#the worst part is the right ear isn’t even done yet | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mojogojocasahouse · 5 months ago

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Just in Time Part II

Satoru Gojo x f!reader (Principal Gakuganji's daughter)

On the eve of a wedding of your father's arrangement, you call upon your reliable yet agitating old flame Satoru Gojo in an act of desperation and defiance

words: 6.5k series content: infidelity (in an arranged marriage so does that even count?), angst, smut, unprotected p in v, oral m & f-receiving, face fucking, rough sex, minor choking, spit kink, creampie, jealous!Gojo, protective!Gojo (moreso in part ii), minor degradation 18+ only

Part I

You follow the sound out into the cool summer morning, Satoru leaning back against the railing with his head hung. He’s in shorts and an unzipped hoodie, his snowy locks still mussed from his pillow. He raises his eyes when he hears the door opening, blinking the agony from his eyes away before he smiles. Had you not been paying attention you’d have missed the switch.

“Go sit in the bedroom and stay there,” Satoru instructs, turning you by the shoulder and gently shoving you toward his room, “Actually, lock yourself in the bathroom or something…Okay, or just stand there…”

Fear has frozen you in place, but when he pushes down on your head you drop to the floor in a heap, leaning back against the counter in the middle of the kitchen as a call of your name on the other side of the door signifies the worst has come to pass. You hear Satoru mutter ‘Good enough, I guess,’ before he snaps his jovial, mischievous persona back into place, his sing-song greeting to your father outside barely audible just as the hinges close behind him. It takes you too long to drag yourself across the sleek wooden floor and hover your ear against the same place you’d been pressed to in very different circumstances earlier that night.

“I know she’s in there you insolent brat!” That’s your father’s voice, sounding as furious as you’ve ever heard him.

“Are you going senile in your old age?” Satoru’s wit never fails him, “We’re gonna have to strip you of that fancy position if you can’t keep your thoughts straight. I think I could be a principal, don’t you? Not that I really want to go to Kyoto but…”

The sound of blood spattering against a wall proves there’s a third out there with them, Satoru’s taunting laugh confirming he’d been the target of a blood manipulation technique.

“Woah, woah, woah, hang on, Gramps. Call off your little attack dog, you know it’s pointless. Unless you forgot that too…”

“She’s getting married tomorrow and this nonsense that’s gone on for too long already is finished! Stop harboring her like there’s anything you can do, what’s done is done.”

“But it isn’t done, is it?” The change in his tone is almost jarring. It’s menacing now, low and rumbling even through the barrier you're still pressed against.

“You have nothing to offer–”

“Ha! Don’t I? Does that shriveled raisin rattling around inside your skull not remember? I AM the Gojo clan. It’s all me! And no offense to Kamo’s cute little squirt gun technique, but we all know who’s winning this fight, right?”

It’s all murmurs that follow, the wood too thick to allow any legible words no matter how hard you press your ear against it. You fight the urge to wrench open the door…

“You know, Gakuganji,” you can hear Satoru respond after 30 seconds of eternity, his tone once again light and carefree, “A smart man would have tried to bleed me dry as a 15-year-old kid when you caught me sneaking out of her room at that first Exchange Event.”

“It didn’t matter. What could you give me, Gojo?”

“Now? Not a damn thing! And let’s be honest, probably not back then either. You’ve always been a slimeball. Go home, old man. You lost. No seat for you at the round table.”

“There’s nothing you can do-“

“You have ten seconds to leave, I don’t think I need to warn you about what happens if you don’t.”

The door knocks you flat onto the floor when he reenters the house, his hands quickly coming to right you as he drops to his knees. You’re just trying to keep yourself from crying, the pale stretch of his bare chest at your eye level and it takes every ounce of your waning self-control not to break down into him. His hands are warm and the arm’s length distance feels like miles, and he’s the only thing you want. But he’s something you can’t have.

When he’s certain you’re steady he jumps back to his feet, grabs his phone, and walks to peek out the window to ensure your unexpected visitors are gone. A flash of headlights flickers against the wall and you sigh in relief, your body still frozen in place.

“Nanami!” Gojo greets, phone pressed to his ear, “Yeah…yeah…No, I don’t need a ride … That happened one time six years ago! … Shut uuuup…No…Wai-wai-wait! I need something! … It’s important! … Is that apartment in your building still available? … It’s not for me…It’s not for me! … I got baby Gakuganji out, she needs a place… Okay, what about that other place… Uh-huuuh… Yes… No, I’ll just cover the year… Yeah, upfront… Here tonight… No, my place in the city… I’m staying up… Yeah, okay. Thanks.”

“You’re not paying for-” you begin to argue when you’re certain he’s hung up.

“I didn’t ask,” he quickly cuts you off, “Take the bedroom, I’ll stay out here. One of good ol’ Kento Nanami’s suit buddies is a building manager, says he might have a place. No promises the Kamo clan will let me into their little fortress to get your stuff, but I’m gonna call Yaga to see if he can swindle a deal.”

The typically childish, flippant Satoru was gone, and in his place was the intelligent, efficient man that so very few saw, including yourself. He was a strategizer, calculating and quick-witted not only with his sarcastic words, but solutions, too. In ten minutes he’d already freed you of your shackles and found you an alternative path; could you have just asked him for help years ago and gotten this same response?

“Get some sleep,” he urges again, lifting his phone back to his ear for his next call, “Nothing will happen tonight… Yaga, need a favor!”

His bed feels like quicksand as you settle beneath the silky sheets and plush blankets. Everything smells like him from the pillows and the shirt you wear to your skin that he scrubbed clean with a touch so gentle it had sent ripples down your spine. You can hear him still murmuring in the living room, the conversation growing heated and you want to run to tell him you’re not worth this trouble. Nine years as an intermittent visitor to his bed doesn’t qualify you for this, he should have just surrendered you to the men at the door.

“They tracked her phone!” He’d said that loud enough you were able to hear it clearly.

Has there been any one moment of your life where you had control? All this time you’d thought your moments with Satoru had been yours and yours alone, a secret kept between the two of you, but it wasn’t. Your father had known all along and let it continue, and you knew that it wasn’t for your benefit. The trip down memory lane leaves you sobbing into your hands, all the emotions of the night cresting over your weakening composure. You do all you can to keep quiet, choking and sputtering on the wails that want to break free, you can’t show weakness. Not now, not ever.

Even in your best attempts at discretion, you’re still too loud to hear the door slowly open, so when a long, slender body curls behind you it comes as a complete surprise. Satoru’s arm wraps tightly around your middle, his face notching into the curve of your shoulder.

Tears of despair turn into those of relief, your fingers threading with his on your stomach before you clutch his hand to your aching chest like a child’s teddy bear. It’s big enough to be one. Your muscles ache from tension, your resolve beginning to crack, and when he nuzzles his thin, pointed nose against your skin you finally lose the battle.

He holds you as you sob, the embarrassment, shame, and fear you felt running down your face. You can’t make out whatever he’s whispering in your ear but you swear it sounds like a pleading ‘stop’, and you can feel the way his arm pulls you even closer, your knuckles going white as you tighten your own grip. The burning in your throat is made worse with every gasping breath, and you can’t tell if it’s your body quivering or his until his palm swallows your jaw whole and pulls your chin up to face him.

The salt of your tears is bitter in a desperate kiss, his tongue coated with what had soaked your lips. There’s nothing gentle about his movements, they’re frantic and hard, the shock of his desperation enough to snap you back to reality. It’s him who’s trembling, his brow knit tightly for reasons you don’t and will likely never know.

“Stay…” you choke, throat thick with sorrow and strife, the thought of him leaving you in his bed alone dropping heavily into your stomach like a stone, “Please.”

“Sure,” he agrees, pecking at your lips again at a drastically softer pace.

Despite your turmoil, you doze off quickly. His embrace is an oasis, the feathering kisses he leaves along your neck, shoulder, and in the hollow behind your ear blooming like flowers and spreading their vivid warmth until you slip beneath the weight of sleep. He greets you here as he often does, the life you’d built in your dreams welcoming you.

It’s still dark when your eyes snap open, an arm pulling you tighter into a searing cocoon when your body jolts. Your long-held fantasy has burned to ash and crumbled into a nightmare, the image of white hair billowing in the breeze as tears ran from crystal blue eyes still painted behind your eyes.

“Toru?” you whisper as your fingers graze along the soft, smooth skin locking you in place.

“Hmm?” he hums, his tired voice like a balm.

“Are you here?” It’s delirium fogging your train of thoughts, words your mind has fabricated still echoing.

“Where else would I be?”

“Please stay…” You’re not even responding to him at this point, exhaustion has taken hold once again and thrown you right back into the fire. “Toru…”

The sun is blinding when you wake again, the bed cold and empty. A toothbrush is sitting on the bathroom counter when you wander in, a fresh set of shorts and a shirt that will be far too large for you perched on a shelf. Who knew Satoru could be such a gracious host?

There’s no sign of the man in the question even when you make your way to the living area save a mug of half-drank coffee sitting on an end table near the sliding glass doors leading out to a balcony. When you turn towards the kitchen, you spot another mug set out by the coffee maker, one for you, and that sinking feeling in your chest that had woken you up in the early hours of the morning returns.

“Then do something!” a distant voice shouts, “Do something!”

“Morning,” he greets in a jovial tone you know is a lie, “I left you a mug—“

“I know,” you cut him off, and here in the light of a new day, you realize something you’d known all along.

You’re in love with him.

The pain of that admittance is freeing. He’s cast in a warm orange glow looking every bit as ethereal as he was, and you press your cheek to the patch of sun shining on his chest, wrapping your arms around his slim waist and stealing this moment with him knowing it very well may be the last. His arms lock around you faster than your hands can knot at the small of his back, there is no hesitation, not even enough time to consider a different course of action, and when he notches your head beneath his chin and sighs, your mind goes quiet.

You’ll stay here as long as he allows it. Five minutes, an hour, it doesn’t matter. This feels good, it feels safe…

I love you, I love you, I love you… It’s like a mantra, and while you don’t dare speak it you hope the message gets to him somehow. Maybe in the tightness of your hold, the tension from your efforts, or the shallowness of your breath. The world is still quiet, giving you enough peace to soak this in. There’s no blaring of car horns or busy conversations floating into the sky to disrupt you, it’s just the steady thrum of his heart beating. You’re positive this is the first time anyone has just…held you like this.

When he pulls away you try to hide your disdain for the distance he creates, your eyes are still closed when he tips your face up towards him with the side of his pointer finger.

He catches you mid-breath in a kiss harder than you expect after just waking up. You can feel his failed restraint, it’s been years since you’ve welcomed a new day together, lonely nights after long taxi rides home have been the norm. Two hands grip behind your knees and hoist you upwards, your arms slipping around his neck as his tongue drags along your lower lip, urging your mouth open and a whine to slip free.

There are a thousand reasons to stop him, but none of them matter right now. He’s so warm and solid, his jaw slightly rough with stubble too pale to see. A smile spreads across his face when he finally catches himself in his frenzy, slowing his frantic pace to something much more gentle and languid.

“What do you want for breakfast?” he purrs into your mouth, sliding his tongue over your own before you can respond, “I want crepes.”

The sun disappears from behind your eyelids, and you feel the cool surface of his kitchen counter as he sets you on top of it. With free hands, he explores the soft stretch of your legs, slipping between them as you continue to tug at his lips greedily. The clock hasn’t even hit 9 AM yet, but the ache settling into your core is beginning to burn. There was something so pathetically irresistible about seeing him so comfortable, so unguarded, it felt like you weren’t just a visitor to his bed. And that was a dangerous precipice to be standing on.

“Are you always so needy in the morning?” he laughs against your throat, a whine slipping free from his tease, “This what I’ve been missing out on?”

When his tongue swipes over your searing skin, your fingers lock into his hair as he explores the throat you bare to him. It’s those open-mouthed, lingering tastes that he tortures you with that have your hips flicking in search of friction, so he gives you his thigh, pulling you down to perch on it and dragging you over the slim, firm muscle. You know you look desperate and unkempt, but he keeps you moving enough to have you spasming as you find release and go lax in his hold.

“So…” he practically sings, a lilt of conceit in his tone, “Crepes?”

“It’s too early for crepes,” you pant, confused by his choice of a morning meal.

“Pfft, for you maybe! You want any or no?”

After dressing in a hoodie and sweatpants, Satoru leaves with a quick peck to your forehead, promising to be quick before the door clicks and locks behind him. Seconds later, a fluffy head of white hair pokes back in, his keys still rattling in the lock.

“Don’t use your phone,” he instructs, “Or open the door.”

You passed the time tidying the space up. There isn’t much that needs to be done, but you get into a steady rhythm that you’re all too familiar with, wiping down counters, picking up laundry, and you almost make the mistake of leaving the apartment to take out the trash before remembering his warning to not open the door.

As you begin to wipe down the bathroom, the sharp scent of the cleaner burning at your nose, you realize the ease he’d infused into you this morning has all but dried up. You watch as your hand trembles around the rag, a terrified reflection coming into view as you circle the white foam off the glass, revealing the truth of what lies beneath the crumbling facade.

“What are you doing?” a smooth voice asks from behind you, causing you to yelp and your heart to skip a beat, “Are you cleaning my bathroom?”

“Uh…” you stammer, still reeling from the shock, “Yeah.”

“Don’t… You don’t have to do that.”

“Oh. I’m sorry–”

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry.”

With that he walks off, yelling over his shoulder that food was here and to hurry up before it got cold. You’d become so accustomed to being scolded for not being busy tidying something up that having him go and do the opposite had thrown you for a loop. When your own house had been too clean to keep you working, you’d been sent somewhere else to help, your existence nothing more than a housemaid for the Kamo clan. You’re own fault, you’d been told, with such a useless cursed technique what else would there be for you to do?

“C’mon!” he calls, “I’m being nice and waiting!”

Where a pile of cream-filled crepes sat in front of Satoru, a much more normal option was beside his on the table, a paper bag sitting on the couch in front of it. He paid you no mind as you cautiously pulled the bag towards you, peering inside to find a dress and jacket that cost far too much money.

“Satoru–” you scolded, squashing the leap your heart did into your throat, “I can’t pay–”

“Didn’t ask you to,” he cut off again, “You can’t go out in that.”

Right. You’re going to see an apartment today. Suddenly, what little appetite you’d mustered was gone, but you slink down onto the couch anyway, trying to eat as much as you can with a boulder in your stomach.

“What’s a’matter?” he asks with a full mouth, “I thought you liked that place.”

Adding a heaping pile of guilt to what you were already carrying threatened to shatter you, but you set a smile on your face and force the food down. His knee rests against yours, his long legs spread wide, his focus honed on his phone as he types away with one thumb. The furrow of his brow has you wondering if it’s just more trouble you’re causing him, technically now with clothes proper enough to be seen in public wearing, you could leave him free of whatever burden you’d inadvertently placed on his shoulders.

When his phone begins to vibrate with a call, he throws his overly sweetened crepe back onto its wrapping and wipes his hands on his shorts, greeting whoever it is with a cheekful of whipped cream and dough.

“If you’re calling me with more shit news…oh really!? So kind of him…I’d love to hear how that conversation went…Tell me…It is important…It is…Because I said it is…God damnit, Yaga!...”

The next bit of the conversation even you could hear thanks to tempers flaring and voices rising: “He said she’s your problem now.”

You can’t leave the apartment fast enough, even in nothing but Satoru’s baggy clothes. He yells at you to wait as you run to the door, circling down the stairs as fast as you can with tears dripping down your face. When you make it out onto the sidewalk, a solid chest and two long arms pull you in immediately, and you don’t need to see the person’s face to know exactly who it is. It’s easy to forget what he’s truly capable of. He probably leapt right off the balcony.

“I’m too tired for this,” he sighs, the agitation he was masking slipping through, “Go inside. Please.”

