged Annie and made sure she got the reception she deserved, egging the crowd on and bowing in homage to her talent.

She rolled her eyes, did a snarky curtsy and waved her way back off stage.

“You guys seem to be digging that one. Maybe we could play some more new stuff for y’all tonight?” Lee asked. “I mean— the album isn’t out yet.”

Naturally, the crowd shouted and begged for more.

Bela turned to whisper to you. “They’re not gonna get in trouble for this are they?”

You shook your head. “They’ve got permission to do a few songs until the album is actually out and then they’ll change up the set list to cover more of the new stuff.”

“Got it.”

“Yeah, bootlegs always exist, but this way they’re building excitement but not giving away the farm.”

“Lee!” Dean admonished playfully. 

“What?!” Lee spat back, smirking.

“Sam— tell him.”

Sam shook his head, always stoic on stage.

Dean kept up the ruse. “I don’t know if we should. Pamela?”

Pamela thudded the bass drum and hit the crash. 

“Okay! Pammy’s in— Kevo?” Lee kept the momentum going.

And without any warning or time for Kevin to actually respond, they burst into the opening of 'Prophet and Loss'. 

“I would kill for a drink—- is there somebody we could send to concessions?” Bela asked midsong. And you looked around, wondering if any of the staff could actually leave their posts without getting in trouble. 

You suddenly felt like a bad host. “We’ll get you a box for Vegas. I know this isn’t as fun as it sounds standing for two hours straight.”

“Y/N, I’m fine. Promise.”

“Okay, well I’ll go after the next song. You want anything, Tiny?” you asked your silent companion.

“All good, boss.” He replied and straightened his stance, clasping his hands in front of him.

Kevin silenced the space with the burst of chords at the beginning of his solo, showcasing what Julliard training could do and how rock’n’roll could still be classy as hell. The key changed, turning the mood broken and lamenting as they stumbled into the bridge where Dean pelted out about losing Cas without so much detail.

 Dean let the note hang in the air. “'Prophet and Loss', everybody.”

Whistles filled the air, keeping the mood somber but with enough reception to know that small offering was gratefully accepted.

“Thanks— uh, I, we really appreciate being here tonight and being able to share some of the new album with everybody. But we know you wanna hear the stuff you know, too. So we’re gonna hop back to it and have a kick ass night. How’s that sound?” Dean checked in.

The crowd cheered.

“Did you hear something?” Dean asked Lee jokingly.

The crowd got louder.

“I don’t know if they’re up for much more,” Lee taunted back.

You rolled your eyes and turned to Bela. “Okay, I’ll be back, text me if you think of anything besides drinks.”

The crowd continued to take the bait, howling behind you as you made your way out of the off limit areas and up a side stairway towards the general admission cavern-like hallway. For the first time it felt like all day, you exhaled. Your pass flapped against your chest as you strutted quickly towards the concession area, bypassing the VIP lounge because you didn’t want to get distracted by Madison or any of the mid-level suits that might be milling around.

You could have stolen something from the dressing room, but that wouldn’t have taken nearly as long and you needed some time off of Bela duty tonight. Which made you feel guilty as hell. She was your best friend! She didn’t do anything wrong. And yet you were incredibly frustrated with even the thought of her.

So you waited in line, ordered two extremely overpriced and depressingly weak cocktails, and put them on your expense card. 

The thing about regret is that it isn’t a one time experience. There might have been a moment in the process of you contriving this scenario for Dean’s redemption where you second or third guessed yourself. But the biting sting of seeing him play happy with Bela online and even in person had come at you in waves.

Regret was bearable if it meant it worked, if Dean could have some peace.

But this wasn’t just regret, it was petulance and jealousy and injustice.

Because Bobby had asked all the way back in the beginning, why couldn’t it have been you playing arm candy? And the fact that people could see what you had tried so hard to bury and ignore plain as day, well, it made you feel incredibly small and even more pathetic.

There was no reason for you to be the one at Dean’s side. But damn did you want to be.

And somehow you had managed to keep that from one of the most important people in your life. So it wasn’t just that Bela was getting a part of Dean that you’d never have. Or parts. You shuttered at the thought of where his mouth had been. It was that your best friend hadn’t even clocked the elephant in the room.

