#well it's just me looking back on the tag and getting triggered | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wettblanket · 2 days ago

Text

Tied with a Bow (Just For You)

Bottom Stan Week Day 2 - Knots ft. Prom Suit Stancest! :D

Word Count: 4,111

Tags: Underage, Praise Kink, Body Worship, Mirror Sex, Fingering, Anal Sex, Crying During Sex, Emotional Sex, Explicit

Trigger Warnings: Self-Esteem and Body Image Issues (from Stan) throughout, single Use of the F-Slur (Stan referring to himself in a derogatory manner) near the beginning, (brief) Dissociation During Sex

“I can’t figure out how to tie this.”

Stan glances over from where he’s shoving his foot into his annoyingly tight dress shoe. Ford struggles over his bowtie, growing more frustrated when his extra finger complicates his actions.

“Do you really need it?” Stan stands up and watches his twin scowl into the mirror Ma let them borrow. “You look spiffy enough already, Sixer.”

“Clothes maketh the man. Plus, bowties are signs of an intellectual.”

“What does that say about me then, jackass?” Stan bumps his brother’s shoulder playfully, enjoying the groan of distress when it knocks his fingers askew also. “I’m some kind of shlub or somethin’?” He bats Ford’s hands away to give it a whirl himself. He’s the better of the two of them at knots. This can’t be all that different.

Ford sighs but allows him close enough to try. He even manages to smile a little when Stan sticks out his tongue in concentration. “No, of course not, Stanley. You’re perfectly roguish. You don’t need a tie to look handsome.”

It’s not the best compliment he’s ever gotten but it’s coming from Ford, so it twists Stan’s insides with irrational pleasure. He’s weak to any kind of praise but the ones from his twin are the tastiness. He wouldn’t just say something to flatter him. No, Ford means all the nice things he says.

“You don’t gotta butter me up, I’m already helping you.” Stan loops the tie through itself and gently tugs it until it rests snuggly against Ford’s adam’s apple. The brush of warm skin churns his blood to his lower extremities. He wonders if his twin would let him dip his fingers beneath his dress shirt and toy with his hairy chest. “ ‘Sides, we’re twins. If I’m handsome then by default so are you.”

The bowtie does make Ford look more mature. Fancier. Though it’s just a minor step up from his dorky sweater vests and pressed pants. The baby blue brings out the softness of his eyes, draws attention to the slimness of his body. He’s even brushed his hair into an effortless fluffy style that frames his face seductively.

Stan swallows against his suddenly dry throat. He might have joked about them looking the same but there’s no way he looks as good as Ford does in his monkey suit. He jumped on the opportunity to have matching suits, a subtler way to show they were coupled, and had graciously let his brother have the blue color.

Pink isn’t exactly manly. Ford didn’t need any more on his plate from some idiot misinterpreting the color of his clothes. Stan doesn’t have the same skinny, attractive, build as his twin. He’s bulky, mostly in his shoulders and chest, muscles gained from boxing and hauling wood across the beach at a young age. He’s more obviously an athlete between the two of them. It would cause any empty brained asshole some pause before flinging slurs at him. He’d rock their shit, and his bigger body warns them of that.

The suit being pink isn’t what he’s worried about. Not really. Pink is just super light red really. And red is his color, so pink works just as well.

No, what Stan’s worried about is his acne, his greasy hair, and his bulging stomach. None of those things he can attribute to boxing. He’d tried washing his face with those fancy lotions Carla used to recommend but nothing seemed to work. He still has a pimply patch on his cheek and chin. His hair is gelled back, smothered in product to keep it there throughout the night. He does plan on dancing, he’ll no doubt get sweaty as hell, and he wants it to stay out of his face. Stan got lucky with Ma being busy fleecing customers tonight, he had the opportunity to sneak into her wardrobe and snatch some of her shapeware. The darker pink sash around his waist keeps his stomach from spilling embarrassingly over his dress pants.

Next to Ford he must look like a total shlub. A fat, ugly, shlub.

“Actually,” Stan clears his throat and pets the frills on his shirt to calm himself. “You got a another of those?”

Ford perks up, dropping his fingers where he was curiously investigating Stan’s work. “You want to wear a bowtie too?”

“Yeah.” He tries shrugging off the gnawing insecurity and hopes his brother doesn’t notice the strain in his voice. “What’s the harm? It’ll make me handsomer.”

Ford hums, either in agreement or distractedness, going over to their shared closet to dig around for another necktie. The snitch of his suit jacket around his waist is sinfully tight. His dress pants hug his ass like a glove. It’s not fair.

Stan forces his eyes away, not ready to test the strength of Ma’s shapewear. He doesn’t need a boner on top of everything else. He already feels bad enough. Getting horny over his twin isn’t going to do him any favors. There’s no way in hell Ford would agree to a quick romp before prom.

But maybe after…

“Show me how you tied it,” Ford drapes the tie over Stan’s shoulder and stands directly behind him to watch in the mirror. “I need to learn some time.”

His breath tickles the back of Stan’s neck and makes him shiver, “ ‘s not so hard.”

Stan goes slower, letting his twin soak in every little movement, enjoying the cool fabric against his overheating body. Ford’s intense focus has him sweating and wanting to roll over and show his belly like a good dog, begging for pets and affection. But the thought of his twin discovering the sash holding his fat back makes him physically ill.

Something must show on his face because Ford reaches around him to stop his oddly shaking fingers. “What’s wrong?”

His face is serious in the mirror, no longer locked onto Stan’s throat, but boring into his eyes. Stan wants to squirm away from it, wants to rock back into it, conflicted on how to react without getting himself into trouble.

“It – “ He stammers, “It doesn’t look good on me.” Comparing their reflections further proves the claim. He hastily goes to untie the cloth, thoroughly embarrassed by thinking he could pull off a more sophisticated look.

Stanley Pines is nothing but a knuckleheaded idiot. Trying to pretend to be anything different is a waste of everyone’s time.

Ford grabs his hands, stopping his frantic movements. The bowtie hangs half undone by his chest. The silky fabric burns where it touches his neck. The steel of Ford’s grip has Stan freezing. An unreadable expression paints his twin’s face.

“Nonsense.” Ford carefully guides Stan’s hands away, taking their place and fingering the tie, six fingers moving deftly. He copies Stan’s own actions with ease.

The tightening of the bowtie feels both intoxicatingly good and horribly suffocating. Stan shifts under the intensity of it all, cock stirring at his twin’s single-minded focus. Ford gives little tugs to each side, evening it out, before nodding to himself, seemingly satisfied with his work.

“You look fantastic, Stanley.” A six fingered hand slides down Stan’s front under the guise of flattening any wrinkles. Stan bites his lip to hold in a moan. “Pink really suits you. You look so…soft.”

“What?” He thinks he should be offended. It wasn’t really a compliment. In reality it was toeing toward a very dangerous line. Was Ford calling him fat? A faggot?

Stan goes to turn but his twin digs his fingers warningly into his torso. He’s weak to any kind of touch Ford gives him. Stuff like this, forceful and demanding, melts him into a puddle.

“Soft.” Ford repeats, voice growing hard, a sure sign for Stan to stop questioning him. “Delicate.” His hand comes to rest over Stan’s heart, no doubt feeling it thumping through his suit. “Pliant.” Ford licks his ear. Stan gives into the urge to shiver and slump obediently into his brother’s warmth. Ford rewards him by wedging his knee between Stan’s weak legs. It rubs teasingly into Stan growing erection and a moan rips out of him.

He feels his brother’s sharp grin against his ear before Ford dives into his neck and starts sucking a hickey right over the collar of his suit, lips brushing against the bowtie. Stan rocks back on his twin’s knee, getting lightheaded when Ford squeezes his pec in time with his slow thrusts.

“All for me.” Ford murmurs against his bruised neck, giving the hickey a sweet kiss. “Just for me.”

“Ford,” Stan breathes, reaching back to tangle his fingers into his brother’s perfectly styled hair. He muses it up, a flare of selfish possession cuts across his stomach. Ford doesn’t even protest, hands dropping to his hips to drive his knee further between Stan’s legs. The bump and pressure from his own hard cock against Stan’s back draws another moan from him.