“No,” you argue, trying to shove him away, his hands easily catching yours and trapping them in cuffs of long, dexterous fingers.

“I just want to sleep for two fucking hours! Please, go inside!”

“You’re free to go–”

“Oh my God! Shut up already!”

It’s embarrassing how easily he hoists you over his shoulder like a tantruming child and carries you inside, sitting you on the couch and flopping down beside you, his head falling into your lap like it was a pillow.

“You piss me off,” he mumbles, curling an arm around you as his eyes drift closed, “I never do anything I don’t wanna do. Thought you knew that by now.”

A lingering drop falls from your cheek into his still tangled hair, your fingers instinctively moving to swipe it away but instead digging deeper, scraping against his scalp soothingly. He rumbles in appreciation, already drifting off, and so you continue. The steady, slow breaths exhaled through parted lips assure you he’s getting the sleep he desperately needs. You know he’d stayed awake all night anticipating another uninvited guest to his door, and who knows if he’d even managed the night before. He claimed he never slept on missions, unable to relax enough to find even a semblance of peace away from home.

Three hours later, he hasn’t moved. A small braid sits across his temple, keeping some of the strands that had been falling into his eyes neatly twisted away. You’ve barely been able to keep your eyes off of him, your wandering touch having moved from his hair to trace the sharp features of his face ever-so-gently to not wake him.

“I love you,” you whisper to ears that can’t hear you, hoping it alleviates the weight bearing down on your chest. It doesn’t.

You can’t see him again. At this point, being with him only has the potential to throw you deeper into this void you’re hurtling down. After seeing this apartment, you’ll find a hotel and take the weight of your problems off his shoulders. You know he has more than enough of his own to handle, sometimes you can’t help but think it’s a miracle he’s still standing.

The thought makes your chest tighten, and it’s simply more evidence this cord needs to be cut. He’s got his little black book and you’re simply just another number. You’re not even fun anymore, the baggage you carry is too much to bear to still be considered a good time. Whatever responsibility he feels for you is displaced, just because it all blew up right outside his front door doesn’t make this—you—his problem.

“Hmmm,” he hums twenty minutes later, his face nuzzling down into your legs as his arms around you tighten, “What time is it?”

“Two-ish…” you reply, trying to keep your voice level, but when his fingers pull up the hem of his shirt you’re wearing and his lips press softly against your stomach there’s no helping the sharp gasp that betrays you.

Within seconds he’s twisted you onto your back against the armrest, greedy hands tugging your borrowed shorts still loosely hanging off your hips down and off. White hair fills your fists as your spine arches off the couch, Satoru’s lips locking around your clit and suckling hard. All thoughts of never seeing him again are quickly thrown out the window. His palms hold your thighs spread wide as his silver tongue finally tastes what you’d denied him last night. He’s the only man who ever has, and he’s the only one you ever want to.

His thin, sharp nose drags over your clit as he laps at your entrance, your legs begging to clamp down around his ears as searing heat boils in your belly. It’s pathetic how you’re already trembling, but it only spurs him on, your eager response to his affections is always his greatest motivation. Despite his tongue being buried deep, it isn’t enough. You still feel so empty and your body instinctively asks–begs–for more by rolling your hips over his face, searching for anything to satiate the hunger. There is no surrender in his appetite, however. In a battle of wills, he always comes out on top, and today is no exception.

“You taste so good,” he hums against your soaked core, half-drunk on nothing but you.

“Please,” you whine, keening when he teases your back entrance with a taunting flick.

“M’gonna take care of you.”

Something foreign and tranquil washes over you in a steady wave, and Satoru immediately pauses when you go slack beneath him and sink into the plush material of the couch. As he presses his lips in a reverent trail from your hip to your throat, pushing the baggy shirt you’re wearing up to clear his path, you relax even further.

You trust him. You love him.

Your fingers are still locked in his hair when you hear his quiet request beneath your ear: “Can I?”

It’s such a stupid, juvenile thing, but it’s something you’ve been denied in all the years of this… situation, so you nod, taking a deep breath in a poor attempt to calm your nerves. Your pulse is thrumming with anticipation beneath his mouth, and the moment he clamps down hard enough to sting, he thrusts into your wet heat as blood pools beneath the fragile skin his tongue soothes over.

He does it again, decorating the dip of your collarbone as the spongy head of his dick kisses your cervix, and you’re limp, taking anything and everything he’s willing to give. Let him decorate you, claim you, fuck you until you’re incoherent, it doesn’t matter. Just as long as it’s him and he doesn’t stop.

“So wet…” he praises, groaning when his words cause you to tighten around him.

Always for you, you think as his tongue dives between your parted lips, the taste of yourself still lingering. The gentle way he cradles your jaw is the complete opposite of the speed of his hips battering into you. He’s chasing something he can’t quite reach, whether that be a sensation or an emotion you can’t tell, but he’s looking, willing himself to find this answer even if it kills him. Every stolen kiss seems to connect his wayward thoughts, but when he starts to whimper into your mouth and his pace begins to falter, you know the friction of his cock dragging along your walls has consumed him.

“I can’t–” he stammers when you lock your ankles on his lower back, tightening around him further, “Fuck, baby, that’s n-not helping.”

“Give it to me, Toru.” One last time. “Pl-please, I want it.”

There’s barely time to take a breath before you’re on your stomach, ass being pulled straight up into the air, his shaft filling your gaping hole so deep you can feel the pressure in your chest. Long, slender fingers find your swollen clit and being moving in steady, quick circles, and at this point all you can do is scream and cry out until he’s shooting hot, thick ropes of cum into your spasming cunt, your own orgasm ripping through you, leaving you boneless and drooling.

“Shit…” he pants, his phone vibrating on the table in what has to be a third attempt at a call in the last two minutes, “Gimme a second.”

The bedroom door closes as you slump down into a heap, the mess between your thighs getting sticky and uncomfortable as you adjust to the emptiness returning. It’s tempting to sneak out now, if it wasn’t for your current debauched state. You’re still so surrounded by him, the couch smells like his stupid cologne, your thighs are quivering, and you can still feel the tips of his fingers digging into your hips. Maybe you’ll never be free.

“Okay, princess,” he coos, lifting you off the couch bridal style and carrying you to the bathroom, “Quick shower then we gotta go.”

By four o'clock, you’re heading out the door, donned in a new dress accompanied by Satoru in sleek black pants and a silky black button-down, bag in hand. It’s an overnight bag, you can tell from the size and also because you caught him packing it in a rush. He hadn’t seen you, well, at least as far as you could tell, and as much as you wanted to believe he was heading out on a mission, you couldn’t convince yourself of it. The phone call he had to talk out of earshot, the fancy clothes he wore just to go tour some shitty apartment, the bag…you’re well aware of what it all means. You don’t even let the fact he’s opening your car door for you distract you from the knowledge he’ll be doing the exact same gesture to another tonight.

“Okay,” he sings out as he slides into the driver’s seat, “Ready to go?”

All you do is nod, keeping your eyes focused out your window.

“Why’re you so quiet?” he complains–whines–five minutes into the drive, “It’s boring.”

“Sorry,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest, “Where is this apartment?”

“What apartment?”

“The one we’re going to see?”

“Oh…riiiight. That apartment. You don’t really want to go look at that, do you?”

He can sense your anger bubbling in the cramped space, but he laughs when he looks over to find you staring daggers at him, nostrils flared.

Relax!” he chuckles, “So worked up over nothing.”

“It’s not nothing, Satoru!” you yell back, groaning when your body betrays you for a moment and relaxes when his hand falls to your inner thigh, his thumb rubbing softly up and down over your exposed skin, “My life is a wreck!”

“When hasn’t it been?”

“You arranged that apartment. And now we’re not going?” You have to change the subject before you combust.

“Well, you said I couldn’t pay for it, and you can’t pay for it. Not yet anyway–”

“Yeah, thanks for the reminder. So, what now then!?”

“Dinner!”

The car comes to a screeching halt outside of a ramen place, and you burst into tears.

“Hey…” He’s frantic, leaning over the center console to take your face in his hand, “Hey…no-no-no. Don’t do that.”

“What am I supposed to do?!” you scream at him, your cheeks already soaked and eyes swollen, “Just go in there and eat ramen like nothing is wrong!?”

“I mean…yeah. Why not?”

“Fuck you!”

It’s a battle when you try to get out of the car, his left hand continuously locking the doors as his right attempts to stop you from pulling at the handle at all. He’s grunting ‘stop’ and ‘listen’ and ‘calm down’ but his words fall on deaf ears.

“Why won’t you just let me go?!” you finally sob, both of you panting and flustered.

“Because…” he replies quietly, threading his fingers with yours, however unresponsive they are, “Will you stay in the damn car?”

You don’t answer, but you don’t move to leave either, and he takes that as confirmation. With a heavy sigh (and an empty stomach) he takes off down the road until you’re outside the city, finally pulling into a large gated property. Flowers surround you on all sides, and the sound of a fountain in a pond pairs serendipitously with the birds singing the sun away as it begins to dip closer to the horizon. The house nestled amongst the gardens is massive, winding paths of stone leading through the rainbows of blooms, and you can’t help but be entirely awestruck for a moment before confusion settles. Satoru opens the door with his keys, pulling you inside the manor that’s every bit as impressive on the inside as it is outside.

“Where are we?” you ask harshly, pulling your hand free of his.

“The Gojo Estate,” he answers so casually you want to throw a shoe at the back of his head.

“What are we doing here?”

“I’m showing you around. It beats Kento’s buddy’s apartment, dontcha think?”

Not even the coldest winds could have frozen you in place so quickly. He’s brought the overnight bag from the back of the car in with him, tossing it onto the kitchen counter before opening the fridge and grinning when he finds a bottle of strawberry soda waiting for him on the shelf.

“There’s more to the place than the foyer!” He’s moved out of sight now, but not far judging by how close he still sounds, “C’mere! Don’t be shy now.”

He’s waiting on a porch overlooking the pond you’d heard earlier, koi fish gently swimming in the clear water without a care in the world. If you’d thought the city suited him before, it was nothing compared to the sight of him framed by lush greenery and the unhindered glow of sunset. He looks every bit the part of clan head here, oozing authority and confidence as he leans with his back against the railing, smirking as you cautiously approach.

“What are we doing here?” you ask again, meek and quiet, all signs of anger gone.

“Giving you options,” he answers, gloating almost, but trepidation is still laced with what you recognize as false conviction.

“I can’t live here.”

“Why not?”

“You’re joking.”

“I’m not. I mean, you wouldn’t be living alone. No one should live alone here, that’s why I don’t. What if I slip in the shower and no one finds me for days? Ha! Could you imagine…”

“Satoru!”

Does he know what he’s asking? Does he know what it means? If it means nothing to him, fine, but you? The idea of it has you tensing and pushing back tears, your bottom lip trembling as you allow the fantasy of a home and a life to slip through the cracks forming in your barriers you keep it behind. His fingers are chilled from the glass bottle he’s been holding, the sharp contrast against your burning cheeks causing you to gasp and you’re met by infinite blue eyes staring down at you.

“Look,” he begins, his tongue darting out to wet his perfect pink pout, “I…” He sighs, closing his eyes to gather his thoughts, “Why didn’t you ask me to get you out of there sooner?”

The question hits you like a ton of bricks. You’d been asking yourself the same thing since it all blew up last night.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” you answer truthfully, “If it’s not me, you have someone else–” “There is no one else. There never has been.”

“What?”

“There is no one else.”

No one else? His lips press softly against yours as you stand in stunned silence. All these years thinking you were second to twenty, and there had never been another?

“Say it again,” he breathes into your slackened jaw, and your brow furrows in confusion.

“What…” you blubber, meeting the galaxies living in his gaze once again.

“Tell me again.”

A tight grip on your wrist tugs your hand up to what remains of the braid still twisted in his hair from his nap earlier, you hadn’t realized it had survived both the shower and what transpired before it, but it had clearly held on tight. Too many thoughts buzz around in your head for you to comprehend what the hell he's asking for until he requests it one more time, his voice cracking like his life hinges on knowing if what he’d heard was real or a figment of his overactive imagination.

And then it clicks. Your heart comes to a skidding halt as fear runs cold through your veins, and you try to run but his arm curls around your waist, holding you in place.

“I…” your tongue is paralyzed, a phrase you’ve never uttered to another person knotting and twisting, “You were asleep.” It’s such a cop-out, and the way his face falls shatters your heart.

“Right, thought so,” he concedes, “Okay. Well, do you want to see–”

“I love you.”

The words spill out so suddenly you’re clasping your hands over your traitorous lips, the urge to flee burning in your legs, and he smiles. The corners of his eyes crinkle as he leans in, pulling your wrist to free your shock-slackened lips from their cage, and kisses you.

This kiss is different. It’s softer, lingering, it’s the kind of kiss that welcomes you home after a long day and melts the toils and tribulations you faced away. While your hands shoot to the kitchen counter behind you and your knuckles go white in an iron-like grip, the tips of his fingers brush down your cheek so gingerly a shudder shoots down your spine. You’ve never been touched so softly, with so much…you can’t think it.

“Again,” he whispers, and you reply with those little three words in just as hushed a tone, “Again.”

With every repetition, the words fall with more grace and his smile grows. Your cheeks are burning, nerves fluttering to life in your belly, but when he asks for the fifth time to hear you say that phrase, you close the distance between your bodies, grab his jaw in both hands and finally with conviction you tell him the truth: “Satoru. I love you. I don’t kn—mmph!”

As quick as it is, the force of his lips crashing into yours is bruising. There’s nothing tactful about it, he just needs contact and he needs it now.

“Love you,” he murmurs, and you understand immediately the incessant nagging to hear those words over and over.

You know someone, at some point, had said that to you, but time has robbed you of the memory. This is the first time you can ever recall hearing it, and something breaks down inside of you faster than you can keep up with. His chest is there to collapse into as the tides roll in, tears pouring from your eyes as relief washes over your storm-stricken shores. The space carved out in his embrace fits you like a glove, your head tucked neatly below his cheek as he leans down to swaddle you in tight. You’re shaking and sobbing but this time he doesn’t ask you to stop, because he understands. It’s the same for him.

“Can we go to dinner now?” you sniffle, wiping your nose on the back of your hand, gazing up at him with glassy eyes.

“Nah,” he brushes off, “I’ll order something. There’s a shirt for you in the bag, take your pick.”

Donned in a t-shirt that hangs down to the middle of your thighs, you’re perched on the couch beside Satoru with a spread of food on the table before you once again. He puts on some movie but you aren’t paying attention, all you can concentrate on is trying to convince yourself it’s over. It’s done. You’re home. But too many years have passed, and it’ll take time.

“What, Yaga?” Satoru barks into his phone, “I’m not going…I’m not going…Find someone else.”

“What was that?” you ask as he tosses it away, looking over at you with eyes glowing in the dim light.

“Oh, a mission abroad. It usually goes to me but…”

There are more important things now.

“They can figure it out,” he chuckles with that signature aloof, pompous lilt, slinging his arm around your shoulders and pulling you in.

Maybe it won’t take as long to get used to this as you think.

Sorry this took so long!!!

#satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru smut #satoru gojo smut #satoru gojo fanfic #gojo satoru fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #jjk fanfic #jjk smut

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boldlyvoid · 1 year ago

Note

prompt: reader (or another character) taking care of spencer during a depressive episode

Home is where ever I'm with you

tw: depressive episode, Spencer going non-verbal/one-worded when he needs to speak, mentions of spencers anxiety/depression, his past trauma with maeve, case talk, food mention

wc: 1.8k

Morgan drives him home and walks him up the stairs to his apartment, “can I have your keys?” He asks, reid just nods and hands them to him.

He unlocks Spencer’s apartment and turns on the lights, waking up Spencer’s girlfriend who’s sleeping on the couch. “Hey…” she rubs her eyes, thinking it’s just Spencer. He didn’t know she was over, she came over when he said he was on his way home, and she failed to wait up for him.