Like she didn’t even know you at all.

Or maybe that was on you too. Maybe you hadn’t been honest with yourself until it was too late. How could you put that blame on her too?

You slammed your drink and got back in line for a replacement, not wanting to return with only Bela’s cup like some kind of maid. You could hear the crowd singing along with Lee on ‘A Reaper’s Offering’, a bluesy cut from their second studio album. 

You probably had another two songs before you’d miss anything else new. But you also knew Bela was waiting and the longer the show went on, the more drunk and ballsy random fans could get. You couldn’t leave her with the forever nonplussed Tiny for backup. You smiled at the woman working the bar cart apologetically and ordered another husk of a cocktail.

After another stream of applause, the opening bars of ‘Abandon All Hope’ started and you knew you had to book it. This was Jo’s song, you couldn’t miss it. You never left Dean to get through this one alone. Huffing down the service steps with two drinks in hand in heels was something that you managed only from practice, but you made it in time for the first chorus.

“Oh aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Bela murmured to her drink before sipping it and wincing. “It’ll do. Took you long enough,” she teased and winked, hip checking you as you struggled to get your breathing under control as you mouthed along with Dean’s words.

“Trapped by your side with no exit, we had to let you go—”

Bela quickly picked up on your shift in mood and reeled in the playfulness, for which you gave her a grateful glance before turning back to try and lock eyes with Dean on stage.

“Defending that night while trying to give comfort, we should have known—”

“To abandon all hope,” you sang out, the last lyric rising up to hover in the air. 

Dean turned and glanced in your direction and then looked again once he finally saw you. He nodded and tapped his heart and you returned the gesture, you both kept her safe as you could now. He blew a kiss to the ceiling and bowed.

The crowd continued to echo around you, suffocating yet as distant as thunder. 

“Alrighty, folks, we’re gonna take a short break for Sammy to find another shirt and we’ll get you one last sneak peak,” Dean explained. “Kevin? Think you and Pam can keep ‘em busy for me?”

“Aye-aye,” Kevin said and saluted, out of range of his mic stand.

Pam started in with the count and Kevin peeled in down from the upper registers, like he was sliding in from Heaven and crashing a party. The instrumental interlude was a mesmerizing feat of jumping genres and killing time while showcasing just what all each of them could do. But you weren’t even paying attention. Dean made a beeline for the back of the stage and he wound around security until he could find you. 

He gripped the ball of your shoulder and leaned in. “I didn’t see you until the end— had me worried, Trouble!”

He had to talk over the crowd, his back firmly towards the nearest wedge of fans.

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be!”

He stared at you, sweaty and down to a single layer, earpiece still in his left ear. 

“You’re killing it up there,” Bela said, making you both stop and blink. Dean grinned and pulled her into a hug, a boyfriend hug, arms tight around her waist so her arms can loop around his neck. She even kicked a leg back for balance. 

God was she good.

“You keep an eye on her, okay? She’s gonna need tissues for the next one,” Dean warned playfully down his nose at Bela about you.

She rolled her eyes. “You are a menace on the emotional, aren’t you?”

“All in a day’s work,” Dean shrugged and set her back on her own two feet.

The crackle of a nearby walkie made Dean look around for whoever was sent to find him. “Sam’s looking for you,” an unimpressed lackey of Benny’s pointed out from ten feet away.

“Yeah, I bet he is. Alright, well, see you ladies later— Tiny,” Dean stepped back nodding. He soon disappeared only to hop up on the wing of the stage, grabbing an acoustic and sliding it on.

After the chaos of the crowd dissipated from Pamela’s and Kevin’s antics, Dean and Sam walked on stage and sat down on a pair of stools that had been left out for them. They didn’t look at each other or even the crowd and you knew in that moment that Dean hadn’t been lying. You weren’t gonna survive the next song live with a dry eye.

‘Brothers Keeper’ nearly took down the entire venue. 

Cell phones and lighters blazed in the dark, enraptured space as Dean and Sam sang about each other, about family, and about forgiveness.

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Chapter 27: Polyphony