They rut against each other, breath growing strained and echoing in the quiet space of their bedroom. Stan flickers his gaze to the mirror and finds himself flushing at the obscene sight of his dick tenting his dress pants. The blue pant leg trapped between pink reminds him of cotton candy, whirled to perfection, two colors forever intertwined.

He wonders if Ford sees the same.

“Stanley,” Ford groans against his neck, pace starting to grow more desperate, fingernails biting into Stan’s love handles. “So handsome. So beautiful.”

Stan closes his eyes against to praise, stomach swooping in equal amounts of joy and trepidation. He doesn’t deserve it. He’s not done anything for Ford to call him those things. Underneath the dress clothes he’s still the same numbskull he always is. Still the same fat shmuck.

“Just,” He grunts when Ford readjusts his knee to better shove up against him, “Cut it out with that bullshit.”

“Bullshit?” Ford pants harshly in his ear. Stan tips his head away from it, but Ford just tilts his own head to follow. His voice is rough and husky as he whispers, “What part of you being the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen is bullshit?”

“I’m – “ Stan squirms, trying to escape his twin’s tight grip, feeling pinned like a bug under a microscope. His hips keep pushing back, rubbing his cock on Ford’s knee, seeking relief. “I’m not.”

Ford exhales, warm breath tickling across Stan’s face. He slides one hand up Stan’s torso to pinch his chin between his fingers, forcing him to look into the mirror. The sight of his red face against the pink suit clashes horribly. He looks like a sunburnt tomato. Ford leg brings attention to his dick and stomach area. Even with the shapeware, Stan’s stomach bounces and sways with movement. His eyes instinctively squeeze shut, heart puttering self-consciously.

“Look at you,” Ford kisses up his neck to nibble at his jaw, right below the patch of ugly acne. “So perfect. So eager. How could I call you anything but beautiful?”

His six fingered hands hook and drag under Stan’s sash, tugging it down to gain access to the zipper of his pants. He palms Stan’s cock through his clothes with a little purr, smirking against Stan’s cheek as he watches in the mirror.

“All of this for me. Stanley, so good to me. Spoiling me like this.” He peppers needy kisses all over the parts of his brother’s face that he can reach. “I can’t resist touching you, not when you look this amazing.”

“Ford,” Stan bucks his hips into his twin’s teasing hand. “Inside. I want you inside.”

“Of course, beautiful. Whatever you want.” Ford finally unzips his pants and drags them down, toying with Stan’s waistband before doing the same to them. Stan’s cock eagerly bounces once freed, threatening to smack messily onto the front of his shirt.

Stan blocks his leaking cockhead from brushing his suit with his palm, biting his lip when his dick catches on his callouses. Ford shifts around behind him. The quiet rustle of his jacket and something plasticky has Stan almost drooling in anticipation.

He should have known that Ford would have snuck lube into his pockets. He’s probably just as excited as Stan about making love after prom. It feels different. A special occasion. Something meant to be life changing. Important.

Knowing Ford is prepared for it, thinking about it too, gets Stan’s blood burning with desire. “C’mon. In. Get in me already.”

“Relax, Stan.” Ford runs a comforting hand up his spine, the other dipping between his bare ass cheeks to press the flat of his fingertip to Stan’s hole. “I want to hear you whine first.”

And Stan does, desperately twisting and rocking his hips as Ford sinks a slick finger into him. The lube is unfairly cold, but it gets washed away immediately by his brother bending his knuckle perfectly and hitting Stan’s prostate dead on.

“Stanford!” He garbles, legs going weak, grabbing at his twin’s arm to hold himself up. Ford shifts closer to better prop him against his front. “Ah, more.”

Ford chuckles and starts a slow pump with his finger, the second one tracing where they’re connected and sending electrifying shocks straight to Stan’s dick. “Such a good boy. So eager for it. For me.”

“Yes. C’mon, c’mon. Ford.”

The second finger breeches his hole and the stretch of it burns before settling into flutteringly delicious pleasure. Ford draws his fingers in and out, making sure to crook them to catch and drag on Stan’s walls, teasingly bumping into his prostate without much force.

Ford kisses and licks the side of his face, eyes boring into his through their reflections. Stan moans at the hungry expression on his twin’s face and gives himself over to the cresting sensations. The fingers keep pumping inside of him, building a tingling bubble of delight.

“F-Ford!” Stan cries, body tittering over the edge. Luckily his twin understands him, reaching down with his free hand and squeezing his cock to the point of pain, starving off his orgasm. Stan bucks uselessly into the blinding compression. Six lines of delicious pressure.

“You’re not coming until I’m inside of you.” Ford growls against his shoulder, squinting at him through the mirror, an almost scolding glint in his eyes. Stan whines, nodding like a whore, practically starving for it.

With Ford inside maybe he’d understand what his twin is trying to drill into him. Maybe Stan would even begin to believe him. There’s only one way to find out.

Ford twists his fingers precisely inside, making sure to bump that trembling bundle of nerves in Stan’s ass with each pass. Stan moans, hips moving on their own, desperately riding his brother’s wrist, trying to push the thick digits in deeper.

“See?” Ford nuzzles into Stan’s sweaty neck, giving his aching dick a few more teasing squeezes. “See how good you’re being for me? Only someone so beautiful could be so good to me.”

“Ford – “

“So good to me. Letting me mess up your amazing suit.” Ford releases his dick to skim his hand under Stan’s frilly shirt, coming to rest under his breast. “Letting me prepare you so thoroughly. Looking so perfect the whole time.”

Stan pants against the praise, heart thumping and twisting into knots. He wants to be good. But he can’t be beautiful. The conflict of having or being both make tears start to burn humiliatingly in his eyes. Ford doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Being good doesn’t make someone pretty. Being pretty doesn’t make someone good.

Ford withdraws his fingers and Stan keens against the loss, clenching down uselessly on nothing. He hears his twin growl hungerly into his hair before something blunt and hot presses against his hole.

He forces his entire body to relax, slumping against his brother’s body. Ford grunts against the sudden weight but grabs Stan’s chest to balance them. The awkward lean unintendedly forces Stan’s eyes onto the mirror.

The image of him about to be speared open by his gorgeous brother’s cock is almost enough to have him coming then and there. But the bounce of his stomach pulls his attention away from the attractive sight.

Ma’s shapewear sash hangs loosely from his thigh, swaying like a flag on the mast of the Stan O’War. Everything narrows down the swinging pink cloth.

How could he have gotten so carried away? Nothing about this changes the fact that he’s a fat ugly loser. Ford loves the weird and unusual. Of course he would get his wires crossed and feel the need to pamper Stan with praise and affection. Stan is that grotesquely different from their peers.

Ford pushes in and Stan feels numb to it all, too terrified to look up and see his disgusting reflection. Tears bubble over and steam down his hot humiliated cheeks. He’s aware of his body rocking with his brother’s tentative thrusts but it feels far away and unreachable.

A hiccup bursts through his lips and has Ford freezing, glasses digging into the back of Stan’s neck. “Stanley?”

Stan ducks his head, biting his lip to hold back the crushing sobs trying to crawl up his throat. His twin shifts around behind him, nose brushing against his burning ear and offering a moment of comfort.

“Darling, what’s wrong?” Ford brushes hair away from Stan’s sweaty forehead, fingers gentle and concerned. The softness of his eyes in the mirror sears into Stan’s skin. “Did I hurt you?”

“N-No.” Stan croaks out, legs shaking, and hips jolting from the hot pressure against his walls. Even when he’s not moving Ford is wringing reactions out of his disgusting body. “It’s m-me.”

“What about you?”

“I-I’m – I’m not – I’m not good enough.” Stan sobs, clinging anywhere he can reach, hooking his fingers into Ford’s baby blue suit. “I’m not beautiful. I – I tricked y-you.”

Ford shushes him immediately the second the denial comes out of his mouth, wrapping his arms around Stan’s torso, clinging back just as needily. “You didn’t trick me, Stanley. You are beautiful.” His gently rocks his hips forward, sliding in so sweetly it has Stan crying out, “You’re being so good to me. Taking me so well.”