“Hi?” Derek answers, “who are you?”

“I’m—

“Y/N,” Spencer finally speaks, he’s been nonverbal since the case ended. It was a bad case. He got a little hurt. All he wanted was to see her and it’s like she knew that.

“Oh,” Derek knows this is the person Spencer’s been talking to for a while now, he remembers all the times he caught Spencer staring at his phone with a smile. This was his new love.

He drops his bag on the ground and rushes over to her, burying his face in her neck and holding her impossibly close. She wraps her arms around him, “I’m here, I’ve got you, baby.”

“Thank you,” Derek shoots her a smile, backing up towards the door. “Have him text me later when he’s feeling better?”

“Will do, thank you, Derek,” she shoots him a smile, knowing him from all Spencers stories. She gives him a little wave as he closes the apartment door, and then they’re alone. “Do you want to eat, have a shower or go to bed?”

“Shower,” he whispers, pulling back he looks at her with such sad eyes. “I’m tired.”

“So we’ll get in the bath,” she whispers, cupping his face in her hands. “I’ve got you.”

She gets him into the bathroom, helps him strip down and she puts a towel over the closed toilet seat. He takes a seat while she runs the bath water, he has the coolest bathtub. His apartment is so old yet a lot of it is newly renovated, his tub is one of those old claw-foot tubs, it’s pretty big and they’ve fit in it together before.

She reaches into the cupboard under his sink and gets the pail she uses to wash his hair when he’s sitting down in the tub. This isn’t the first time she’s done this, it won’t be the last either. The first time she had to take care of him, he felt so awful, he felt like a kid… but from what she’s heard about his childhood, even as a kid, he didn’t have someone to take care of him like this.

She helps him into the tub, she sits on a little stool outside the tub for a moment and then he looks at her with pleading eyes, he wants her to get in too. So she carefully strips and gets into the water right behind him, letting him rest against her chest. She has a washcloth and she covers it in soap, she runs it along his chest and his shoulders, washing the case off him. She kisses his head and right behind his ear, “You can talk to me whenever you’re ready…”

He hums, he knows. He’s just unable to get any words out yet. That’s completely okay. It must’ve been really bad. The last time that this happened, he had to kill someone. That’s the worst part about the job. He hates it. He firmly believes that no matter what someone did, they don’t deserve to die. People can be rehabilitated, they may not be able to change, but you can learn more from a killer when they’re alive than when they’re dead. More people get saved with their prison interviews.

“Scoot forward,” she requests and he does. She gets the pail and fills it with water, “tilt your head back for me?”

He listens again, letting her run the water over his hair so she could wash it for him. He reaches out for the shampoo and hands it back to her, she lathers it up in her hands and starts to run it through his hair. It lathers up… fine but his hair was greasy, she knows if she washes it out and does it again, it’ll actually work this time. So she rinses it out, reapplies the shampoo and watches it bubble up a lot more. He leans his head back even more, clearly enjoying the way she’s managing his scalp. She keeps going just so he can feel some semblance of peace today. He deserved it.

When she does rinse it out again, he sighs, “Thank you.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, Spence,” she whispers before pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

“Nothing happened,” he whispers back. “I’m just low… I think I need to go back on my meds.”

“We can call and make an appointment with your psychiatrist in the morning,” she suggests. “Is it just depression or is there also anxiety?”

“Both,” he says with a nod. “I listened to my meditations on the way home but it’s still bad.”

“Do you want me to order you that good salmon rice bowl and get you some more magnesium supplements?”

“Would you mind?” He worries.

She leans over his shoulder and turns his face to the side. “Spence, I’m never going to mind.”

“Thank you,” he says with tears in his eyes.

She simply kisses him, “Do you want to get out?

He nods moving away from her so she can get out of the tub first. She’s quick to dry herself and then hold open a towel to wrap around him once he stands up. She picks up her clothes from the floor so he can step out and not get them wet. “I’m going to the bedroom, I’ll see you in there?”

“Okay,” he agrees, taking a moment to brush his hair in the mirror.

She sets out his favourite comfy clothes and gets into a pair of her pjs that stay in his room for times like these. She changes first and then heads back out to the living room to get her phone so she can order them some food. It’s not too late, so it’ll be no problem getting a delivery. When she makes her way back into the bedroom, Spencer has all the lights out except his little fairy lights, he’s changed into the outfit she picked out for him and getting into bed. She smiles at him, “Comfy?”

He nods, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, love,” she says again, never tiring of all his appreciation. She hops into bed with him. “The food will be here in half an hour… did you want to watch something or read? Maybe listen to some music?”

He sighs, thinking it over. “You can pick the show. I just want to sit with you.”

“Okay,” she understands that. “I love you, you know?”

He nods, smiling building, “I know… I love you.”

She leans over and shares a kiss with him, she cups his cheek and runs her thumb over his prickly facial hair. When she pulls back, she keeps rubbing his cheek with her thumb, “You’re okay, you’re safe, I’m not going anywhere.”

Those are 3 things she knows his anxiety and likes to tell him lies about. His brain convinces him she won’t stay if he’s ‘hard to take care of.’ His brain makes him think that he’s constantly fighting for his life… the adrenaline in his body is too strong, so a simple “you’re okay” or “you’re safe” can change his whole mindset. She’s sat in with him at therapy, she’s learned all the things that set him off and what makes him comfortable, and she’d do anything to make sure that he stays safe. That he stays alive and with her. Even if one day he decided he didn’t love her anymore, there’s nothing she wants more than for him to keep living.

He snuggles into her side, she opens up his laptop and heads right to Netflix, resuming where they were in Grey’s Anatomy the last time she was over. Sure, this shows intense, but the plot is fun to follow, he can tell her what medical facts aren’t true and even try to guess the endings. He loves how she’s already seen it all yet she won’t ever tell him if he’s correct with his guesses… but he’s good at his job, he can tell when she’s trying to pretend he isn’t right. It’s fun for them.

And then their food arrives, they both head out to the kitchen to put it on plates, get real silverware and put their drinks in a glass with ice. They put the laptop on the tiny kitchen table, sit side by side and eat in silence while their show is on. She watches him eat the whole plate, she sees the colour return in his cheeks and his eyes start to get heavy when the carb dump starts to rush through his veins. He’s tired. But she makes him stay up another hour so the food can digest before they head back into the bedroom.

“Can you text Derek,” she suggests, handing him his phone. “Tell him you’re doing better and thank him for the ride home.”

“Okay,” he takes the phone from her and does just that. “Derek says thank you for taking care of me.”

“It’s my pleasure… maybe we can go out for lunch with him this weekend?” She suggests.

He nods, “Yeah… if I’m feeling better.”

“Of course,” she would never rush him. “I’d like to meet everyone at some point.”

“I like that you don’t know them,” he admits. “Then you can’t get hurt.”

There’s another anxious thought.

“I’m not going to get hurt,” she assures him. She wraps her arms around him and looks up into his eyes, “I promise, I’m not going anywhere. I will kill someone with my bare hands to come home to you.”

He manages to smile a bit, “Me too… maybe we could live together? For real?”

She lights right up, “Yeah, yeah I would love that. I mean, maybe not here… this place is already crowded when I visit, but we could start looking for a new apartment together?”

“I’d like that. I’d like to start something fresh and new with you. I think we deserve a happy little place just for us,” he explains, its the most he’s said tonight. He must be feeling better. “I love being with you. I wish you were here all the time.”

“Me too, Spence, that’s why I ran over here tonight,” she shares. “I felt like you’d need some us time.”

“You’re too good to me,” he wraps her up in his arms. “But I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“Me either.”

#Spencer reid #Spencer reid smut #Spencer reid fanfiction #Spencer reid fanfic #Spencer reid imagine #Spencer reid x reader #Spencer reid x y/n #Spencer reid x you #Spencer reid self insert #Spencer reid request #criminal minds smut #criminal minds imagine

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enchantedruin · 2 months ago

Text

{ light nsfw, thigh-riding, belittling}

You couldn’t decide what angered you more—the desperate flicker of emotion you failed to hide or the festering, rotten desire you let take root in your heart.

Eighteen months.

No relief.

No escape.

Flashes of the surface, of life before the bombs, would trickle into your mind as he rocked your hips back and forth against his thigh, every movement rougher, more primal, as the friction between you built.

The world was physical then. Now it was all cold and empty.

Each morning was a hellish repetition: wake up, don that ugly gray dress, and submit to the void of a life with no comfort. Just Ms Venable’s rules, and the dull ache of missing something… missing everything.

“For someone who came undone so quickly,” Michael said, his breath hot against your skin, “you still have the nerve to pretend you don’t want this.”

He let out a grim chuckle as his fingers dug into your waist “Ms. Venable’s done a fine job, hasn’t she? Groomed you into something cold, something obedient.” His face hovered close, his breath heaving over your chest.

“You don’t care about passing this test, do you?” Michael looked up at you with a sly smile as you struggled to look at him as you pleasured yourself, your clothed heat against his. “You only care about one thing right now—yourself.”

And the worst part? He loved every second of your silent surrender, every flicker of weakness that continued to slipped past the surface. You could feel it in the way he moved against you, could hear it in his barely restrained groans. He was getting off on your inability to resist, on how easily you bent beneath him.

“You think you’re different from the others, don’t you?” Michael’s voice slid into your ear like poison, laced with mockery, his lips barely brushing your skin. “You think because I’ve picked you, you must be something special.” His hands tightened around your waist, but there was no warmth in his touch—just possession.

Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t deny the way your body responded to his presence—how even the smallest graze of his fingers against your skin sent a wave of heat through you.

He knew. He always knew.

“Ms. Venable was right about one thing,” Michael continued, his tone dripping with condescension. “You’re obedient when you need to be. But all that defiance…” He let out a low, humorless chuckle, his breath hot against the side of your neck. “It’s just a mask, isn’t it? You try so hard to hold onto that little shred of control, to cling to the idea that you’re better than the others down here. But you’re just lying to yourself.”

His hand slid up to your throat, fingers brushing the delicate line of your jaw before stopping just beneath your chin, tilting your head slightly so that you were forced to meet his gaze. His eyes were cold, calculating, a predator sizing up its prey.

“You’ll break just like the rest of them,” he whispered, his voice soft, almost tender, yet filled with a darkness that made your stomach twist. “The difference is, I’ll enjoy breaking you.”

The way he said it, so casual, so matter-of-fact, left little doubt in your mind that he meant every word. You hated how your heart raced in response, how your body betrayed you in the face of his cruelty.

“You think I’ve chosen you because I see something in you worth saving?” he asked, his voice laced with disdain. “No. You’re just convenient.” He leaned closer, his lips hovering above yours, but he didn’t close the distance—he just let the tension build. “You’re here because I needed a toy, and you fit the role perfectly.”

“Don’t think for a second that this makes you important,” he murmured, his thumb brushing your lower lip, “You’re nothing more than a temporary distraction, something to pass the time.” His eyes darkened, that cruel amusement dancing in the depths of his gaze. “When I’m done with you, I’ll find someone else. Someone just as desperate. Just as weak.”

The words hit like a slap, but even then, you couldn’t tear yourself away from him. There was something so stupidly sexy about the way he held power over you—how he toyed with your emotions, with your body, never allowing you to feel anything but his control.

“And the best part?” Michael’s voice dropped to a whisper as his fingers trailed down your neck, sending a shiver through you. “You’ll keep coming back for more.”

“No matter how much you hate yourself for it.”

#IM FEELING SOME TYPE OF WAY #when you’re in a self-deprecating mood and this is is how you cope #michael langdon #michael langdon x reader #gender neutral reader #ahs apocalypse #apocalypse #american horror story

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hatsukeii · 3 months ago

Text

Terushima and his stupid tongue piercing. He likes to act all nonchalant and cool with it, like he wasn’t about to shit his pants at the piercer’s when he saw the needle lining up with the little mark his piercer made on his tongue. When he realised that just the toothpick making the dot already felt…odd, it was already too late to turn back.

“Can’t believe you’re actually doing this.“

Terushima glared at you, then hunched in resignation. He knew it deep inside, he was a total bitch when it came to pain.

“If you need to, you can hold my hand until it’s done. Makes it easier.”

He took the offer with grace, hand shooting out to grab yours. The needle inched closer to his tongue, and his piercer began to say the dreadful words.

“Now, breathe in through your nose.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, his hand gripping yours so hard his knuckles began going white.

“Ow, too tight! It hasn’t even gone through yet, chill out!”

And then his mind drifted to you, who laughed and told him he definitely could not handle it, even if he wanted the tongue piercing, so bad. You, who watched him almost piss himself getting his ears pierced half a year ago. You, who were sure that he would probably piss himself for real if it was a needle going through any other part of his body. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure why he told you in the first place, it wasn’t like you two were any closer than casual acquaintances anyways. All he wanted was aftercare advice, seeing that you had piercings plastered all over your ears, and a couple more on your face. He did NOT ask to be underestimated, and he definitely did NOT ask for you to be with him during this piercing session. Well, game on, bitch.

He inhaled, deep, and let his breath out all at once. This was it, this was his big “fuck you,” because he could handle it, and he would show you. As the needle stabbed through his tongue, possibly the worst pain of his life hit him right in the face, worse than getting spikes hurled at his head, or missing a dive and getting second degree carpet burn. So much worse. His mind went blank as his eyes finally peeled open, before all the blood in his body drained.

His final vision was of you, laughing your ass off, and his piercer, visibly concerned, before a million needles jabbed into body, and he lost consciousness, barely feeling your hands attempting to hold him up and slap him awake as he lolled sideways into the chair.

Nevermind, game so not on, bitch.

(Every time you overhear or see Terushima hit on a girl by showing off his tongue piercing, you walk up just to make fun of him passing out in front of you and his piercer. He swears you hate him, and want him to be alone forever. You just don’t want him hitting on other people.)

author’s note:

super short and super dumb but i refuse to believe terushima was nonchalant through his tongue piercing session because LOOK AT HIM BRO like people make him out to be so hot and sexy and cool and i disagree yes the tongue piercing is hot but he was NEVER that cool he definitely had a hard time getting it LMAOOO

anyways this isn’t really like any sort of romance tbh apart from the little bonus line i added at the end it’s just a dumb scenario i thought of at the train station yesterday but i fully stand by it ngl

tags!!

@chuuya-brainrot @starlysama @fiannee @bailey-reeds

ok see u soon with an actual fic love u guys bye bye

#terushima x reader #terushima yuuji #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu oneshots #haikyuu scenario #haikyuu imagine #haikyuu #haikyuu terushima #haikyuu headcanons

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fortheloveoffanfic · 1 month ago

Text

Broken Chords: Yours, just as it was.

Hozier x fem!reader

Author's note: oh look, they're fighting again.

Summary: Following Andrew's promises to change, Y/n travels to Ireland, even if she isn't sure if she can believe him anymore.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

Warnings: Angst, reckless driving(?)

Two weeks later

She feels awfully silly for asking Andrew if she could visit after nothing more than a late night ramble. But admittedly, she’d been a little drunk and a lotta hopeful when he called with promises of changing. She doesn’t think she could bear to admit it out loud, at least not without being red in face and feeling stupid, but since the last time they saw each other, she’s been all but praying for the moment where he’ll stumble back into her life with that very confession on his tongue.

Because it doesn’t matter how hard she tries; no one will ever compare. Y/n can’t scrub the easy comfort of his embrace from her mind. His words, whispered into her ear, like a feather over her nerves, the way he kisses her and awakens something buried so deep down that she forgets its there when he isn’t around; that something that has always yearns to feel the contentment of knowing someone wants you without pause. They’re willing to tether themselves to the best part of the other – and the worst.

Commit, that’s the word she’s seeking. Andrew had flung that word around at some point. But by then, Y/n had been four cosmos deep so exactly what part of his ‘I’m sorry, please take me back’ speech it came in wasn’t something she could say definitively. But he'd said it and that counted for something, right?

If there's even a small part of her mind that disagrees, Y/n won't hear it. It doesn't even matter that Andrew has done her wrong in ways that it makes her feel foolish for sticking around; she really has no reason to stitch herself on to the idea of his unwavering love. Well, no reason other than unyielding hope.

Hope, she's hoped for a lot of things in her, albeit, brief lifetime, but Y/n thinks that she has hoped the most for him to feel for her a fraction of what she feels for him. Because if Andrew loves her the way she loves him, then how could he not want to marry her?

Or at least, just want to be with her for as long as mortality would allow? How can he be so uncertain of his future if he returns even a tendril of her love? That blaze in her chest that roars at the sight of him, and hums when Y/n pictures the years sprawled before them.

She used to see her future with him, there wasn’t a dream of hers that could be conjured up in her mind without him being woven into the very threads of it. And now the entire thing is so skewed in her mind; like she’s trying to picture things through the blue haze of a smoke screen.

Any self-respecting adult would just let it go, try to move one and maybe one day find someone who’s better suited. But Y/n can’t seem to let Andrew out of her life, part of her still yearns for it to be him once and for all because sometimes, when she thinks of it in the scheme of things, no one else has given her what he has. Made her feel what he has.

So she gets on a plane, and she texts him when the wheels touch the asphalt. She shoulders through the mass of people waiting for their checked bags; she doesn’t usually pack this light – that’s Andrew’s thing – but she doesn’t want to give him the impression that she’s staying around too long. Though, that’s really a lie that she’s telling herself; she knows for fact that there are still stray things of hers lingering at his house, she knows that he won’t get rid of them.

Y/n pauses when she sees him, waiting near the sign that says 'International Arrivals', towering most of the other people in the busy area. He’s wearing a black hoodie over a grey sweater, paired with dark wash jeans and a cap that’s pulled over his brow. His hands are stuffed into his pockets and really, Andrew is dressed far simply to look that good, yet he pulls it off. She pauses in a bid to ground herself, keep her feet in their place so she doesn’t rush towards him and throw her arms around his neck while flinging her chest into his; that is not who they are anymore.

She is not going to run into his arms. He is not going to lift her off the ground and give her a little spin before sealing his mouth over hers. They aren’t going to walk out of there with her tucked against his side, he isn’t going to make a joke of tearing his cap off and propping it on her head because there’s drizzle and; “I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold, darlin’.”

None of that is going to happen. So she stands there, separated from him by about five feet and unaware travelers. Between the sunglasses that she’s only just pushed up onto her head and his baseball cap, its fair to assume that they haven’t been recognized, but folks in Ireland are way more respectful anyway.

Like her, Andrew doesn’t move an inch, and Y/n catches the moment where he draws in a deep breath. It's the first time they’ve seen each other since she swore up and down that it was over, that text she sent him when they landed is the most they’ve spoken since she sent her flight details.

Andrew is the one that eventually steps forward, barely missing a middle aged man who rushes past him, struggling under the weight of two heavy duffle bags. “You’re here,” he observes quietly, and there's an unmistakable ache in his eyes.

Before Y/n can fumble through a response, Andrew leans forward and pulls her into his arms. And just like that, her travel bag slides off her shoulder, hitting the floor as she ropes her arms around his neck, standing on her toes so she can press her cheek to his shoulder. “I’ve missed you,” he squeezes her, as if even the slightest slackening of his embrace will constitute her slipping out of it, “so fucking much.” Y/n can feel his lips against the top of her head.

I’ve missed you too. She almost says it. But the words get trapped on the tip of her tongue.

“How have you been?” She asks when they pull away, his hand still on her shoulder keeping them connected.

He mositsens his lips and shrugs before slumping his shoulder. “Fuckin’ awful,” he admits in one heavy breath, “I can’t stop thinking about you, Y/n.”

Blinking quickly, Y/n glances off to her left. “Andrew –”

“I know,” his hand drops to his side, “you don’t wanna talk about it here. I just wanted you to know,” tense silence is traded for a moment. “We should go,” the words are delivered with firm determination and Andrew brushes past Y/n to collect her bag off the floor, slinging it over his shoulder before offering his free hand. Y/n hesitates, though, just as she senses he’s about to pull it away, she reaches out. They don’t interlace their fingers they way they used to, and admittedly, it feels a little awkward to hold his hand like that. Palms tilted against each other, his thumb curved over hers; Andrew’s hand is so much bigger that it almost completely envelops hers.

Wordlessly, he leads her out to the parking lot; his SUV – the navy blue one he bought just before they called it quits – is parked about five minutes away from the airport’s main entrance. The sun is out, thankfully, so there's no need to go through the strangeness of walking through memory that feels so far away from her that its practically foreign.

“How was your flight?” Andrew probs just as he slides into the driver’s side.

Y/n shrugs, still shouldering the awkwardness of earlier as she rubs the palm of the hand he’d been holding. The situation is so strange to her, she sort of wishes she could run away from it. Get out of the car and run backwards to a time where they were happy and unbothered by the weight of a messy past.

Where she was freshly twenty and couldn't care less about labels or marriage or the future entirely. If she could run away, she'd take him with her. Hold his hand the way she’s meant to, with their fingers loosely interlaced and just beat her feet against the ground, until her soles are worn and they're back to that moment she’d thought of earlier, when she first spotted him at the airport.

“It was alright,” Y/n offers softly, shaking off the intense desire to escape.

“Get any sleep?”

“No,” her lips quiver to say more; that she couldn’t sleep despite her best efforts because her mind was so overrun with thoughts of him and what she wanted to say when they finally saw each other. But Y/n doesn't dare let it slip, it feels clumsy and impedes on the mediocum of defense that she’s managed to muster up. Pressing her lips together, Y/n turns her face towards the window, watching bits of Dublin fly past them.

Upon realizing that she isn’t going to offer anything more, Andrew presses his lips together and tries to focus on the road and not the fact that it feels like she’s flicked his heart with a rubber band. He actually doesn’t know what he expected when she said she’d come out to see him; maybe a touch more warmth. He’s hardly a romance buff, but he’s seen and read about enough lovers’ reunions on illustrate the perfect little scene in his head;

She’ll throw her arms around his neck, and press her lips to his cheek in a kiss that lingers for longer than it should. He’ll give her a good squeeze — not like he’s scared that she’ll run away, but more like he’s so relieved to have her close again that he can’t imagine letting go. They’ll kiss each other breathless, someone will cry and they’ll whisper age-old promises against each other’s lips.

Instead though, there’s a chill in the car that isn’t the AC and even as he leaves the town, deserting streets they used to haunt and approaching Wicklow, he can’t seem to get a read on her. It used to be so easy to tell what Y/n was feeling, at least for him.

Or maybe he was never that good at it to begin with. Maybe he was only ever privy to what she afforded him, knew what she shared and tended to the hurt that she let herself wear plainly. Maybe that was why she was able to plunge his world into shock when she left, because he didn’t know that hers had already been crumbled in his hands.

“I keep asking myself why I came.” He’s surprised when Y/n finally speaks up, scattering his thoughts. Andrew’s eyes flit between the road ahead and the passenger seat and her head is down, while digging one thumb nail into the other. “I just…I’ve been trying to figure out if I actually believe you. Believe that you wanna change and you want commit –”

“I do, I promise you, I do,” Andrew implores.

“But I don’t believe it,” Y/n finally looks over at him, and even if he should be staring forward at the road, he spares a couple seconds to meet her eyes.

“Then why are you here?” His grip on the wheel tightens and he snaps his head forward again. It really is a circle; she’ll give him a little hope, he’ll let it burst and swell, like a sprout splitting a seed and then she’ll rip it away from its infant root. Chew it up, spit it out, crush it under her heel.

He’s never been quick to anger, so Y/n is surprised by the edge in his tone and she turns to him with shining eyes. “Because I can’t fucking get away from you! Even when you’re not around me, you’re in my head. My friends are always asking about you….my parents. There is nothing that I can do that you are not a part of,” her voice breaks pitifully and Andrew draws in a sharp breath. “Because even after everything I am still so pathetically desperate to be loved by you that if you tell me its gonna be different, then I’m gonna come. Even if I don’t believe you.”

“I have always loved you,” the profession is fired with such urgency that it leaves him breathless. “Always,” he reaffirms. Licking his lips, Andrew shakes his head; he doesn’t think there’s ever been a time where he hasn’t loved her.

“Not as much as I love you,” Y/n sniffles, “when we got together, I knew that I was never going to be that happy with anyone else. I didn’t need to see where things go, I didn't need years to figure it out. I didn’t need to lose you to know –”

“I was the one that lost you! I was the one walking around that fucking house looking at the things you didn’t care enough to take,” discarded and forgotten – like him.

“I was the one that had to leave the only person I could ever…..ever love like this,” there’s a weight that seems akin to disgust when she says ‘this’, as if the gravity of it is too much for her. Burdensome, even.

They’re pulling up to his house now, and his turn into the long, gravel driveway is far from graceful. He jerks the wheel a little too much to the left, and he hasn’t slowed down enough either, so the car skids a bit, veering towards one of the aged trees that line the property. It's all happening too quickly, and he’s much too frustrated, for him to think up a proper course of action, so he simultaneously slams his foot on the brake and yanks the steering wheel in the other direction.

Their bodies lurch forward and the seatbelts lock up, keeping them from any real impact. “Are you okay?” Andrew heaves, and it takes a second more for him to realize that Y/n’s nails are digging into his knee. He hadn’t even noticed when she reached over.

She nods stiffly, “yeah.” Though, mere seconds later she emits a choked sob and makes him wince. Her shoulders are shaking and her breathing is loud and erratic. Andrew can’t recall ever seeing her breakdown like that, crying in a way that he can only describe as violent.

“Shit,” Andrew mutters, and there isn’t even time for him to be perplexed by her disproportionate reaction before he unbuckles his seatbelt to lean over the console. When he unbuckles her and goes to take her into his arms, he half expects Y/n to press her shaking hands to his chest and shove him away, so he’s surprised when she doesn’t resist at all. “I’m sorry,” his cheek is pressed to the top of her head and he can feel her body quaking in his arms. “I’m so sorry,” he soothes, one hand slowly going up and down, feeling her warmth through her black cardigan, while the other stays firmly at the small of her back.

He’s sorry he gets a little reckless when he’s frustrated. He’s sorry that he’s been so blinded by his own heartbreak that he never realized that she’s been nursing hers for longer.

He’s sorry that every mistake he made in their relationship downplayed the fact that he’s loved her since the night they met.

#hozier #andrew hozier byrne #hozier x reader #hozier x you #hozier x y/n #the hoziest #hozier fanfiction #broken chords

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hard-core-super-star · 1 year ago

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Heyhey, may I request something like a reader who is Clint's daughter, sucks at archery and thinks she's a disappointment to Clint. Seeing this situation and not really knowing what to do, Kate decides to help reader with some archery lessons. The lessons really help reader, but at the same time they are a distraction and the BIGGEST test of self-control not to kiss Kate while she talks about archery and invades personal space to show how it’s done.

Like– who would be 100% focused with Kate so close?? 😭😭😭

can you see right through me? [K.Bishop]

pairing: kate bishop x barton!reader

summary: you're notoriously bad at archery and somehow even worse at keeping yourself together around a certain kind-eyed archer.

warnings: none, just fluff with a side of romantic tension; kate being a flirt without realizing; very platonic touching [...not]; me pretending like i completely understand how archery works

wordcount: 1.7k

a/n: for every one fic i write where kate is confident and cocky, i have to write another one where she's dorky and awkward and confident and cocky. that's just the law of the universe. this request was a lot of fun to write so thank you. hope you enjoy <3 [also, it would take a ridiculous amount of self-control to stay focused around kate's goofy little smile]

* * * * * * *

You wouldn’t say you’re the world’s worst archer but you’re definitely close to the top of the list. It’s something that shouldn’t bother you, and maybe it wouldn't if you were anybody else. Unfortunately, you’re Hawkeye’s oldest daughter and you also happen to be the absolute worst at archery.

Even your youngest brother has better aim than you and he’s not even strong enough to pick up a bow.

Your dad swears your lack of skill doesn’t bother him but it certainly bothers you. Especially when it results in him taking on Kate Bishop as his protege instead of you.

The worst part is, Kate’s incredibly sweet so you can’t even hate her for being everything you’re not. Her love for archery is genuine, and so is her admiration for Clint.

And, okay, fine, maybe she also happens to be attractive and caring and far too charming for her own good.

You hate to admit it but you have the biggest crush on the brunette archer and it’s only gotten worse since she kindly offered to teach you how to properly shoot a bow. Your dad complained, not because he didn’t want you to learn, but because he was offended that you seriously thought Kate would be a better teacher than him. (You didn’t have the heart to tell him the real reason you accepted the brunette’s offer)

So, against your better judgment, you’ve been hanging out with Kate every day, letting her talk your ear off about the ‘proper techniques’ involved and what the best bows for beginners are. She’s clearly more excited about all of this than you are but getting to see her so often isn’t something you’re going to complain about.

“y/n, you’re not even listening.” Kate’s teasing tone brings you back to the matter at hand. Well, more like the bow in your hand.

“Sorry,” you mutter, hoping she can’t notice the nervousness in your stance.

She does, unfortunately for you, because she’s far too observant despite her scattered attention span. What she doesn’t realize, though, is that she's the reason for said nervousness.

“You’re shaking too much,” she comments. “Let me help you.”

You open your mouth to tell her you don’t need her help but all your words die in your throat the second she steps closer to you.

She’s trying to be helpful, you know that, and yet she achieves the complete opposite. Her front presses up against your back as her hands land on top of yours to stabilize your movements. “Relax. You’re trying to guide the arrow, not control it.”

You attempt to listen to her advice but relaxing is the last thing on your mind right now. Every muscle in your body is acutely aware of the brunette’s presence which causes your heart to beat faster than should ever be possible. The position you’re in doesn’t help and soon, you really do start shaking from the tension of drawing the arrow back.

She counts down for you, something that should not be as attractive as it is, and you finally let go of the bowstring and shoot the arrow into the target. A target that you miss by several feet.

You can’t even be disappointed in yourself because you’re too busy trying to regain your breath the second Kate finally steps away from you.

“Hey, at least you’re not hitting the wall anymore!” She says in what’s now become her signature ‘cheering you up’ voice.

It makes her sound ridiculous but it also makes you smile so you don’t have the heart to make fun of her for it. “I appreciate it but it’s going to take years for my aim to get better than this.”

“Oh, come on.” Her exasperated words are accompanied by an eyeroll and a step toward you that makes your breath catch in your throat. “You've already improved so much. Give me one more week and I promise you’ll be hitting that bullseye.”

You take advantage of her proximity to hand the stupid bow back to her. “You're doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” She asks, her eyebrows furrowing as she tilts her head slightly.

“The thing where you get too confident right before totally falling on your ass.”

She does her best to look annoyed but the pink hue that tints her cheeks gives her away far too quickly. “Keep talking like that and I’m canceling the lessons.”

“Wow, what a shame.”

You manage to successfully break her this time and she bursts out laughing, the sound setting free hundreds of butterflies inside your stomach. There are a lot of things to love about Kate and her laugh might be at the top of the list. (Right below her smile and her incredibly comforting hugs…not that you’ve ever noticed or anything.)

“Alright, I’ll make you a deal,” she says while getting into position to do some shooting of her own. “If I hit the bullseye three times in a row, we’re staying for fifteen more minutes.”

“And if you miss?” You ask, knowing damn well the chances of her missing are close to zero.

“If I miss…I’ll take you out to dinner instead.”