“I’m not – I’m – “

“Stanley.” Ford barks, causing him to jump and jerk his gaze to his brother’s reflection. The shock on his face soothes Ford’s expression back into something familiar. “Do you trust me?”

He sniffles, idly clenching down on the cock inside of him, seeking the grounding weight of it. Stan doesn’t miss the twitch of his twin’s face. “O-Of course I do.”

“Then trust me.”

Ford’s plea makes it difficult to keep spiraling. If Stan does, he’d effectively be throwing their relationship away. If Stan keeps calling himself worthless, Ford might grow to believe him. He can’t stand breaking his twin’s trust, so he nods, not entirely sure he means it, but willing to force himself to pretend.

“I mean it, Stanley. What reason would I have to lie?” Ford noses against Stan’s ear, continuing his gentle thrusts, sliding slowly and fanning the growing pit of desire in Stan’s stomach. “There isn’t anyone else I want to do this with. Why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.” He arches his back to try and coax Ford in deeper. “I don’t – “

“Because you’re what I want. You’re what I find beautiful.”

For the first time since they started does that word pierce Stan’s fragile heart. He shakily lifts his head to make eye contact with his brother in the mirror. There isn’t an ounce of doubt on Ford’s face. His eyes are determined and focused solely on Stan, bright with affection, blinding with love.

“Stanford.” Stan whines, breath punches from his lungs. He ruts back into his twin’s dick, chasing the pleasure he knows Ford will give him if he’s good enough. “Please.”

“Say it.” Ford increases the force of his hips, snapping them into Stan’s ass. The slap of them connecting rings through their room. “I want to hear you say it.”

“I’m…” The words are tacky, trying to seal his lips shut, too thick and wrong on his tongue. “I’m what you want.”

It’s a cop out and they both know it, but Stan can’t force the words his brother really wants. At least not yet. Ford doesn’t stop pounding into him but his brows furrow with displeasure. “And?”

“A-And I’m good enough.”

That statement seems to settle better with Ford because he moans, deep and guttural, dick pumping faster into Stan’s ass, slicking hotly against his quivering walls. “Yes,” He hisses, mouthing at the back of his brother’s neck in reward. “So good, Stanley. All for me.”

“For you,” Stan repeats, finally able to rock his hips in sync with his twin’s. His whole body burns with want, completely devoted to the feeling of Ford touching him, of Ford inside of him, “Only for you, Sixer.”

Ford growls like a starved dog and starts humping into Stan at a wild pace, sinking his teeth over any exposed skin of Stan’s neck. His canine teeth nip against Stan’s earlobe and the world flashes white for a second, leaving Stan gasping and clinging to whatever of Ford’s body he can reach.

His twin’s cock slams into his prostate on almost every thrust. The mind tingling pressure has Stan seeing stars and crying out. Ford is much the same, grunting and whining, shaking his head as if to ward off his impending orgasm.

Stanley clenches down on him, reveling in the loud groan it earns him, “Give it to me, Ford. I want it. I want you.”

“Mine.” Ford’s hands squeeze bruises onto Stan’s love handles. “Mine. You’re all mine. My beautiful brother.”

That single damning word has Stan crying out Ford’s name and painting his stomach with come, some of it spurting far enough to splatter against the mirror. As he shakes apart, he can’t help but watch his twin’s blissed out face in their reflections.

Ford thrusts into him a couple more times before gasping and coming, body trembling against Stan’s back. His fingernails bite into Stan’s hips and no doubt leave lovely little red indents.

They pant and quietly pull themselves together, occutationally catching the other’s eyes in the mirror. Stan offers a satisfied smirk, bringing his hand up to readjust his bowtie to hide the hickey Ford gave him. His brother flushes brightly and snuggles into the back of Stan’s head.

“I should have worn a condom.” Ford grumbles, kissing around Stan’s ear apologetically. “It’s going to make a mess.”

“ ‘S fine, Sixer.” He preemptively hikes his underwear up, hoping it will be enough to keep Ford’s come from leaking out and staining his rental suit. That and it will be nice to have the constant reminder of how badly Ford wants him throughout the night.

Ford pulls out and helps him redress before taking care of himself. “Turn around. Your bowtie is crooked.”

Stan obeys, busy tucking his stomach back into the shapewear. Ford frowns but doesn’t say a word. He skillfully unties the cloth and reties it easily, like he’s known for ages how to do it. Showoff.

“Incredible.” His brother breathes out, eyes still blown and full of a shimmering hunger.

Stan tries not to let it get to him. They really do need to finish getting ready. Ma’s waiting on them to take pictures. They can go for a second round after prom. Somewhere secluded. It’s been a while since they’ve fucked in his car. “What?”

“You didn’t get a spec of semen on your suit.”

A laugh rumbles from Stan’s chest, and he glances down to see his twin is right. His pink suit remains untouched. Even the come slowly dripping out of his ass is concealed, pressed snuggly against the backs of his thighs. He gives his hips a little shake and is pleased how it looks in the mirror.

“Stanley.” Ford says warningly, eliciting another laugh from his brother. “Do you know why you’re spotless?”

“No, why?”

“It’s because you’re my amazingly beautiful boy,” Ford whispers against his ear, his lips turning up and pressing his sly smile into Stan’s hot skin. “Aren’t you?”

Stan wants to squirm against the praise but the orgasm his brother gave him has dulled some of the more menacing thoughts in his head. The fuzzy afterglow is defiantly better than his prissy internal monologue. Ford wants him, ugly or not. Ford wouldn’t lie to him.

“Yeah,” Stan leans forward and captures his twin’s lip in a tender kiss. He pulls back enough to let Ford feel his own satisfied smile, “I guess I am.”

#stancest #teen stancest #prom suit stans #wett writes #bottom stan week #had fun with this one a lot :)#my fic: tied with a bow (just for you)#event: bottom stan week 2025 #stancest fic #cross posted on ao3 <3

28 notes · View notes

northerngoshawk · 2 years ago

Text

in case y'all think that, like, authors can't be purposeful about what they write and what elements they put in their stories

i literally have 80 pages of notes (and still counting) on the worldbuilding for my demon slayer au fic series, and i'm setting stuff up in the very first fic that will play a role in succeeding fics.

so yeah. believe it or not, we can think about our stories, and we can put in foreshadowing, and the messages and details we put in there are put in there on purpose

#fandom problems #well it's just me looking back on the tag and getting triggered #northern speaks #it also reminds me of one person who needed to have EVERYTHING spelled out for them #and on ANY analysis post. they would argue that since it's not explicitly spelled out in the source material #it's 'bad writing'#and it's like #show don't tell is a thing??#something something treat the audience as if they're smart something something #anyways #that's your local northern rant for today

0 notes

thevioletcaptain · 11 months ago

Text

#so one half of the couple i'm house/dogsitting for had an unexpected medical emergency on their trip #which -- i won't go into details but it culminated in a pretty serious diagnosis and emergency major surgery #and now they're coming home today after getting medevac transport back to california #and have asked me to stay here for a few more days while they settle in #as the one who had the emergency needs 24/7 care during recovery but is being released from hospital to recover at home #and they need someone to basically keep looking after the dog/keep her from getting in the way while they figure out what care he needs #anyway i agreed to stay a few days like they asked #which means i'm trying to finish my coursework before they get back later this afternoon but man my focus levels are LOW #and honestly they have been for several days at this point because once again it seems that waiting to hear about medical stuff has become #somewhat of a panic response trigger for me since the extended nightmare of february this year with my dad #and mostly i've been able to compartmentalize but the energy that takes has truly wiped me out #to the point that i'm genuinely shocked it hasn't set off a fibro flare up (touch wood)#also i really don't know this couple very well at all -- they're mostly friends of my parents-in-law #i've looked after their dog for them several times over the past couple of years #but obviously that's been while they aren't home #and i've only had fairly brief interactions with them #so i do feel a bit awkward about being here while they're going through something so serious and personal #but they're nice people and they need the help and i'm able to provide it so i'm gonna push past that #anyway just a tag post venting thing