You’ve never wanted her to prove you wrong more badly than at this moment. You don’t say that out loud, though, you don’t even say anything. You just shake your head at her and do your best not to give away how much you adore her silly antics.

The thought that she’s genuinely flirting with you crosses your mind but you instantly push it away, too afraid of getting hurt to entertain the idea for too long. You’ll take what you can get and if all Kate gives you are stupid flirty jokes then that’s all you need. Hoping for more can’t end well when it comes to the brunette.

Your eyes are glued to her frame while she nocks and draws her first arrow, her muscles straining through the fabric of her purple shirt. You know she knows you’re closely watching every move she makes and the self-assured smile that graces her face has you thinking much different thoughts.

Thoughts that are shot right out of your mind as Kate hits the bullseye not three times in a row but five because she’s an annoying overachiever when she wants to be. You’d be pissed if you were unaware of the way her eyes light up with genuine excitement at her success.

“We get it, you’re the world’s greatest archer.” Your dad would disown you if he ever heard you speak those words but what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him…or at least that’s what you hope.

“Don’t sound so jealous, baby.”

Your legs shake the tiniest bit as you approach her again, taking the bow back into your hands with a huff. “Whatever. Shouldn’t you go fetch your arrows or something?”

“You sure you can handle shooting on your own?” It comes across as another one of her usual teasing comments but her eyes give away her sincerity. She truly does want to help you do well even if it means you won’t need her help anymore.

“You sound like my dad. I’ll be fine, Kate.”

The comparison distracts just enough to stop her from putting up a fight. She walks away toward the target full of her arrows and you walk a few feet away to find a new target to inevitably miss.

You go through the motions Kate patiently taught you, taking in slow breaths and forcing yourself to focus. You’re not fully focused on yourself though. Rather, you visualize the kind-hearted archer and repeat what you’ve seen her do a thousand times at this point.

Time seems to slow down as your eyes hone in on the bullseye and you let the arrow fly. It soars through the air and misses the bullseye by a few inches. But you finally managed to hit the target instead of the wall behind it or the floor in front of it.

You actually did it.

And there’s only one person to thank for that.

“Kate!” You throw the bow down onto the ground in your excitement, your eyes searching for the brunette only to find her already looking at you with the most gorgeous smile on her face.

“You did it!”

She opens her arms for you and you waste no time in running toward her, crashing into her body with a laugh. Her arms slide down your waist and before you know it, she’s picking you up and spinning you around in a giddy haze.

You wrap your legs around her waist without a second thought before looking down at her. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice slightly breathless from your moment of celebration.

She instantly shakes her head, strands of her soft yet messy hair waving around in the process. “That was all you, y/n. I knew you could do it.”

You’re ready to argue back and insist you’d be lost without her but you make the mistake of letting your eyes wander for a second too long.

Maybe it’s the excitement or the adrenaline still pumping through your veins or maybe it’s Kate herself. You don’t know what it is that makes you work up the courage to finally kiss her, you just know it’s the only thing you want right now.

So, you do it.

You lean in and press your lips to hers in a way that borders on desperate. If she notices, she has no complaints about it because she kisses you back just as passionately. And nothing has ever felt as right as this.

You reluctantly pull away from her and attempt to catch your breath. Something that completely fails due to the way Kate is looking at you. She’s got that soft look in her eyes that can only mean one thing. “So…I’m guessing you like me?”

Yup, there it is.

“You’re a dork.”

“Hmm…maybe.” She sneaks in another kiss that you happily accept. “But this dork would love to take you on a date. If you want.”

“I do want that…but only if you’re paying.” You joke before she sets you back down on the ground.

“Golddigger.”

“Shut up.”

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fourthwifematerial · 3 months ago

Text

garden of forking paths | 四 | part ii. body

yandere lord tengen x fourth wife, eiji. word count: 7,086. explicit content. 18+ MDNI

with the worst of their trials behind them, the wives are the latest to impress.

[ previous ] [ next ]

please be mindful of the ample warnings as we're all responsible for curating our own fandom experience✌️ this chapter contains cockwarming, nonconsensual somnophilia, force feeding, hierarchical bullying, face & breast slapping, exhibitionism, nonconsensual breast fucking & deepthroating, neuro spice, identity porn, nonconsensual oral, degradation, spanking, & anal

Eiji wakes to a trickling sound. Water in a basin, perhaps. She isn’t eager to open her eyes just yet, content enough to live in the mystery a little while longer.

The torrid events behind them seem to have dulled her senses. Her body has never been so spent.

Every inch of her screams out in a unilateral cry for relief. There’s not a silent muscle or limb on her. He put her through the wringer last night, made damn sure she was worthy of her station.

She can’t have been asleep for more than a few hours. The sun had barely breached the horizon when he locked her in his arms and bid her sweet dreams.

What a crock…

Uzui pressed his lips to her temple and crown.

“Get some rest. You’ve earned it.”

limbs akimbo in the sheets. sunrise bleeding on the horizon.

Her eyes were heavy on the window. He traced her face with such a fondness, as if he meant to memorize her every feature to the letter. He’s half hard, still fully sheathed inside her tight warmth.

She heaved a breathy sigh. For as much of a bastard Eiji considered him, Lord Tengen was a generous lover. He was considerate, in his way. If she’d been anyone else, she could see the appeal.

“Is that an order or a suggestion?” She’d hardly been able to recognize her voice as she spoke. It came out deep and used… raspy, even. “You plan on making me if I refuse?”

“It’s whatever you need it to be to see it done.”

“Are you going to…”

He rewards her impertinence with a pinch to her waist.

“Shut your eyes. Shut your mouth. Let me take what I need.”

Deflated from the high she’d just found herself riding, she sinks back into the sheets. Eiji did as she was told, as she’d done her whole life.

she shut her eyes. she shut her mouth. she let him take what he needed.

Face buried in her neck, his fingers lazily danced on her clit. When she began to cry softly, he buried her face in the pillow to silence her.

“Just go… - fuck - Go to sleep!”

He went from warming his cock on her side to fucking her for the umpteenth time this night.

The man was relentless. A fiend.

She took back every kindness she’d ever thought about him.

Her vision began to haze. When he thrust, just so… she saw stars. She stilled beneath him as their juices spill out of her, pooling between them.

She let herself be lulled by the push and the pull, just like that night… His pace was impossible to keep up with, even as the man was nearing his end.

His labored breath in her ears brought her right back to the roar of the waters.

It wasn’t long before she found herself on that very beach.

There was nothing for miles, only craggy rocks and shells sharp enough to make her feet bleed.

Step by painful step and this is where it’s led her.

Wrapped in the customary linens, with the zukin preserving her modesty as Sister of faith, she came upon herself in the shallows. She watched the Virgin Eiji fall to her knees.

The waves crashed all around as she raged at the sea. She screamed and screamed until there was nothing left.

Her habit flew off into the wind, just as before.

The waters ran red, too.

But when Sister Eiji turned to face her, she saw herself hauling her own corpse from the bloodied water.

A cold compress lays upon her resting head. Proves her suspicions, at least. Feels nice.

It’s ages before her mind catches up with her vision—she could’ve sworn an angel was tending to the worst of it… wringing a fresh cloth, presumably for the rest.

When the morning light hits her legs, a horrified gasp hits her ears.

“What did he do to you…”

The walls have ears. She knows it’s time to slip away; that razor thin place between herself and her sister.

“Nothing I haven’t already been paid for.” Words ground with mortar and pestle, it’s a desperate plea on her tongue. “Please don’t linger, sister.”

Slow to start, Emiko’s touch ghosts across the most aching of places. The ones that won’t kill them to think about.

her neck… her lips. her cheeks. her eyes.

Just before she can tell her sister off, a pained hiss fills the room. Eiji tracks the source under a now bloodied compress, passing a trail of bites over the scars that coil around her leg. Imprinted canines and incisors drag across her skin.

still tender. still bleeding.

What did he do to you?

Her question lingers between them… unspoken, unacknowledged.

The silence looms, composure falling under the dual scrutiny of her marred flesh.

“The customers would never have marked you up like this,” she snaps.

“Because I had you to keep me safe.”

“I know you’re angry—”

With the roll of her eyes, Eiji snatches the cloth from her forehead and quickly cleans her bruise kissed thighs.

“I’m not angry. I’m tired… I’m sore.”

“You need to eat so you can heal.”

Would that Eiji had want of the marriage, of him… If she were here of her own volition, one might mistake her for pouting.

“Should probably go out there,” she laments.

“Can I help you dress?”

She pushes herself up off the futon, face falling at the question. “Why would you help me dress?”

Eiji is already across the room before Emiko can think to answer. She opens a cabinet armed to the teeth with yukata and the like… Bringing out a fresh juban, she sets upon dressing herself.

The late spring air hits her wounds, fresh and healed, leaving the slip she went to bed in a mere pile on the floor.

Broken from her daze, Emiko joins her in the fray. Once the yukata was on fully, she wrapped the obiage around Eiji before either sibling could kick up a fuss.

The cotton she wears is mint green. The obi, a blush piece with patterns of liquid smoke, golden brushstrokes with notes of amethyst.

With the belt sufficiently manhandled around her protesting sister, Emiko wipes her brow with a wry smile. She combs the wisping hairs atop her head with her fingers, now curly from more fresh growth Eiji’s permitted herself in years.

“Stay still,” she pants. “I’m nearly finished.”

Eiji does as she’s told. She worries at her lips, all teeth and tongue. “Sissy—”

“Hmm.”

“How much did you hear?”

And with no less than five syllables between them, the oppressive silence returns. Emiko can barely stomach looking at her.

She could only sigh, disgust and remorse pooling in her gut.

for what she’s done…

…for what she couldn’t do.

She takes her sister by the arm, gently leading her to that very mirror from the night before. The sole voyeur to their utter destruction.

“The sounds he was making…” Emiko smoothes the last of the finger curls with some beeswax she’d pocketed back at the Butterfly Mansion. “He sounded like he was eating you alive.”

No testimony is given to the contrary. They don’t have to say a word between each other.

“We should go before you’re missed.”

A nod from Eiji, who says nothing in return.

Arm in arm, the twins leave the strange creature comforts of the bedroom for the hall. It’s a long stretch, made all the more so by their mutual reluctance to join the wives for breakfast. Neither sister could have known before leaving the sanctity of the room whether Lord Tengen would be at the head of the table.

too much, too soon.

The bedroom was practically sacred ground with all the noise coming from the others…

“Suma, she hasn’t even been out yet,” scolds an angry voice. “Show some restraint, why don’t you.”

“I can’t help it,” wails a second. “The newlywed spread is too good to pass up. I’m sure Emiko won’t mind! We’re a part of this marriage, aren’t we? We’ve been here longer anyways, it’s only right we get priority serving!”

“That’s enough… Not to pry in the affairs of a fellow wife, but the poor girl deserves to try whatever food suits her tastes. An option impeded by your avarice, dear heart.”

The third, Eiji properly recognizes. Collected and cool, level headed even as the sky falls all around her.

It’s a kiss that ends the infighting between them.

Suma, apparently, sighs in surrender. “If one of us ought to practice restraining himself—”

“I’ve never had any complaints,” he cuts her off before she can continue her lascivious train of thought.

So. He is there to join them.

“You kept her up all night,” the first voice notes wryly. “Probably not much in the way of grievances if she’s sleeping right through it. I’d be shocked if she stayed awake for all of that…”

“Quiet,” he demands of them all.

Once they turn the corner, Emiko maintains a featherlight hold on her. She makes quick work of guiding her to the open seat at Lord Tengen’s side before taking her place by the wall. A silent observer. Ornamental. Disregarded and underestimated. Eiji’s fingers twitch in longing. She misses that life desperately, craves it like a drunk to a tokkuri of saké.

Even after such a short time apart, she still feels naked and far too exposed without a zukin.

Now seated, all eyes bear into her with no one speaking a word. Her cheeks flush under the withering attention.

The level headed bride in purple seems to take pity on her as she is the first to break the silence.

“Emiko, it’s wonderful to meet you properly. My name is Hinatsuru.” With a sweeping hand from her heart to the first and second wife, she smiles softly as introductions are made.

“These two could wake the dead with all their banter… Suma, Makio. Let’s show our sister wife we can be civil, yes?”

The others grumble their apologies, still eating and half listening.

Eiji bows her head in reverence. “Thank you, Hinatsuru. That’s very kind of you.”

Hinatsuru brightens, taking initiative to fill an empty plate. She turns away from the table, still loading up on fish and rice.

“Sister Eiji, is there anything you can’t tolerate?”

From her place on the wall, Emiko stiffens at the direct address.

She still isn’t used to it. Not her name. Not her role.

She can’t trust herself with the words just yet. Her eyes flit to the table before they lock on her sister’s, all the while, holding her tongue.

“There’s nothing that makes her sick,” Eiji proper says in reply. “She’s always been the stronger between us. Personally, I can’t handle buckwheat.”

The smallest of the three, with blunt bangs cut straight above her brow, can barely contain herself in the seat parallel to her own. Suma’s cheeks flush from exertion, locked in a silent battle of wills all unto herself; her fists are raised, arms nearly shaking, not unlike a toddler.

“See?” The girl’s voice is shrill as it is smug. She’s already back to seconds on the soba before her, eyes brimming with a shine of righteous indignation. “I told you she’d be fine with it!”

Before Eiji can think to reply, she’s stunned into silence tracking her sister’s plate; Hinatsuru passes it off to Makio who wordlessly hands the food to her sister.

Not quite an olive branch. More so how one might tend to a dog. Cursory. Habitual… It lacks the warmth of human interaction, from the goodness of her heart, almost like she’s looking down on her.

The disdain radiates from her like a child to a chore. There’s a bitter note to it. Hosting not one, but two additional mouths to feed was hardly her call to make, nor was it her place to refute.

Watching her sister eat appeases her some… but it does little to temper the burn of resentment she holds for the woman.

“You’re not eating,” Lord Tengen comments.

It’s the first he’s spoken to her since the sun rose against them.

Eiji’s knuckles go white as she wrings her hands. She flexes her hands in a futile reach for composure..

“Well?” he questions, already impatient with her daze. “Starving yourself isn’t going to do you any favors, you know.”

His words do even less to assure her. If anything, her hackles rise like the damn dog they all make her sister out to be.

“No… My eyes are bigger than my stomach, I’m afraid.”

She couldn’t eat if she wanted to. She feels sick. She is sick.

She wants nothing more than to crawl back into bed and sleep for a week. The bruises will still be there, yes. Probably darkened and green. But maybe her nerves will finally stop twisting in her gut.

The answer does little to impress Uzui. He watches her, expectant that she’d change her mind with the narrow of his eyes…

She averts his gaze, looking to her sister. A relieved sigh escapes her at the sight of the half consumed fish.

Good, she thinks. At least she’s eating.

Calloused fingers grab at her jaw, forcing her hand. He watches her, thoroughly unamused.

“I don’t like damage inflicted on what’s mine.”

Before she can even cry out in pain, he’s swiping several pickled radishes from the table before popping them in his mouth. He chews them thoughtfully, eyes unyielding as he keeps her in his sights. Just as she believes he’s due to swallow, he pulls their lips flush together—

Her eyes widen in panic. There’s a weak drag of her arm that preludes the palm pushing his chest, still desperately spent from her unwitting consummation.

The food was fed from his mouth into her own. His tongue lapped at the offering, forcing the sour crawl further down her throat to ensure a proper start to the feeding.

She fights against him, the promise of bile burning the back of her throat as she fights off her mounting gag reflex.

He restrains her with his corded muscles. Locks her in place with an arm snug around her middle, fingers of his free hand coaxing the swallow down her throat.

Uzui barely allows her breath to scream. Keeps her like that until there’s nothing left. He only relents to fill his own mouth.

again and again and again until he could call her fed.

the fish. the tamago. the rice. the ginger.

He forces her mouth open to drink. It’s only when the warm broth hits her lips and she’s half choking on tofu that she realizes it’s soup.

spittle runs down her chin as the miso spills from her mouth.

When he’s finally done with her, Uzui takes hold of her scalp. Her finger curls are tainted by his touch.

Garnet. Like the seeds of a pomegranate.

His gaze bears down on her. He’s dragging her by the hair, pulling her in his white knuckle grip.

“Apologize,” he demands.

in for a penny, in for a pound and all that.

The words fall from her lips like the vomit that won’t seem to come, all before she can think better of it. “Drop dead.”

She hears the strike land before registering the pain blossoming across her cheek… and now she’s on the floor, a spread almost comparable to the breakfast laid out for them all.

The other wives are cavalier in his abuse, eating their fill while he pins her to the ground.

Emiko watches the scene in abject horror. Stuck-still, powerless to intervene. She slides down her place on the wall in shame and defeat.

unable to stop herself…

She can’t look away.

…unable to stop him.

He nearly tears the obi off her, leaving her yukata hanging exposed. Her nipples pebble under the thin barrier of the juban, and he takes merciless notice.

Off the slip goes, joining the belt beside them.

Nails rake a path over her bust. He pinches the hardened peaks, twisting and kneading them until she’s crying out beneath him.

He gives them a slap. Then another. And a third for good measure.

Uzui lets his mouth water at the skin darkening under his touch. He gets in close to suckle on them. Bite them. Slobber all over them like a damn animal.

No preamble. No notice. Just the cursed sight of him smearing his beading precome over her abused chest.

He gives himself a cursory pump or two before laying his heavy cock between her breasts. Fucking into her, he pushes her tits closer, manhandling her to suit his needy pace.

The wives make idle conversation as he fucks her like this. No one acknowledges the debauchery and no one comes to her aid.

It’s unclear to Eiji if vindication over this indignity is worth Emiko’s poor eyes bearing witness. They both know she heard him fucking her for hours last night. She didn’t have to see to know.

Lord Tengen’s forceful grunts echo through the room. She’s seen enough of him in action to know he’s close.

With as much speed as the realization that dawned on her, he’s off her just as quickly. Drags her hair, forces her on her knees. His thumb ghosts along the soft pout of her lips, eyes blown with fury and lust as he works her mouth open for him.

“You’re not to spill a drop, do you understand me?” he warns, a light tap to her cheek before tracing the neckline of her yukata with his knuckle.

Fist buried in her hair, he rolls his hips in a shallow snap to start. She sputters and gags as he takes himself deeper, her hands beating against his clothed thighs in wordless protest.

Uzui only meets her violence with violence—he takes the offending touch and holds her splayed hands at either side of her head, fucking her mouth with reckless abandon until the only sound remaining was the merciless score of her choking on his shaft.

“Nothing more to say,” he panted, voice strained in weary concentration. “Interesting how that works with a cock down your throat, isn’t it.”

Eiji watches him with so much vitriol in her gaze. He catches her, holds her in that moment… and then he loses the plot.

His hips stutter in pace as he comes. He groans over her, pulling her flush against him.

She milks his cock, swallowing all he gives her with a grimace. When he pulls out, she whines under his further scrutiny—one hand with an iron grip on her chin, the other forcing her back open to see if she’d followed his order to the letter.

She’s rewarded with sweet degradation and a pat on her head. “That’s a good whore,” he praises roughly.

It takes all her will not to flinch from his touch.

“Anything you care to say?” His eyes are pointed in challenge as he asks, “Emiko. Two little words and we can put this to bed.”

Her eyes burn. Her jaw aches.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she chokes out.

He pulls her close, punctuating his pleasure with a kiss to her temple. Rising to his feet, Lord Tengen towers over her with his cock barely tucked back into his hakama.

As if nothing had even happened, he returns to the head of the table. His eyes survey the remains of the spread.

“Well done, you three. I see you’ve dug in with no shortage of gusto. You ladies do me proud.” Flashing a smile, he kisses each wife on the cheek.

“Lord Tengen,” squawks a voice from the window.

In flies Nijimaru, the lord and master’s kasugai crow. His eyes flit towards the crow, having taken his perch on the sill of the window.

“Lower Moon Five has been defeated! Slain on the Mugen Train by Kyojuro Rengoku! Flame Hashira, Lord Rengoku has defeated Lower Moon Five with no human casualties—neither civilian nor Slayer!”

The wives look amongst themselves, seemingly elated by the news.

“Lord Tengen, Report to Master Ubuyashiki’s Headquarters for further mission instructions.”

The twins lock eyes. With all these names and dynamics floating around, they could only ground themselves in quiet concert. As ever, barricaded inside themselves.

“Understood,” Uzui affirms.

They all watch the kasugai fly back out the window.

He looks at his disheveled wife over his shoulder.

“Sister Eiji,” he calls. “Would you be so kind as to take Emiko to the onsen? It seems she’s made a mess of herself.”

Emiko proper bows, silently ushering Eiji from the room. She wraps an arm around her shoulders to help support her weight.

she’s shaking…

her arms.

they’re shaking.

The twins are all but wordless as they make for the bath.

Neither allow themselves the further indignity of falling apart, not within earshot.

Eiji clutches her yukata closed, holding it like a lifeline until they’re past the door.

The sisters break from each other. Emiko walks on before realizing she’s alone on the path to the onsen.

She turns. “Sister…”

Free from the burdens of decorum, of maintaining her role, Eiji falls to her knees and beats at the earth beneath her fingertips.

She presses her forehead against the dew kissed ground. Buries the incident like everything else.

the consummation. renouncing her vows. scars, old and new.

Even as she cries, she forces herself to swallow the rage and shame. Bitter as his come. But she chokes it down all the same.

Time was a construct among the sweet dirt and moss.

knees tucked into her aching breasts. arms outstretched over the greenery.

Eiji startles when a warm hand descends over her back, smooth and splayed. The touch is gentle and patient, she’s quick to settle.

‘hush, hush, baby rabbit… up on the hill…’

The words thrum in her blood as her mother sang them.

‘why are your eyes so red?’

She curls in closer, dirtied fingers twisting in her lap.

‘when i was small… mother are the fruit of the red tree’

🪞

Emiko hadn’t wanted to do it. But she couldn’t just leave her like that.

She returns through the door where she came and makes quick work of tracking down someone… anyone.

Following the voices gathered in the lounge, Suma sits on Lord Tengen’s lap while the other two drink tea.

As soon as she enters the room, a cold hush descends upon the marriage, rendering them all speechless before her.

Uzui looks at her with those piercing eyes of his.

sizing her up. gauging her intent.

The others simply pout at the disruption.

“That was fast for a bath,” he quips. “Where’s your sister? She drown herself already?”

She still doesn’t trust her words.

Raising a hand, she points to the long stretch of hall leading to the back door.

Lord Tengen follows her wordless dictation, tracking with his eyes, already bored with her play of charades.

“Hinatsuru, my dear.” He waves Sister Eiji off with the swipe of his manicured hands. “See what the little voyeur needs. It’s like drawing pus from a damn wound, I swear.”

His ravenette bride rises from her seat and presses a kiss on her husband’s cheek before following after the good Sister.

By the time they reach her in the yard, she’s on her back with her breasts fully exposed to the elements. One palm weakly raised to the sky to block out the sun while the other remains twisted in the earth.

They carry either side of her into the onsen. Inside, they place Eiji on the stool so as to give her a thorough cleaning before the bath.

“My husband is not a cruel man… but what he did was callous,” she murmurs, all remorse.

She doesn’t dignify her with a response, instead focusing on the task at hand.

“If this is how you prefer it, we don’t have to talk…”

“Prefer it,” she scoffs.

It’s the first words she’s spoken in her new life. She suddenly feels inspired by her sister’s natural indignation.

“So you can speak.”

She ignores her question, filling the bucket with water and soaping the wetted towel.

“You say your husband isn’t cruel… To you , perhaps. Hasn’t my dear sister been through enough?”

They scour her flesh with a sudsy cloth, scrubbing her raw, watching the dirt and debris fall with little difficulty.

her neck. her arms. each individual finger.

A shudder tears through Eiji as they erase all traces of the meadow.

“Mother—”

“That’s enough now.” Emiko lulls her softly, drying her eyes and holding her close, “I’m not leaving you again.”

Hinatsuru kept a steady pace with the regimen. She took her time with her sister wife’s breasts. Her legs. There wasn’t an inch of her she hadn’t cleansed and polished.

Every so often she’d graze a bruise. Most fresh, the most faded were from that night.

It was hardly a wonder why their was no love lost between the nun and their family.

When her face was washed properly along with her hair, Emiko does kakeyu, dousing her sister with water when Hinatsuru prompts her into doing so.

The bucket was hot, flowing over her skin. It would never be enough for her, not to wash away the sin…

Being led to the bath, Eiji fights through the pain. There’s so much she could cry for, if she turned to the well, she’d never be able to stop.

Once she’s in the water, the utter lack of recollection dawns on her.

how long…

…how long…

…how long.

“Oh… I’m in the bath,” she realizes.

Eiji forgets herself having lost everything after breakfast, if one could deign to call that fucking travesty breakfast.

Just thinking of his tongue in her mouth shoveling dish after dish…

She sinks under the water, if only for a moment. Curls her arms around her knees and screams.

🪞

It’s the first time she can feel herself breathe in this place.

Emiko is left totally alone in the receiving room. She rolls her shoulders, eyes falling shut.

When Hinatsuru returns with tea for them both, she straightens, but gives her sincere appreciation.

“Thank you.”

She takes her cup eagerly, beyond grateful for it. Her body even relaxed a touch.

“You know. Lord Tengen bet everyone you’d slap him before the end of the meal.”

“Did he, now…” Emiko asks softly. “Who won the wager?”

Hinatsuru glances over the porcelain rim of her cup.

“A betting woman never tells.”

“So it was you,” she surmises.

A shrug. “Just because I bet on losing dogs doesn’t mean I know why.”

One sip leads to another. Before long, her cup is nearly empty. She can’t ignore the unspoken question any longer.

“I figure things will go better for her if I don’t act on impulse.”

“Look at who you’re living with,” Hinatsuru holds the rim with her slender fingers. “No one else is holding back.”

“Freedom of choice doesn’t equate to freedom from consequence,” she deadpans.

“Such wise words, Sister.”

She shakes her head. “No need for formalities…”

“Eiji, then.”

Slow to start, the chilly reception was beginning to thaw.

“Awfully forward, but so be it.”

She’d find a place here, yet.

The pair finish their tea in due course, slowly making their way back to the onsen. On the other side of the door, they’re greeted by the uncanny sight of her other half.

lying in the water. gaze fixed on the ceiling. breath steady with her countless bruises and scars on full display.

“E…Emiko?” The good Sister corrects herself before she can do something stupid like say her actual name.

“I saw myself in the water. The waves were thrashing against the shore…”

“The shore? From when we were children?”

She doesn’t even nod. “Yes.” Just agrees, voice dull.

No one speaks. Neither sister, nor wife.

“I heard our mother singing to me. Could’ve been you for all I know…”

Emiko scoffs. “In your dreams.”

It’s the first Eiji’s smiled… truly smiled. “Right,” she says softly, her voice tinged with remorse.

Rising from the bath and without any prompting, Emiko turns to gather her towel. She’s quick to shroud her sister and preserve her modesty.

“Let’s get you dried off.”

Watching the scene play out in front of her, Hinatsuru turns with a laugh. Natural moments like this. Intimate and deft… they were a precious thing. Especially in a world so perilous as the one they’d inherited.

They leave the onsen one after the next with Suma and Makio still unaccounted for.

It was a different atmosphere having Hina here in place of their husband. She was softer, kinder.

more patient. more mindful.

There were half a dozen yukata strewn across the floor, waiting for their judgment. Just three obi belts to choose between.

Swatch after swatch with a voice nearly so soft as her touch, Hinatsuru praises Eiji for matters entirely out of her control.

“I quite like the coral,” she offers, still unsure.

Emiko nods in wordless agreement, quick to dress her sister before she could say no.

It was quiet work between them with Hinatsuru’s fingers grazing her scalp. Layer by layer, careful around any lingering trace of injury.

“You really do have the most lovely hair,” she muses thoughtfully. “It’s so soft, I could lose myself like this.”

Eiji’s cheeks heat. She can’t lie… any longer under this deft touch of hers, she’d lose herself just the same.

It’s the sudden slide of the door that spoils their fun.

“What’s she doing in here?”

Suma and Makio enter the marriage bed without ceremony or warning, casting disdainful glances toward the nun in question.

“This isn’t where you should be,” Makio scolds her. The wife in red had a hand on her hip, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Do you have any decency? Lord Tengen told us you were up half the night listening to them on the veranda.”

She gives chase with a raised fist. Emiko flees the scene.

The last sight before the door’s shut: Eiji’s eyes locking on her own.

Her whole body tenses with the snap of the door. Emiko’s fingers ghost across her face, twin frowns burning in mind and memory.

She takes her leave for the night and brushes off the rebuff.

“Nothing to be done for it,” she shrugs.

Emiko returns to the common area for her tea. With no one home to stop her, she pockets an orange from the picked over dining table. Swipes the saké, too.

She takes the orange to the kitchen and runs it under some water. She peels the skin with a knife in one uninterrupted pile of citrus before halving the fruit. She drains it for all it’s worth, setting the juice aside.

It takes her a minute to finagle a lemon, draining the citron in one fell swoop.

Tiny cuts lap at her skin, hands stinging until she can pat her hands down with the damp kitchen cloth.

She gathers up the lemon juice, the orange juice, and her green tea. Along with some honey, they all join the pot. She turns the heat on, preferring her tea hot.

She eyeballs the saké, giving absolutely no fucks.

She stirs the pot until it’s nearly boiling over. Reducing the heat, she relishes in the steam, eyes shut as she breathes it in.

“Hope you made enough for two.”

Lord Tengen was already inside before she even realized he was back. His silhouette towers over her, even from this far, just standing in the frame of the entrance.

Should Emiko have been on her guard, she’d have taken note of the state of the door, open as it was. Of the fresh air and mild breeze on the setting sun. Pity that observation was never her strong suit.

she doesn’t turn, nor does she face him.

“I mean, it hardly feels like an inappropriate request… it is my booze you’ve absconded with, right?”

He’s locking her in place, caging her with little mercy from his rippling arms.

her body tenses under his scrutinizing eye and touch.

Time stops between them. One palm rests flush against her chest, he pulls her to him. He draws his massive fingers before her, making for the ladle in the pot.

Uzui tests the toddy. She can’t see his face or else he’d have given the game away.

His hand comes down, firmly on her backside. “Two cups. Sit with me.”

She doesn’t dare refuse him.

drinks are poured,

garnish laid to perfection.

When she sees him again, it’s past the dining room table. He sits on the floor of the drawing room, still dressed from his assignment.

Placing a cup in front of him, Emiko keeps the other for herself.

He nods in silent thanks before indulging. The beads on his headdress swish gloriously with the motion.

“It’s a damn good drink,” he commends her.

She says nothing to his praise. She just takes her small, measured sips.

The girls can be heard tittering from the other end of the home. She stiffens at the sound, to which his eyes narrow.

“Tell me true, Sister.” Swirling the drink in his cup, he’s relentless in his teasing. “I bet you want to kill me for defiling your precious Emiko.”

“Lord Uzui… if I took it upon myself to lay to rest every man to spill his seed inside my sister, I’d scarcely have a moment for anything else.”

It’s good. The burn of the saké down her throat. Keeps her grounded. Makes her bold.

He appreciates it all the same, if not more. Slapping his thigh, Tengen lets out a thunderous roar of approval.

“And what would you do? All that time, letting the rest of us live… There must be something you’d rather be doing.”

She downs her drink and his nearly weary eyes lock on the scene before him, incredulous and more than a little turned on.