8 notes · View notes

mzyraj · 11 months ago

Text

Early morning thoughts, still ruminating on that video from the other day, but shout out to that time I possibly got psychosis during the Duke of Edinburgh award camping thing and was terrified and convinced I was gonna die in that field if I stayed, so I bailed and my best friend of the time broke up with me for being 'selfish' because I left

#mental health #psychosis #tbf although I thought I was hallucinating at the time I'm not convinced I was. but delusions were clearly there #like I thought the clouds were doing something impossible but having been to a similar area much later. the clouds do just do that sometimes #but I still thought it was A Sign and I was gonna die out there so like. what's the difference #sorry ex friend if you thought at 14/15 years old you were gonna get me through that. most likely you just thought I was faking. nope.#but this is why I am very 👀 and sympathetic around mental health stuff #it's never happened (or not so badly) since. probably was triggered by the physical exertion and period and lack of sleep. but still #maybe just as well I'm not gonna go through pregnancy. who knows how bad it might be via those physical and emotional stressors #my mum's cousin who was incredibly smart and sensitive developed schizophrenia and spent most of his life in mental health facilities #do not want. but so long as I look after myself reasonably I'm good.#on that day I was still scared in the car and back home but being with my dad and then inside helped. the Danger felt Outside #a nice bath and good sleep in bed and I think I was basically fine the next day. but then drama with friend #tbf to her. it would not have been easy to be friends with me anyway because I had bad depression and wanted to die generally at that point #if she'd said 'I cannot handle being friends with you' that would have been fair #still would have sucked but it would have been fair. calling me incredibly selfish for what was actually mental health problems. not so much #I'm rambling in the tags #but just feeling the potential vulnerability in my mental health rn

1 note · View note

field-of-sungflowers · 11 months ago

Text

Borrasca fuckin sucks bro its so full of plot holes

#i listened to the qcode audiodrama first and i think s1 has a lot of good qualities but not enough to make up for the writing #and i went back to read the creepypasta to see if the redeeming qualities were THERE #and it had fewer plot holes at least. but not none. when they fleshed it out they threw a lot of nonsensical mystery elements in a blender #but the creepypasta had NO tension to it and while the shitty twist was foreshadowed it didnt even remotely feel like it paid off #if nothing else the qcode version did well on creating consistent tension and keeping me invested thru s1 #(obviously they also killed it with audio design which was a large part of how the audiodrama *kinda* worked and the pasta didn't)#also do NOT go into borrasca without looking up trigger warnings. which is why im not going more in depth with putting it on blast #im just fascinated by how many good creepy elements were in (qcode) borrasca that didnt make sense. didnt pay off #or worse got entirely contradicted by s2 which was just a shitshow all around and had no redeeming features #(i didnt read borrasca v so i dont know if that was as egregious. im not wasting that much more time on it)#honestly if im still this mad later when im on desktop maybe ill elaborate and throw it under a readmore lol #i didnt mean to get THIS wordy in the tags

1 note · View note

damselneedssaving · 1 month ago

Text

BATBOYS BUT THEY WITNESS A STRANGER PULL F!READER INTO A HUG AND CLAIM TO BE HER BOYFRIEND. FT. MARK GRAYSON! P.T.1

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, everyone is 18+, mention of death, romance, mark is utterly devoted to you, jealousy, lots and lots of jealousy, little bit of dark!batboys, kind of dark!mark too

★ A/N: yes ik the pic is technically the mark variant who wears a shiesty but that's still mark and it's a hot pic so it's staying. anyway that poll on if y'all would read a mark grayson x reader fic alongside the batboys x reader was almost unanimously yes and i'm so happy because of it 🤭

★ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ★ | ★ 𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 ★

YOU DON'T KNOW HOW YOU ENDED UP HERE—

—trapped in the embrace of a stranger.

One moment, you're in your kitchen, preparing a nice, hot bowl of popcorn for both you and your house guests—the next?—you're at your door, stood rigid and tight and ever-so-still as your arms are pinned to your sides by another pair. A stronger pair.

A stranger's pair.

The embrace is warm, seeping with this longing you've only ever felt from Dick that one time he returned from a mission that lasted way longer than it should've; that one time he hugged you swearing he'd never let go.

But even then... Dick did eventually pull away.

Something about this stranger's tight grip tells you they won't.

Your name is whispered, breathed out on the tongue of whoever it is holding you as he squeezes just that tad bit more, just that tad bit tighter.

It's strange. You're sure you've never met this man in your life, yet something about his embrace feels familiar, intimate in a way no stranger could ever imitate.

No stranger but this one at least.

You can ponder on it for all but a few more seconds before a new warmth is on your shoulder—this time: a recognisably familiar one—and without being given a moment to even blink, you're yanked out of the embrace of the stranger, vision flooded with the broad back of your dear friend as a click bounces off the walls of your once quiet apartment.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't lodge this bullet between your eyes."

Jason stands before you, finger nestled snug against the trigger of his gun like it's just waiting for the opportunity to pull it, like he's just as eager to give it the command to do so.

The stranger puts his hands up, and it's just then that you realise he's clad in a skin-tight suit. Yellow and blue. With goggles over his eyes.

"I don't want any trouble."

"Yeah?" scoffs Jason, "Well you shoulda thought of that before pulling up at princess here's door."

"[Name], get behind me," Dick calls from further in your apartment, a hand quick to spread out over your clothed stomach and push you even further back than before.

You know by the way your light starts to flicker that Duke's also on guard, and you can't imagine that Tim or Damian are that far off either.

The tension in the room is thick—heavy in the air and just as swallowing—the boys' muscles all taut. It's as though they're ready to lunge the moment just a strand of hair moves out of place.

You try to swallow, but all that goes down your throat is sandpaper.

He catches it though.

The stranger's head tilts ever so slightly after your gulp, just enough so that you're fully in his field of view again.

From under those goggles, you can't really see his eyes, but the way his brows visibly pinch is enough for you to feel the desperation radiating off his form when he speaks your name again.

Dick moves to cover you further. "I don't think so, buddy."

"Look," the man states simply, head subtly moving back up, "I don't mean any harm, really. I just wanna see her."

"Tt." The slink of a sword slipping out its sheath sounds from behind you. "And what business is it that you have with her?"

The stranger tilts his head again, letting out a frustrated grunt when Dick only moves to counter once more. "[Name] please," he whispers, tone uneven, watery and wavering, "it's me: Mark—"

Then he does something unlike your boys, unlike any vigilante you've ever seen really, and he moves his hand up to his mask, slipping it off with the ease and trust of someone not currently at the door of a stranger's house.

"—Your boyfriend?"

You can't even fully observe his face before a bang bounces off the walls of your home.

Your eyes widen, pupils shaking and hand already pushing Dick to the side as you hiss out a severely pissed, "Jason!"

But before you can even think of screaming your heart out at him, of having a go at your friend for shooting an innocent person at your door, your mouth falls agape, muscles tensing just as much as the rest of the vigilantes you know as you catch sight of what you're sure should've been a dead man on the ground.

Except he isn't dead. And he's nowhere near the ground.

In fact, he's floating off of it, brows now furrowed and lips pulled tight into a snarl as he yells, "What the hell, man?! You just shot me!"

"And you aren't dead," Jason replies through gritted teeth. "Why the fuck aren't you dead?"

"Not to worry," Damian replies before the stranger—before Mark—can, "I'll fix that."

All it takes is the lights flickering once more and the sound of a staff whirling in the wind for you to snap out of your little stupor, for you to see and hear and feel everything around you once again.

And once you do, your voice rings clear and final.

"Enough."

The boys tense, forms faltering as their eyes finally leave the stranger to fall on you.

You take a step forward.

Duke blocks your way.

"Duke." Your arms fold over your chest, his name stern and heavy on your tongue.

"[Name]"—his brows furrow—"you can't be serious. This is a stranger. A meta too, no less."

"And you aren't?" You quirk a brow. His jaw ticks. "He hasn't done anything. All he did was hug me."

"That doesn't mean he won't do anything," he retorts stubbornly. "That doesn't mean he can't do anything." Then, his tone softens, brows scrunching a little as he regards you with a look all too warm and familiar. "I don't wanna lose you. Not you."