“Booze and a bed. If you’re telling me to stand down, that she’s safe in your care, I can oblige that… I’ll take up embroidery or something.”

“Do you expect me to trust you around a needle?”

Her gaze narrows, voice nearly so frosty as the cold of her shoulder. “As if I’m meant to trust you at all.”

Lord Uzui swallows the remains of his cup, teeth flashing from the bitterness.

“You’re going to wash me.”

“Oh?”

“Then I’m going to ravage my wives.”

“As you say.”

She almost looks bored by the order. Her voice betrays her true nature. His fingers curl dangerously around her arm…

He tempers his rage. A breath follows.

…wordless dare in the air as he ever craves them both.

“You don’t believe me?” He cocks a silver brow, nearly daring her push him one step more. “I’m hurt. I assumed we reached an understanding.”

His touch snakes around her, boxing her in against the table’s sharp edge. He eyes her as though he’s looking for something.

the suspicion and intrigue of men never bodes well.

“You have a smart mouth. What do you say to making better use of it.”

He leans in closer, near stealing her breath. Drags her frozen fist over his hardening cock. A low groan teases his throat as he rocks into her reluctant touch.

“Better hop to, little rabbit. Else I might be tempted to fuck that virgin asshole instead.”

Emiko’s face blanches as the threat washes over her. Weak and shaking, she palms at the corded outline of his massive length. Her eyes glaze over when muscle memory takes over.

Resigned. Devastated. She sinks to the floor on shaky ground while he wastes no time freeing himself.

She laps at the column of his cock, spreading precome over the furious tip weeping in her face.

He throws his head back with a guttural sigh.

“You really picked up a trick or two from that whore sister of yours,” he praises her roughly. “May have to fuck your ass anyways. Show you what you missed last night.”

Her cheeks burn in shame, desperate to ignore the words that cut her so deep.

The price is modest enough considering she sold her sister to this brute. A cock in her mouth for room and board…

Maybe this was her inevitable penance for selling her own sister, forcing her to wife and bed this beast.

Hollowing her cheeks, she takes him in her mouth but by bit. He’s thick on her tongue. Heavy.

She feels his growing impatience as he grunts over her.

“Never send a nun to do a whore’s job,” he laments.

There’s no time to process his words before he’s fisting her habit and forcing himself down her throat.

She beats against his thighs in protest. He ignores her completely, hands locked on either side of her head as he sets a raging pace.

On her knees like this, she can hear herself dying. She can hear him getting off on it. Feels like an age choking on the indignity of her own glucks and spittle.

There’s no end for her… No end in sight.

Uzui abruptly throws her from him until she’s spilling over the floor. He leaves her clamoring for air as he drags her past the doors.

She follows after him, no real choice in the matter. Her throat is raw… Her arm, now bruising.

He leads her outside and she shudders under the sun’s sudden assault. Uzui ignores her, ushering her inside the onsen.

Emiko nearly trips in the dimly lit space, paying no heed to the Hashira already stripping for his bath.

His eyes dance with mirth and derision. “Wash your face. And take care of that look, I don’t want to hear a word. Not when I told you what would happen.”

She wordlessly makes for the bucket. Fills it up and swipes her cupped hands over her face.

still hot. still listless. still breaking.

She manages to steady her breathing. One after the other, slowly returning to herself.

Only when her face is being pushed into the ground does it dawn on her that he never came.

no time to think–

He knocked the wind out of her. The shove came so fast… so strong. She tastes the blood in her mouth, ears nearly bleeding the same with the tinnitus that rages.

When she tries to stand, she’s met with a firm smack on the thigh and a white knuckle grip on her bad leg.

–no room to breathe.

He draws her to her knees and arches her ass in the air. Her eyes widen in panic and it’s all too simple for the Sound Pillar to block and counter the attack when she thrashes in response.

“You’re really making me work for it, Sister.”

Flush against her back, she feels him. Every ridge. Every vein.

“Hold still,” he warns. “Don’t fight me unless you want this to hurt.”

He makes quick work gathering the fabric pooled at her calves, tossing her skirts over her head so cavalier.

Her breaths start coming in short bursts under the oppressive weight of linen slowly suffocating her.

The bastard’s made a cornered meal of her and there’s not a damn thing to be done for it. There’s nothing. No leg to sever and escape the trap. No Eiji to intervene.

He sounded like he was eating you alive.

Tears burn her eyes as her earlier words come for her throat.

She hears his debasement before feeling his cooling pool of drool run down the curvature of her ass.

“Thinking on that first night we met,” he starts. “Gotta say, you surprised me.”

He spreads her cheeks in appraisal, thumb working his spit in and out of her tight hole.

A less experienced prostitute would relax when Uzui withdrew his fingers. But Emiko was no mere oiran. She knew better.

He strikes her again…

and again…

and again.

She feels the fresh coat of saliva glide in and out of her, another two to join the first.

“Just look at you now…”

She shuts her eyes, biting her lip just to keep herself under lock and key

If she plays possum, she’s as good as dead. If she’s dead, this is over and done with.

Her heart aches with every strained sigh that bleeds from her lips. The hard floor is hell on her tits, his quickening pace beating her further into the ground.

“…reckon I could fry an egg on that fucking face.”

The rapid thrusts of his hips leave her gasping and shuddering beneath the caul of her skirts. She remains blind to his abuse but can feel every stroke… hear every groan…

It’s all she can do to will her body to brace for the storm and pray he finishes quick enough.

anything to quiet her mind. anything to stay still and small.

She steadies her breath to the best of her abilities. His wandering touch takes a bite of the meat of her ass in a callous bid for purchase, dipping his thick head in and out of her waiting hole.

Uzui doubles down on his efforts where her body sees fit to reject him. It’s several tries before he can so much as thread the needle.

Lurching forward with the force of his thrusts, she takes him… inch by tortuous inch until he’s fully sheathed inside of her. Too much, too soon, until Emiko’s left wailing into the floor.

A perpetual echo sounds inside the hollow onsen with the staccato of his balls beating against her exposed cunt. He props her ass higher, cock pistoning at a vicious rate.

“Where’s your God now?”

Only when she felt the breath on her face did she realize it was Lord Uzui himself. He offers no respite pulling out, merely walks back to do kakeyu as she trembles in his wake.

She listens to his feet pad across the floor. She can hear the slow of her own heart. Her whimpers, curling in on herself. The fill of his bucket. The splash across his body. The blood in her ears. His groans as he works his fingers over his points of tension.

Emiko’s blood runs cold when the steady flow of water is shut off. The last remaining drops sound off like heavy artillery in the spanse of the bathhouse. Practically holds her breath as he passes without a word.

He dips into the onsen, arms outstretched as he luxuriates in his soak. His eyes fall shut, head falling back. She’s so sure Uzui had no further use for her.

how wrong could one woman be…

“Sister Eiji.”

#yandere tengen uzui #tengen x oc #tengen x wives x oc #can be read as #yandere tengen x reader #tengen x wives x reader #for my brown eyed girlies #.garden of forking paths #.shi

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kill-the-feels · 2 years ago

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a/n: ahh everybody stay calm; it’s happening!! Here is the “final” chapter; the next one will be an epilogue of sorts!! Thanks to everyone who stuck around for the ride and I hope you enjoy!! <3 (previous part) (masterlist)

note: Jate’Kara is pronounced “Jah-tay’Kah-rah” — you can find more about my decision to include/create her in the end note for this chapter on ao3 if you’re interested!

word count: ~5.2k

warnings: angst, injury description, brief sex scene (not super descriptive, but stop reading after the last page break if that’s not your cup of tea), nightmares, tooth rotting fluff

Waiting is the worst part.

Gently, you coax the girl into going up to the cockpit, where Boba has gotten the ship into atmo and is waiting on directions.

He’s been crying too, you can tell by the tear tracks on his face, but he’s putting on a brave front, and he takes to telling the girl about the different buttons, even letting her push a few.

“What do they call you, anyways?” Boba asks, and the girl shakes her head.

“You don’t have a name?” you ask. Slowly, she nods and you sigh. It makes senes. Most people that end up like you and her on Tatooine don’t have families, and end up with whatever names or nicknames people give you.

“Can we give you one?” Boba asks. She nods again.

“Jate’Kara,” he says decisively. You tilt you head. It’s in Mando’a, a phrase you don’t recognize.

“What is that?” you ask. Boba’s cheeks and ears turn red, and he ducks his head.

“It means luck or good stars,” he says quietly. “I don’t know. I wanted something happy. It felt like it fit.” The girl leans forward, interested, and you smile. Jate’Kara is a mouthful, though, for people like yourself who only barely grasp Mando’a.

“How about Jate for short?” you ask, and she nods quickly, wrapping her little arms around your waist in a tight hug. That settled, you sit in one of the seats in the cockpit, between Boba and Jate.

Alright. You have two kids, an unconscious lover, and no clue where to go next.

You pull up a database, watching the way it spreads around the cabin, planets swirling around you. Jate watches with the same big eyes you remember having yourself the first time you saw something like this.

“What are we looking for?” Boba asks. You twirl your hands, moving the planets around. The blue mingles with the light of hyperspace, giving everything an ethereal glow. Well-known worlds skim past your eyes, as you zip through the Core and Inner Rim, heading for the Outer Rim.

“Somewhere off the gird. A backwater planet. Few civilizations for when we need supplies, but nowhere near as busy as Coruscant, or even Tatooine.” Boba clicks a few buttons, checking gauges on the ship.

“We need to stop somewhere else for some supplies and fuel anyways. We don’t have enough for a long haul, even through hyperspace.” You consider what’s near. Ord Mantell is the most likely option. Jango’s done business there before; the presence of his ship is not likely to raise too many alarms, especially if news has not yet traveled of his supposed demise.

“Fuel and extra supplies there, then,” you say. “And we can figure out where to go on the way.” ~~~

Ord Mantell goes smoother than you’re anticipating, perhaps because of all the challenges that have lead to this moment.

Jango stays stable, but he also shows no sign of change, a fact that is almost worrisome enough for you to find a more experienced person than yourself, but you decide that the less people who know, the better. He’s stable, and for now, that’s enough.

You also offer to drop Jate off, not really wanting to let the little girl be on her own in the world, but realizing forcing her to stay isn’t the best either.

It quickly becomes clear, though, that she has no interest in parting ways with you, staying instead right next to your side. So you take her in, which really, is the only logical conclusion for you.

When — not if — Jango wakes up, you’ll fight him on this if you have to, but you don’t think he’ll mind too much.

Jate sits beside you, eyes glued to the way hyperspace bends and moves around you, the blues shifting and folding over each other the same way the waves move. And yet, there’s an unnatural fluttering rhythm to hyperspace that can’t be seen in the waves, brief flashes of color poking out of the blue, the occasional shadow hinting at something larger there. You could spend hours watching, and sometimes, you do.

Boba shows you how to handle the ship — in hyperspace, it’s mostly just monitoring to make sure it stays on track — and the two of you take shifts, sleeping, watching Jango, and piloting.

You’re making a cross-galaxy journey to a backwater moon in the Outer Rim that has no name; its planet’s inhabited only by a few rudimentary civilizations. The perfect place for a legend to disappear.

When you stopped in Ord Mantell, you took a moment to catch up on the news that has started spreading through the galaxy, in the wake of the Battle of Geonosis.

War, they’re saying, and two million men to fight, each who look exactly like Jango and Boba. It’s chilling.

This. This is the project Jango has been working on for years, why the Kaminoans needed his DNA, why they did their best to listen to his demands.

You don’t know much about the science behind it, but you figure eventually, they’ll need more. All the more reason to disappear.

The door whooshes open slowly, and Boba enters, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’s exhausted. You all are.

“Want me to take it for a little longer?” you ask him. He leans against your side, and you wrap your arms around him.

You’re to the point where you don’t tell him to take it easy. He’s stubborn that way, not wanting to be seen as weak — even if you would never tell him that. And to an extent, you get it. The need to be busy, to seem like you’re doing something, when really all you can do is wait.

Always waiting, the same way it’s been since Boba was a baby.

Now, you’re even more glad for Jate. She doesn’t talk, but Boba more than makes up for it, the two of them getting along from the start. Boba offers a running commentary on everything he’s doing, and Jate listens intently, watching until she can replicate it, becoming his shadow. She’s the friend he needs right now, letting him feel like a teacher and a helper.

“I got it,” he says, patting your arm before he pulls away. He tugs on Jate’s braid as he sits in the pilot chair, checking the nav system.

“About one standard rotation out now,” he calls as you descend the ladder to the cargo bay and crew bunks. He must make a face or something, because Jate’s quiet giggles follow his words.

“Wake me if something happens,” you call back, even though you don’t intend to get much sleep.

You do the same thing you always do first.

Stop by the bacta tank.

Jango looks the same as when you put him in there, except the wounds have started to heal. The burn on his neck is no longer deep and ragged, instead a pink that you have a feeling will always be there. Bacta can only heal so much, after all.

The wound in his chest is the same, healed shut and still scarred. But his breathing is deeper than it has been, which you take as a good sign. His arm has fared the best, still missing his hand, obviously, but much less burned and the scarring is nearly invisible.

He just won’t wake up. And you can’t figure out why. You’ve tried everything you can think of, and still have no answers. Other than Jango just being stubborn.

“Me again,” you say, pulling a crate over to sit on. As usual, there’s no change. But you’ll be damned if you’re not going to try. After all, you can’t help but think of all the times he’s sat by you when you were sick or hurt.

“I could really use some help here. I mean, don’t get me wrong — the armor? Surprisingly comfortable. But I’m kind of flying by the seat of my pants here — figuratively speaking of course — and I could really use another adult to bounce stuff off of.” Sometimes, you feel guilty for having to rely on Boba like you do. He’s grown up so much and so fast in such a short time, that you wonder if you’ll ever see the innocent child again, or if that’s something else Geonosis took from you.

You fiddle with the clasp on the vambrace. The armor stayed carefully hidden on Ord Mantell. As far as the galaxy is concerned, Jango Fett is dead. Lost to dirt of Geonosis. But on the ship, it’s become like a second skin. It gives you a commanding presence, makes you feel more capable than you probably are.

And oddly, it’s like a piece of him, still watching over you.

“So anyways,” you say. “I’m sure you’re having the best sleep of your life. But when you’re ready, I’d love for you to rejoin the land of the living.” Taking a deep breath, you forge on, determined to say the words that have been stuck in your throat for so long.

“By the way,” you whisper, “I love you. So don’t even think about dying on me.” You close your eyes and lean your head on the tank, intending to stand up and get some sleep in the bunks.

Instead, you fall asleep like that. ~~~ Jango is fairly sure he’s dreaming. For one, Boba is too young. A smiling baby that can’t talk yet, much less fight.

You’re in the distance, but his mind can’t make the scene work, because it’s outside, and it’s sunny and green, but he can still hear the Kamino waves, getting closer and closer.

The tide tugs at his feet, and he makes the mistake of looking down.

“Boba!” It’s your voice, drifting on the breeze, and when he looks back up, Boba is old enough to run, towards you and away from him.

Jango reaches for him, and Boba dodges away with a laugh. He tries again, the frustration welling, fingers closing over nothing.

The both of you move away, over the hill, laughter echoing all around him.

Jango tries to pick up his feet and move; instead jerked backwards by the tide, the incessant tugging looking more and more like the white of the Kaminoans’ skin. He tries to beat them away, tries to shove himself free. It pulls him flat on his back, the water rushing into his mouth when he tries to call out to you.

A warning, maybe? To let the two of you go? While he still can?

The waves caress and tug, pulling him deeper and deeper, the sounds around him slowly fading away. There’s an incessant beeping instead, reminiscent of the chrono that used to rest on his bedside table, the one he bought after you started sleeping in his bed with him, when it made it even harder to get up.

It’s slow and rhythmic though, bordering on relaxing, if not for the high pitch. Slowly, consciousness eases into his mind, the static in his ears gradually fading, until everything goes still.