Your arms uncross, one hand gesturing out as you return his gentle look. "And you won't. I promise. Just let me talk to him."

You can tell he's reluctant, can see it in the way his jaw is still tense and his eyes suddenly can't meet your own. But you also know Duke, and you know that he's a hero—one that, if given the chance, will choose the option of peace over all else.

And so, his shoulders fall, and he steps to the side to allow you through, to which you flash him a grateful smile before taking a step forward...

...only to be blocked by yet another wall, one now back to facing the person floating at your door.

"Jason," you call, but he doesn't so much as spare you a glance. "Jason."

His jaw squares, the only sign you have that he's hearing you.

"Put the gun down."

But he doesn't listen. He hears you but he doesn't listen. Because of course he doesn't listen. You're speaking to Jason Peter Todd, when the fuck does he ever listen?

"Jason!"

"I'm not putting the gun down until he's bleeding on the fucking floor."

The meta snarls at Jason's words, and the latter is quick to return it with his own look of disdain, blood boiling enough for heat waves to be visible in the air around him, for even the hottest lava to envy what courses through his veins.

"Then get out of my way so that I can speak to him."

The man lets out a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. "And let him feed you another lie to bring down your guard some more? I don't think so."

"I'm not lying," Mark hisses, floating just a tad bit closer.

"Oh yeah?" Jason tilts his head to the side, eyes glinting in that familiar way it does when he mocks a crook. "Why don't you say that to your so-called girlfriend? Because to me, it doesn't look like she even knows who you are at all."

That seemed to have hit a nerve, because the next thing you know, Mark is lunging forward, and Jason is just narrowly dodging his shove, rolling to the side and letting out another bullet in his direction.

You're only able to blink once before your form is engulfed, covered by the oldest brother in the room as he regards you with soft, gentle eyes.

Yours only scrunch in return.

"Dick, let go of me."

He tosses a glance over his shoulder as another bang rings out. "Don't think that's the best idea right now, princess."

"Dick."

He meets your gaze again.

"It's either you let me go so that I can break up the fight, or you let me go so that you can break up the fight. Your pick."

He holds your gaze for a few seconds, eyes wide and disbelieving. "You can't be serious."

You don't say a word, and he blinks owlishly.

"You're serious."

"Deadly."

"Okay, fuck," he curses, head turning to the side as his eyes all but seem to run through a dozen different scenarios at once, acting more like a computer screen than sclera.

Then, after at least two more seconds pass, he turns back to you, shoulders falling in quiet resignation.

"Fine. Stay here. I'll break it up. You're not going anywhere near that fight on my watch."

You feel the way your shoulders fall at his words, a wave of relief crashing over you like a sudden change in tide as you flash Dick a smile much like the one you gave Duke earlier and he starts to slowly get up with a roll of his shoulders.

"Alright you two, break it up."

Mark pauses, and Jason takes the opportunity to lunge, but before his arms can even graze the meta human, Dick hooks them under his own, and you quickly take the opportunity to put yourself between the three men.

You then proceed to waste no time to deliver a mountain of fury to the man who started the fight.

"Really, Jason?"

He pauses his struggling against his brother.

"I mean, seriously"—you throw your arms out in front of you, scoffing the words on your tongue out in disbelief so heavy, it fogs your vision—"you're a grown ass man, starting fights like a child, over something as small as someone claiming to be my boyfriend?"

He opens his mouth to retort, but purses his lips once you send him a narrow look, opting instead to scoff and turn his head to the side.

"Oh, and don't think I didn't notice you two getting ready to join in, Tim, Damian." You turn your stern gaze to the other two currently armed individuals in the room, and they both mirror their brother's reaction to a tee.

It's funny, really, how they react like children being scolded for something like drawing on the walls rather than grown men who were planning on murdering someone in the comfort of your home.

Or at least, Jason was.

Geez, you really thought you had this talk with him already, that he'd changed his previous ways and swapped out his real bullets for rubber ones, that he'd sworn off killing for the rest of his life.

Guess not.

You pinch your nose, taking in a breath and counting up to ten just like your momma taught you when you were little, just like you always do when your veins get a little too heated for your own good.

Each second in your head is a second the heat flushes out your system—and your muscles unscrew themselves from the stiff boards this whole night reduced them to—until eventually, you can feel yourself finally calming down.

Then you open your eyes again and witness the mess that is your living room, and all that effort flushes down the drain.

"Look"—you find yourself sighing, turning to face the still-floating Mark as you address him with heavy eyes—"Mark, was it?"

In an instant, he lowers himself to your height, and now that there's no goggles in the way anymore, you witness the true extent of the way his eyes stare at you, wide, unwavering, like you're the only one they truly see.

It sends a shiver down your spine.

You swallow air. "...I'm sorry, but I think you have the wrong girl. I've never seen or met you in my life. I don't even have a boyfriend."

At that, his shoulders fall, sagging in a way that has you biting your lip and half-contemplating taking it all back if it meant you'd get to see that look on his face again.

Wait... what?

"Right..." Mark starts, his solemn tone enough to pull you straight out of your thoughts. "Different dimension. My bad."

His words, though muttered, couldn't have been louder to your ears, and you raise your head in time with the rest of your friends, eyes wide and trained onto him.

"I'm sorry..."

He glances up at your voice.

"...Did you just say 'different dimension'?"

TAGLIST: @silas-222, @bloofairyfox, @wiseavenuelove, @inkycapps, @velovicy, @mmentallyelsewhere, @verysynical, @1abi, @bluepartywobblernickel

2K notes · View notes

fishyfishyfishtimes · 9 months ago

Text

Daily fish fact #6 444 205

Fish!

The fish like to have a little drink :) Sadly as they drink the water around them they also drink their own pee, and that is the curse that they will have to live with for the rest of their life

#fish #fishfact #fish facts #fishblr #biology #zoology

( 2 notes )

🪼 clovergonads follow

Tasseled wobbegong women >>>>>>>>>>>

🐸 i-eat-skin follow

bitch those are goosefish

( 27,196 notes )

🐚 seashell-on-the-seashore follow

Say what you want about fishblr updates, but I think this format for reblubs is a wonderful improvement over the previous one. One of the only times staff did good.

🐚 seashell-on-the-seashore

@featherstar53 If reblub chains got too long, new reblubs would start appearing as darker and darker until you couldnt see the text anymore. It mimicked how light disappears as you go deeper in the ocean but the sunken code this webbedsite runs on never set a cap for how dark it gets, so eventually you would have to copy ad paste the text on the reblubs onto somewhere to read them.

🐍 swamplamprey follow

It sounds fake but it's true! You can still find some older fishblr post screenshots with this effect:

This even went for full abyssal mode users! In their case, the text would slowly turn from white to dark blue, effectively making it impossible to read against the black background.

🦞 fastest-claw-in-the-west follow

I think it would be super funny if they brought this back but for individual posts. Like the reblubs stay the same colour but the posts themselves get gradually and gradually darker until you can't see them anymore lol. It would be disastrous but also funny and it might finally stop some of you frys from being so addicted to this webbedsite

#im all for a bit of chaos lol #treasure trove: talking tag

( 730 notes )

🌿 invertlike-behaviour follow

Okay for the record. My eyes are Red because I'm a COMMON ROACH! RUTILUS RUTILUS! It's not because I smoke seaweed!

🌿 invertlike-behaviour

Okay Yes I smoke seaweed all day. But the specific reason my eyes are red is Not That

( 104 notes )

🦈 spiritually-placoderm follow

🫧 surgeonsturgeon follow

OP you forgot brackish water and the option for inhabiting both

🦈 spiritually-placoderm

Shut your inferior ass mouth up

🫧 surgeonsturgeon

#(i couldnt find the actual gif i wanted to use but this weird tiger shark will have to do) #(not sure why his fins look like that)

( 1,020 notes )

☀️ slenderfish follow

"ocean sunfish have over 40 parasite species" factoid actualy just statistical error. average ocean sunfish is infected with only one or two parasites. Parasites Georg, the mola who suffers from every ailment known to fish and has over 1 000 000 000 parasite species infesting his flesh and organs, is an outlier adn should not have been counted

( 193,239 notes)

🪷 trout-about-you follow

Selfieeeee :3 (ignore the two sea lampreys attached to my flesh)

🪲 toebiter follow

how did you take the picture you aren't holding your phone

🪷 trout-about-you

The sea lamprey on the left took it for me

( 58 notes )

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

FISH USED TO MIGRATE THOUSANDS OF MILES TO BREED. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!!!!

IN MY DAY PUSSFISH LIKE THIS WOULD GET EATEN ALIVE BY REAL RIVER MONSTERS FOR BREAKFAST.

🐟 darting-action follow

these are Siamese fighting fish bruh.... They don't have migration as part of their life cycle lmao

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

OF COURSE THE YOUTH CAN'T PUNCTUATE THEIR SENTENCES PROPERLY. I SHOULDN'T EXPECT SO MUCH FROM THE SOFT FRY THEY ARE. ALWAYS GETTING RILED UP!

🔲 skip-hopper-deactivated

Ignore this guy, @darting-action. He's well known for saying offensive nonsense like this, I think he's bait and trying to get someone to bite.

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

YOU MUST BE ONE OF THOSE INBRED DOMESTIC SCUM OR HATCHED YESTERDAY SINCE YOU ENTIRELY LACK THICK SCALES. I SPEAK THE TRUTH AND ONLY THE TRUTH. IF YOU GET TRIGGERED THEN THAT'S NATURAL SELECTION, SON. YOU SHOULD FIGHT ME IN REAL LIFE.

🔲 walrus-tits-in-my-mouth-deactivated

You really dont know a thing about natural selection, do you? Bettas have flashy fins because they have to seem threatening to possible competitors. They don't migrate so they aren't built for that. They're built for living in ponds and marshes, low oxygen environments, and by cod, they are built for fighting territorial battles! You shouldn't underestimate a fish literally called fighting fish. They're very tough and hardy fish and can even send larger fish fleeing!

🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated

SIAMESE FLAILING PUSSFISH HAVE LADY FINS BECAUSE THEY'RE WEAK AND SOFT AND HAD HUMANS DECIDE WHO THEY BREED WITH FOR THEM. THEIR QUOTE UNQUOTE "FIGHTING PROWESS" SURE DIDN'T SAVE THEM FROM BEING PRISSY LITTLE PRINCESS FISHIES FOR LITTLE KIDS DID IT? THE INDUBIDABLE FACT IS THAT THEY'RE MUSKIE FOOD.

🔲 iknowthecrabbypattysecretformula-deactivated

Wait a minute... I recongize that picture on the right! That's from @betta-than-this 's OnlyFins! How did you get that picutre hmmm? Salmonidae? How on Ocean did you gain access huh?

🐠 betta-than-this follow

"Indubidable" is a pretty specific word to use. This you @salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated?

🔲 iknowthecrabbypattysecretformula-deactivated

LMAOOOOOO GOTTEMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

🔲 aquarium-life-deactivated

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

🐟 darting-action

woag i never saw this entire chain before until it hit me on my dashboard. Why does this have so many notes

Thanks fishblr user walrus tits in my mouth for biology info i didn't know

🫖 burgle-the-turts follow

Woah woah woah we're just gonna ignore this guy using p*ssfish as an insult!!???? THE CATFISH SLUR????????? No one is going to bring this up!!!!!???????

🔲 tilapia11128-deactivated

does anyone in this thread smoke seaweed

🌊 herringageposts follow

date of origin: 28th of august, 2017

( 392,229 notes )

🟧 sponsored

Suffering all alone, handsome?

No need to anymore.

👄 pollywannacracker follow

Reblub with your favorite snack in the tags! I’ll go first: coral polyps! :}

🚬 shark-noir follow

@ninjalantern-999

#as for me #my fave is definitely my lower set of teeth when they shed #crumchy :D

( 295 notes )

🩸 must-lunge follow

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STUPID HUMAN DROPPED ITS ELECTRONIC CAMERA IN THE LAKE!!!!!!!! NEVER GETTING THAT BACK BUB!!!!!! I'M TELLING ALL MY ISOPOD AND MUSSEL FRIENDS AND THEY'RE GONNA LIVE INSIDE IT!!!!!

🧑 official-human-posts follow

ofishal human post

#ofishal human post #this post contains humans

( 891 notes )

🦦 hellofromtheotterslide follow

Wait, how come this site is called fishblr and not something like oceanblr or aquablr? Wouldn't that be more inclusive?

👑 goldielocks follow

I believe the name "fishblr" pays homage to the meaning of the word where just about everything in the water was considered a fish. It's why we have words like "shellfish", "whalefish", "jellyfish", "starfish".

Personally aquablr would work really well, too. There's a sizeable amphibious userbase on here.

🦐 worldwideshrimp follow

You forgot whale shark! Those arent fish either but are called fish

👑 goldielocks

....Whale sharks are fish. They are sharks. It's in the name.

🦎 eye-of-newt follow

But I thought it was a whale named after sharks? WHALE shark! Why else would they put whale up first?

👑 goldielocks

A whale named after a shark would be called a shark whale. You can take one look at a whale shark and see that, with its gills and fish tail, it is a shark.

⚪️ number1-seacucumber-ass-enjoyer-77 follow

Wait, then what about baby whales? Are those whales named after babies?

👑 goldielocks

If you're talking about the actual whale babies, then yeah. If you mean the mormyrids, small aquatic animals that can sense electricity, then no, those are fish. Sometimes names are inaccurate to what the animal really is.

🌌 themanta1234 follow

If you think about it, fishblr is also inclusive to aquatic tetrapods since they are lobe-fins, and therefore fish :D It's a term that can include everyone on here, the perfect catchall!

🦑 abyssal-gigantism follow

Ewwww fuck that definition. If mammals hear about them being fish on some sort of """"technicality"""" then this webbedsite is gonna get flooded with those self-important idiots! "OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOOOOO LoOk At MeEeEeEeEEE i'M a MaMmAL!!11!!! I TAKE CARE of mah BAAABIEEEES!1111 I'm SUCH a good MAMAAA!!! All those OTHER STUPID HEARTLESS ANIMALS could NEVER do as I DO!!! I LOVE sweating into my BAABIEEEES' MOUTH1!1!1!111!!! I'm FLUFFY and AWSUM and ERRYBODDY LUUUVSSSSS MEE!!!!!!!!!!111!!!!!!! You should all LUV me TOO!!!!"

Is THAT how you want every fishblr post to look!!!!??????

🦛 drippohippo follow

😨

🪄 magicmanatee45 follow

DD:

🎼 humpbacked-musician-offishal follow

:'''((((

🐋 blainvilles-bitch follow

🕶️ egg-laying-mammal-of-action follow

:///////////

🐢 greenXD follow

i think jellyfish shouldn't be classified as fish because they're clearly living spaghetti

🌜 foolish-idol follow

Great fucking post everyone. Hit the air bubblers

( 60,376 notes )

🟩 ultrahyva-heihoi follow

Guys what the fuck kind of sponsors does fishblr have I just saw an ad for having parasites housed in me who are they advertising to 😭💀💀

#i swear the quality of this site keeps going down and down #if you see ads for parasites then report the shit out of em #fuck em my friend got early onset cataracts due to parasites

( 4 notes )

😃 doweopenandcloseourmouthtoday follow

Yes! :) :O :) :O :) :O :) :O

#fish #fishblr #unreality #unreality tw #dashboard simulator #fake post #fake posts #fakeposting #marine biology #parasite #dead animal #tw dead animal #the fish “reaction” gif that is #polls #shark #sharks #long post

3K notes · View notes

pedgito · 4 months ago

Text

𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 | Joel Miller x reader

part one– summary | Two strangers and their internal loneliness attract like magnets. Joel is at a loss, stuck—and you are alone, terrified. In the forced, shared space you find that distraction was the easiest way to cope.

content warning | dddne — DUBCON (this is an ongoing theme for a while), coercion, selective mutism on readers behalf, graphic depictions of violence, injury tw, not quite kidnapping/stockholm but reader has nowhere to go, brief mentions of pregnancy (like literally one line), mentions of starvation due to food scarcity but appearances isn't deeply described, mentions of sa and other relating themes, mean!joel, girthy age gap (reader is 20, joel is 54), joel is riddled with guilt but what's new amirite, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv and creampies, if i missed anything please let me know!

author's note: guys this has been sitting in my drafts finished for almost a year and this new picture has sparked a fucking fire in my docs over this series (another one? yeah i know), this is probably the heaviest thing (for me) i have ever written? so just, be warned. i don't have a timeline for this, i'm literally just vibing it out as i am with most fics lately and if you see a tag you don't like. don't read. you're responsible for the work you consume. a full list of triggers/warning can be found on the masterlist.

word count —10k

part two | part three | strangers masterlist

“She’s a stray, look at her.”