Quiet.

There’s a muffled voice talking, and his mind works to understand the syllables, interpret the cadence. It’s your voice, he realizes, speaking to him.

He tries to force his eyes open, but they stubbornly stay closed, his mind already exhausted. Frantically, he wracks his brain, trying to figure out what chain of events led to this situation.

Is he dead? No, he decides. Unless, he realizes with a burst of horror, that you’re dead too. Jango forces himself to breathe calmly in and out, and he becomes aware of something heavy sitting on his face, pressing over his mouth and nose, like someone’s hand.

But it isn’t a hand, he realizes, because he can still breathe. But it’s filtered, the way his helmet normally is, yet it’s only on the bottom part of his face.

“I love you. So don’t even think about dying on me.” The words drift through the stillness, startling sharp in the quiet. Jango tries again to open his eyes, recoiling when a liquid starts to seep in. He gasps, squeezing them shut. Sleep starts to tear at the edges of his mind, even as he fights it.

He’s not ready. He needs to reassure you. With another exhale, it goes dark again. ~~~ The next time he wakes up, he thinks he’s underwater. No, he knows he’s underwater.

His eyes adjust to the slightly salty sting of it, and he takes stock of his situation.

It’s not water, he realizes squinting above him. It’s bacta. Which leads to all sorts of questions.

Like how in the fuck did you procure a bacta tank? He turns his head as far as he can — which isn’t much — before there’s a searing pain in the side of the neck, the mask moving with him.

He narrows his eyes as he tries to peer through the tank. He’s fairly sure he’s still on the ship, which is a plus. Jango wants to close his eyes, to recall the events leading up to this, but he’s afraid closing his eyes will knock him out again, and he isn’t ready.

With an exhale, he stares at the ceiling of the tank above his head. Geonosis. The Jedi. Boba.

The lightsaber.

On instinct, he reaches for his right hand with his left, grasping nothing but air.

Well. That’s new.

His left hand drifts up to his neck, where he was certain the saber landed next.

The skin is rough there, a slight dip telling the story better than words could. It’s strange to realize how close he came to losing his head — literally. How quickly it all would have been over.

He sucks in a breath through the mask, and an odd ache twinges in his chest. From his position on his back, he can’t see the damage to his chest. He vaguely remembers being stomped by the Reek. The crack of his ribs, but this is something more.

Almost… almost like a blaster shot.

He’s taken a few before, but always glancing blows, and often against the armor. Never through the armor and center mass. That’s a startling realization, he decides. Just how close to death was he?

He can’t remember anything after that.

His heart rate speeds up, and he forces himself to calm down. Claustrophobia is starting to set in, and he wants out. He wants answers. He wants… he wants you. ~~~

When you land on the moon, it’s raining.

You and Boba look at each other, the both of your faces twisted in disbelief, mouths slightly open.

And then the two of you laugh. Because of course it’s raining. Jate looks on in wonder, likely having never seen rain or such fertile land before. Hell, you have, and you’re still struck by the wild, untamed beauty.

Together, you and Boba navigate the ship to a clearing. On one side, there’s a patch of woods, frightening looking right now in the dark and rain, and on the other, an ocean.

But unlike the oceans of Kamino, this one does not pass a certain point on the shore, the waves cresting at a normal height, even with the wind.

Carefully, the two of you set the ship down beside the woods, on grass that is a deep green even in the darkness.

Even though all of you are itching to get off the ship, you decide you’ll wait until morning, when it will at least be light. And hopefully less rainy.

And even though Boba is technically too old for it, you tuck both him and Jate in, the same way you used to. No one protests, needing this one quiet moment.

Without the sound of hyperspace or the sound of the systems running on the ship, it’s quiet. Eyes heavy, you drag your feet through the last of the shut-down checklist, having promised Boba you would take care of it.

You glance at the bacta tank, in the corner, knowing you need to check it, but unable to muster the energy to see the same old results.

What if he never wakes up? You push the thought out of your head, able to see the green light on the tank, indicating everything is nominal.

The morning. You’ll look in the morning, you promise yourself. ~~~

You wake up to birds chirping, a gentle breeze blowing against the side of the ship. Outside, the waves crash against the shore, in an unhurried rhythm, different from the giant swells that constantly slap against Tipoca city.

There’s faint laughter, and you peak through the window to see Boba and Jate playing tag on the shore, Ai-Ai resting on a nearby stump.

“Don’t go too far,” you call through the open ramp, and Boba waves his hand in acknowledgement, dodging out of Jate’s way. She stamps her foot in frustration, fists balled with a renewed effort to catch Boba. You know from experience, she won’t unless he lets her. You also know, he will let her. Eventually.

The tank beeps in the corner, the same rhythmic beeping it always has. The lightness you felt on immediately waking up dissolves as you approach the tank. It has to be done, you tell yourself.

Time to check on Jango.

You want to hope, to see a change, but you’re fully prepared to see closed eyes, a man just inches away from being a corpse.

Sure enough, his expression hasn’t changed. The lump in your throat grows. Even if you kept yourself from getting your hopes up too high, you know there’s a part of you that thought getting away would solve all this. That you’d land, and he’d spring up and take over, convince you it was all a bad dream.

You drop your forehead against the glass.

“I need to get busy,” you tell his form. “Too much to do now. Figure out how to get food, water. Check out some of the nearby civilizations. Convince Jate not to drown Boba.”

But you can’t tear yourself away; instead just laying there, staring at his face, eyes unfocusing and thoughts spiraling and catching.

In hindsight, that’s why it takes you so long to realize.

His eyes are open.

You fall backwards with a jolt, the scream catching in your throat, and thankfully so, because you don’t want Boba and Jate to come running yet.

His head turns a little, and even though it’s everything you have hoped for, there’s a part of you that can’t believe it. It’s eerie, how quiet it all is as the two of you stare at each other, separated only by the thin layer of transperisteel. There’s a rushing sound in your ears, and your chest is aching because you’ve forgotten to breathe.

Slowly, hands shaking, you reach for the decompression button, watching as the bacta drains down enough to make the tank safe to open.

You fumble with the latch, fingers slipping first and catching your nail painfully on the durasteel frame.

You heft the top open, gasping for breath now, and freeze, hand halfway reaching for his mask.

Jango snaps it off instead, his own hand shaking.

“Jango-”

“Cyare-”

And maker, it’s his voice, as deep and rich as you remember, soft accent rolling over you. He sits up with a grimace, and your legs unfreeze, rushing to his side.

“Careful,” you say, putting your hands on his shoulders to help. You’re not sure how healed he is, can’t afford to let him pull something. Your hands tighten on the bare skin of his shoulders, unable to believe how warm and alive he is.

“We almost lost you a couple times. It was bad.” He frowns, rubbing his hand over his face, wiping away the last of the bacta.

“What…” he trails off, and you can tell he wants to ask what happened, but can’t make himself say the words.

��You got hurt on Geonosis. It was bad. Boba and I got you back to the ship. Got this tank to try and save you. Stopped for supplies on Ord Mantell. Put down on the most remote moon we could find. I think you’ll like it.”

Footsteps bang up the ramp behind you, and you turn to see Boba and Jate rushing in, Ai-Ai strung between them like a rope. The both of them pass you, before Boba slams to a stop and Jate rams into his back with a soft oof. Ai-Ai falls to the floor.

“Buir!” Boba shouts, stumbling over his feet in his haste to get to you two. Jate follows, albeit slower, holding the hem of the back of Boba’s shirt.

“Either my vision is still messed up,” Jango says to you, “or you’re not telling me everything.” Your cheeks heat and you look at your feet.

“We stopped on Tatooine,” Boba says, “and picked up Jate.” You don’t miss the way Jango side-eyes you.

“Tatooine?” he says causally.

“Jate’s a fast learner,” Boba barrels on, missing the look his father gives you. “She picked up how to fly the ship super fast, and she’s really good at sabacc.”

“Gardulla had her,” you say softly, and watch the way his face softens, the understanding instant.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says to her gently, and she steps out from behind Boba a little, her smile small but genuine. Your heart swells, moisture rushing to your eyes.

Boba is starting to shuffle around, and you can tell he’s getting antsy, wanting something to do.

“Boba,” you say, “do you want to go find some logs for a fire? That way we can cook something to eat.” The relief on his face at having something productive to do is instant, and he snags Jate’s hand, the both of them rushing out.

“Boba came up with her name,” you say, watching them go. “He called her Jate’Kara, and said it meant good stars. But I thought that was a little too long, so we shortened it. She and Boba are thick as thieves at this point. She doesn’t talk, but she’s so expressive, and-” You’re rambling at this point, don’t realize it until Jango lays his hand on your cheek.

“Cyare,” he says, “Tatooine?” You lean into his touch, closing your eyes and expelling a long breath.

“I needed a bacta tank. Kamino and Coruscant weren’t options. Gardulla can be bought for the right amount of credits. It worked. And seeing Jate… it was like looking at myself all those years ago.” You don’t tell him about Maswoni. Maybe one day you will, but right now it’s still to fresh, too complex to articulate.

“In my armor?” he asks, his eyes sweeping over your form. You duck your head in a nod.

“Boba’s idea. He said it made me look more intimidating, and then it just seemed smart to keep it on when I was on the ship.” His hand brushes down your cheek, finger curling around a strand of hair.

“It’s a good look,” he says, eyes falling to the prominent hole in the center of the chest piece. His hand moves to it, palm splaying over the hole, and by proxy, your chest.

“Thought we lost you,” you whisper. “It settled in your lungs.” You press your hand over his. He’s quiet for a long time.

“I thought I was gone too,” he says finally. “I- It’s all a blur, and I…” He trails off, hanging his head, looking down at his battered body for the first time.

“The thought of you two being caught in the crosshairs,” he says, shaking his head. You place your hands on his cheeks, lifting his gaze back you, careful not to strain his neck.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We made it. Everyone is fine. Jango. We did it.” The words sink in for the first time.

You did it.

You’re out.

He studies your face, eyes dancing between yours, roving over your face. With a soft groan, he tugs you closer, mouth finding yours. His arms wrap around your sides, pulling you as close as he can with the tank in the way.

He tilts your head back with his own, forehead pressing against yours, like he can’t stand to not be touching you.

“We did it,” he murmurs against your mouth, deepening the kiss until you’re panting for breath.

You pull back slightly, stroking the sides of his face.

“I love you,” you say, repeating what you told him when you were sure he couldn’t hear you.

His eyes squeeze shut, like he’s in pain, and he draws in a shaky breath.

“Oh, Cyare,” he whispers. “It’s always been you. Only you.” ~~~

Later, much later, you and Jango lay on a blanket under the stars.

Boba and Jate are asleep in the ship, and you lay with your head on Jango’s chest, listening to him breathe, feeling his heartbeat against your cheek.

Every time you touch him, it’s feather-light, as if you’re afraid holding on too tightly will break him again.

Jango traces his hand over your hip, slowly working it under the loose shirt — his shirt — that you’re wearing.

It strikes you again, just how warm he feels. You squeeze your eyes shut. You won’t cry anymore. You’re done with that.

His hand leaves your shirt and catches your own, bringing your fingertips up to his mouth.

Slowly, so slowly, he kisses them.

“What’s wrong?” he asks softly, and you swallow hard.

“Nothing’s wrong,” you murmur. And it isn’t. You suppose it’s just all the stress finally starting to melt away. The dissolving of the fear, the convincing your body that it can exit its fight or flight mode.

“Are you sure?” He shifts, so you’re laying face-to-face, because he knows you can’t hide your emotions well.

“I was so scared,” you finally manage, voice just barely above a whisper. He knows this. You’ve told him this.

“And I’m still trying to convince myself that I’m not scared. That I’m not going to wake up and find you gone. And I want to be gentle, so gentle because the last thing I want to do is hurt you.” But there’s a part of you that wants to feel him, real and solid against you. Only you can’t just say that. The words get stuck in your throat, tangling around themselves.

Jango nuzzles his nose along the hollow of your throat, lips lightly grazing over your pulse there.

“Can I tell you the truth?” he asks, and you nod, unable to speak over the lump in your throat.

“I was scared myself. Not for me, but for you and Boba. If anything had happened, knowing that I put you two in that position.” It kills you, the stricken way he looks at you.

“Boba and I both went willingly. You should have seen Boba, Jango. He was so brave.” Jango kisses the top of your hair.

“Just like his buir,” he murmurs, taking a long, deep breath, like he’s trying to memorize and savor every part of you. Something coils deep inside you, and you bite back a moan when he squeezes your ass.

“I don’t want to hurt you again,” you say. Jango’s hand trails down your leg, tugging it over his hip, opening you up.

“You won’t hurt me,” he says quietly. He finds your hand again and shifts, cupping it gently over his length.

He’s hard, a detail that sends a throb through you.

“Jango,” you whisper, any thoughts of protesting for fear of hurting him fading fast. He hums in agreement.

“I need you,” he says, voice rough. “I want to think about something else. Please.”

You kiss him this time. It’s soft, achingly gentle, as you run your hands up and down his sides and along his back, reacquainting yourself with the feel of him. He shifts, leaning over you.

Carefully, your shirt is tugged over your head, followed by his, so there’s nothing between you two but warm skin.

Your hand traces over the scar on his chest, barely visible in the starlit night, and he kisses along both your cheeks, wiping away moisture you didn’t even feel there.

The waves crash on the distant shore, an ever-present melody keeping you in the moment. Wind stirs the trees, bringing with it an earthy smell. You shiver and Jango presses closer, sharing his warmth, as he fumbles with the hem of your pants.

He gets them about halfway down your legs before he gives up, choosing instead to focus on kissing you as his hand slips between your legs. Jango caresses, and you keen against his mouth, distantly aware of kicking your own pants off, freeing your legs to wrap tighter around his waist.

Your hands drop from his shoulders, pushing at his pants, and he lets you, groaning against you when you finally get him in your hand.

“Fuck, Sweetheart, you feel so good,” he pants against you, jaw clenched as he tries to maintain control. Above the two of you, the stars paint a picture in an impossibly-clear sky, so different from Kamino, with its clouds threatening to choke out the few stars you could see.

Jango kisses your neck, burying a groan there when you squeeze him tighter, mouth moving down your chest, paying attention first to one breast, then the other. You cry out, arching into him, as his fingers find that particular sweet spot between your legs.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs against your skin, hand covering yours as he lines himself up.

As he slots into you, he takes your hand in his, pressing it back against the blanket. You note the way his hands shake and you tighten your hand around his, giving him some of your strength.

It isn’t rushed. It’s slow, following the same rhythm of the waves on the shore. Every time you think he’s close, he seems to find a second wind. Slowly, it stokes a fire in you, until you’re nearly panting with the way he scrapes against you. You lose track of how many times you hit your peak, until finally, you’re nearly delirious with pleasure.

“Jango,” you murmur in his ear. “Come.” He shudders against you, shaking his head, as if he’s afraid this will all disappear when it’s finished. His head stays pressed against your neck, lips worrying a spot beneath your ear.

“Trust me,” you say, mouthing at his jaw before your own eyes screw shut in pleasure, the cry as you find your release echoing in the night.

You squeeze around him as you come. He finally gives in, managing one final thrust, staying buried in you as he finds his release, groan muffled against your neck.

After, he shifts onto his back, taking you with him, unwilling to separate just yet. You rest your head on his chest, tangling your legs in between his as his arms wrap tighter around you. Your eyes drift close, listening to the way his heart beat has slowed.

For now, you are the only two people in the whole galaxy. In the morning, there will be plenty of problems to solve, plenty of issues to deal with.

But for now, it is just you and Jango under the stars, listening to the calming of each other’s heartbeats and the steadfast waves.

#jango fett x reader #jango Fett x you #reader insert #angst #18+ scene #Fluff #Thanks for reading!! <3

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