Two pairs of eyes stare back, across the dimly lit room. You’re curled up in the chair, thick leather coat lined with wool draping your shoulders and your toes curled around the edge of the seat, hands balled up near your chest as you savor the warmth.

It was the first time in a month that you’ve seen a fire—sure, you’ve tried to build one. But, you never quite got it and usually ended up burning yourself in the process and added onto the litany of other scars left as memories and reminders on your skin.

Survival—while you weren’t good at it, you did what you had to. Pure, primal instinct. Find shelter, find food, get safe. Don’t die.

Your nose was bloody, lips chapped and cracking, running on a few hours of sleep over the last several days. Place to place, you had to keep running. If you didn’t, they would catch you, surely.

Your muscles ache as they had a moment to relax, legs sore from walking miles and miles, the lingering cuts and scabs that hadn’t healed from your own clumsiness and a mix of being at the end of a blade of a man with too much pride to allow you to damper the moment.

You licked your lips and your eyes flitted away, staring out the window and counting the string of illuminated, plastic orbs hanging on the house across from the one you were currently being interrogated in—the men were still looking at you. Your outer stoic expression hid away the trembling fear you kept inside. They were waiting for you to speak.

That never came.

“You got a name?”

You shake your head, eyes quickly averting in a different direction.

The two men were similar in build—tall and stocky, large and filled out bodies built of muscle and years of hard labor, older based on the grays littering their well-kempt hair and trimmed beards. One has hair that curls just beyond his ears, a warmer brown than the other mans.

They both pull the same expression—complete and utter confusion.

Nearly identical. Oh, they’re brothers.

If not, they sure did bicker like it.

“She’s pullin’ our fuckin’ leg, Tommy.”

Your ears perk up, assigning the name to a face. He seemed softer than the other man, less weathered and guilt-ridden. It wasn’t like you knew anything about these men, but you’ve learned to identify as much as you could within a couple looks.

Figure them out.

What do they want? What can you give them?

Tommy rounds the table separating you from him, a safe, protective distance as he presses his palm into the chair pushed under the table, fingers curling around the top.

“Listen, you’ve gotta give us something.” Tommy explains, “Given the shape of you, I’m tryin’ to avoid the whole vetting process we go through. We don’t take kindly to raiders or tricks or people looking to cause trouble.”

“We ain’t even got space for her—”

Tommy holds his hand up to the other man, eyes still locked on you.

“Look at me,” His voice is solid, demanding.

But, he’s not yelling. You turn meekly, gripping for the jacket when it slips from your shoulders. Your clothes were torn, jagged edges barely hanging on in some places. Garments soiled and unwashed for weeks and god—you fucking reek. You can smell it, you know they can smell it.

You were a stray feral cat that had scurried up to their doorstep and passed out from exhaustion and while one was attempting to take pity, the other was ready to crush your skull under the weight of his boot.

“Can you talk?” He asks, eyebrows raising slightly in question.

Your tongue rolls against the front of your teeth and you switch your gaze between the two men before shaking your head, a barely noticeable gesture if they hadn’t been staring you down.

You were being truthful—you couldn’t speak. It wasn’t like you’d had your tongue cut out and were ridden with the choice, but quiet has been the only thing that has ever brought you peace.

Familiar phrases echo loudly in your mind.

Don’t speak, be a good girl.

Seen, not heard.

Speak and I will rip your fucking tongue out.

So, no—you can’t talk.

“We’ve got families comin’ in—men and women that are willing to be a hell of a lot more cooperative than this—”

“Joel,” Tommy warns with a voice that shakes the room, causing you to jerk in response and this time he is holding his hand out to you, palm raised as if to ease you down, “we can give her a fair chance, just like we do the others. Grab a piece of paper and pencil,” He points toward a desk tucked against a far wall and Joel's heavy boot stomps follow Tommy’s orders before he’s returning, slapping the items back down on the table and taking a similar stance to Tommy.

You were sandwiched between the two men as they surrounded you, shaking as you took the pencil in your hand and gripped it, fumbling for the paper as you used your fingertips to drag it close.

“Where did you come from?” Tommy asks.

You remember the dark room, chains and screams—blood-curdling screams. One meal a day, if you are good. Constant pacing in the halls, a building in the city holding a much darker secret in the quarantine zone you had been kidnapped and forced to take home in.

Bad place, you write in sloppy handwriting.

Tommy leans to look and his brow furrows, subverting toward Joel who shakes his head at you.

“No—state, city. Anything. Bad place ain’t gonna cut it, kid.”

Kid.

They’ve never called you a kid before.

Men like him—he wasn’t them, but they all start to look the same after a while.

Salt Lake? Old QZ in the city.

Joel knows that place had crumbled years ago and quarantine zones were nearly non-existent now. Taken up by people trying to start anew, much like Jackson, but more often than not it was raiders—the filthy kind of people who took without asking and killed first, asked questions never.

He couldn’t blame them, but the handful of years in Jackson has taught him a new approach. It wasn’t his favorite, but it allowed him to sleep easier at night, usually.

“You left on your own?” Joel asks, speaking before Tommy could, likely ready to ask the same question. His insipid tone makes your skin crawl.

You chewed at your bottom lip and your eyelashes touched your cheeks in a flurry of blinks as you scribbled out the one word onto the paper.

Escaped.

The alarm is immediate, Joel’s head snapping up as you push the paper toward the middle of the table and allow the pencil to roll with it.

“Tommy, can I speak to you for a minute?” Joel’s voice is harsh, not nearly the question he posed it as.

Tommy rolls his shoulders and walks around the back of your chair, following Joel into the hallway, hushed voices shocking the tension back into your body as you curl into yourself, crossing your arms over your chest and allowing your eyes to scan the room.

Memorize, categorize—this was one of the men’s houses, of whom you weren’t sure for the moment.

But, it was stocked with personal items and supplies, a bassinet shoved away in the living room and as you turned that way you noticed a pair of eyes peek around the doorframe leading that way.

A girl, young—not much younger than yourself but she is noticeably more child-like, curious.

Her shoes squeak against the hardwood startling you both and suddenly Joel is reentering the room and directing his voice toward her.

“Go on home,” He speaks to her, his expression washed-out and tired, “don’t linger ‘round here, kiddo.”

“I’m the one who found her,” She seems to take an angle of defense, coming into view. Clothes that hung off her body, not well-fitting and clearly second hand but more intact than your own, “I was on watchtower duty with Dina—”

“Ellie, this doesn’t concern you.”

Ellie rolls her eyes, walking closer regardless of Joel’s words and tossing a knife on the table.

Your knife—the black-handled switchblade closed shut. It still had old, dried blood caked on the handle. It could have been your own, but that was just a lucky guess. That thing had been your lifeline for weeks, moments away from a terrible night of near starvation or a desperate attack on you, it helped keep you safe.

You instinctively reach for it but Joel is quick—unnaturally, as he curls it into his hand and gives you a look of warning.

“This,” He holds it up, the switchblade dwarfed between his large, calloused fingers, “ain’t yours.”

Your lips pull into a thin line, eyes falling to the floor.

Tommy’s tongue clicks against his cheek as he rounds the corner, fingers rubbing at his chin as he paces, his face deep in thought and contemplation as he back steps toward the edge of the table near you, leaning into it and crossing one foot over the other. His hands are tucked away in his pockets.

“That place you escaped—” He looks up toward Joel briefly before his gaze lands on you again, “they gonna come lookin?”

You could tell the truth—you weren’t sure.

You weren’t the only girl that was locked away in the central tower of that city, the only person who was being used so inhumanely for the needs of others in the most heinous of ways.

Selfish, sick and demented, men who got off on that desperate need for power and control.

So, instead and out of self-preservation, you lie.

Shaking your head, Tommy takes a small breath and nods.

“Alright—I’m trustin’ you. Still, we’ll beef up security for a bit, and add a few extra patrols. You need a place to stay and we’re gonna give you that. But, we got rules.”

“Rule number one–you earn this,” Joel holds up the knife again before it’s tucked away in his pocket for safekeeping. Your eyes drag toward his pocket, staring daggers into the material.

“You earn your keep—I’m going to give you some time to settle, but eventually we’re going to assign you to a station. You work or you leave, there’s no other way about it.” Tommy continues, “And while I’m more inclined to give you a space of your own, we’re all full up singles and giving you a townhome…well, I’m not so sure that is the best idea.”

You weren’t going to argue—not that you had the will to speak up for yourself now, not when both of their presence were so oppressive. You nod obediently and look over at Joel who is still lingering, like an ugly guard dog ready to bare his teeth at a moment’s notice.

“I’d keep you here, but with my situation I’m not putting anything at risk,” Tommy says and you suddenly realize that this was his home. You weren’t that slow-witted. He had a family, something you were never familiar with.

But, you understood.

“So, you’ll be staying with Joel.”

It clearly wasn’t his choice, based on the way his teeth clench, jaw flexing as he crossed his arms, fabric stretching over broad shoulders and thick, muscled biceps. His piercing gaze makes you shrink into your chair, if that were possible.

Your nose scrunches slightly, in a faint show of disgust but you quickly collect yourself.

“I’m also gonna suggest you see our doctor, get those bruises checked out. Make sure you don’t have any broken bones and they can stitch up any—”

It forces you into a panic, heart beating rapidly in your chest as the jacket drops from your shoulders, fingers reaching out to wrap around Tommy’s wrist—and, like you had suspected, Joel is quick to grab at your own wrist, ready to tackle you to the ground. It wouldn’t take much given your size difference—he was just...massive, threatening in a way you've never felt. Joel could snap you like a twig, but his restraint is there.

Tommy notices the panic in your eyes—you weren’t trying to attack. You were attempting to communicate in a moment of worry, he nodded and waved Joel off, prying your hand from his arm gently and placing it against your knee.

“Alright, no doctor.” Tommy settles, “For now.”

You slump back and blink away the burning sting of tears that filed your eyes.

“Get her settled in,” He tells Joel, “make sure she eats.”

Joel doesn’t nod, but he moves, backing out of your way and giving you space.

You move slowly, shaking the jacket off your shoulders before Tommy is shaking his head and grabbing hold of the lapel, pulling it back up. You jerky slightly, averting your body from his sudden touch.

“Sorry–just…keep it,” Tommy tells you—it was a look of pure pity, his eyes softening around the naturally hard edges, “I’ll have my wife go searching for some clothes tomorrow, get you out of those and into something clean and better fitting.”

You follow behind Joel to the door, a careful distance as you linger, bracing yourself for the cold crunch of snow under your bare feet.

“And brother,” Tommy calls out—there it was. Joel twists the knob and looks over his shoulder, “don’t go scaring her more than she already is.”

You weren’t sure if it was even possible to feel true fear anymore.

The walk is short, but painful. Small winces that get caught in your throat as you quicken your pace to keep up with Joel, a slight limp to your walk from the bruising on your ribs and the tinge of pain in your hips and pelvis—your body has relaxed for too long, it felt brittle.

You hurt all over, but lately, you could will it all to go numb if you tried hard enough. Disconnect, disassociate, and disappear from your own body.

Eventually, you do meet his front door and you’re enveloped with warmth in a matter of seconds, making your way inside hesitantly as Joel holds the door open. He hadn’t spoken a word since you left the other house, fingers gripping hard on the pair of gloves tucked into his left hand. You look around curiously, the house shrouded in darkness aside from the fireplace ignited and crackling in the far room to your left. Joel moves quietly behind you, placing his belongings on the kitchen counter, but the switchblade is still tucked away in his front pocket, you know that much.

He plucks at a note folded under a magnet on the fridge, reading it to himself silently.

“Come on, kiddo,” He mumbles to himself, realizing it must be from the girl—sounding exasperated as he balls up the paper and tosses it in the trash. He favored that word, but you can’t tell if it’s just a habit.

You weren’t a kid, not even close. It felt patronizing when it was aimed your way.

He eyes you carefully, sighing as he presses a hand against the kitchen counter.

“I’m settin’ you up in the basement—none of the other rooms are in good enough condition.” Joel explains, speaking to you in the most civil way he has all night, “nothin’ is off limits except my room. And Ellie’s. She’s out back but you don’t get to go snoopin’ around. Got it?”

You shrug the jacket off but hold it close to your chest, arms crossing over each other as you hug the thick material. You nod slowly.

“Really, nothing?” Joel asks.

All it takes is a look, eyes bleary and sorrowful.

“Go on,” He nods, “there’s a bed down there, a shower, a change of clothes—”

You quickly scurry off, overwhelmed by the intensity of his unwavering gaze and the sound of his voice as it becomes more and more muffled the deeper you trek down the stairs, careful steps on your torn up feet, he seems to finally give up when your feet hit the concrete floor.

It’s still warm here, but not nearly as much. A small rectangular window sits right above the old bed, a mattress on a rusted metal frame that looked like it barely had any life left in it. But, it was an actual bed. Not boxes and a bedsheet, a makeshift pillow made from your dirtied clothes to give the ache in your neck some much needed relief.

There was a small room in the corner, a bathroom that barely managed to fit the necessities you needed—but it was still something. A shower, a toilet, a sink. A mirror that you couldn’t even bother to look in, making your way around the room you find the stack of clean clothes and towels on the coffee table in front of a worn couch, threads pulling apart at the seams on the arms.

You crouch, despite the screaming protest from your body and sift through the pile. A clean shirt, a clean pair of sweats. Underwear—you haven’t had the luxury of clean undergarments in months, often finding that going without was easier. A lump burns in your throat.

You move slowly, tucking the jacket over the edges of the mirror to cover it and placing the clothes on the closed toilet seat as you struggle for a few minutes to figure out the shower, jolting at the touch of hot water when it shoots out from the spout above.

You strip carefully, shirt pulled over your head with a small wince before your fingers are dipping into the waistband of your bottoms, slipping them down your hips and allowing them to drop silently to the floor before you step out of them—the moment the water touches your skin you regret it, the dirtied water pooling at your feet.

You cry, sob under the spray of water and scrub away every inch of dirt and grime and blood from your body–it hurts, it fucking hurts but you can’t find it in you to stop. You could scrub the skin raw, open up old wounds and make the fresh ones worse, but you’ll settle for red and welted skin. A mix of re-opened gashes and cuts flushed out by the stream of water and your maniacal scrubbing, but at least you didn’t smell like the stench of your own bodily fluids and weeks of built up dirt on your skin, nights of sleeping on wet ground in the woods.

There is a moment of running your fingers through your hair that feels nice, hair still slightly matted from the lack of care but it feels cleaner, as much as you could manage before your arms gave out from exhaustion. You savor the warmth until the water runs cold, heavy footsteps above you shaking the dust from the ceilings.

Right. You’re not alone. Not anymore.

But, that didn’t bring you comfort either.

You turn off the water and reach for the towel, allowing yourself to get dressed at a careful pace—they must be Joel’s clothes, a plain white shirt that was soft to the touch but clearly worn and a pair of black sweats that had seen better days, the color warped and faded. You manage to slip the socks of your feet with one stumble, hand pressing against the sink to catch yourself.

The jacket remains hung and you flick off the light before taking space on the bed, palms pressed out against the clean, linen sheet, the comforter tucked away against the wall as you laid down, body protesting the entire way.

Eyes squeezed shut, you grit your teeth and pull the comforter over your shoulders.

You try to sleep that night, but it is futile. The light hanging above your bed flickers occasionally—every fifteen minutes to be exact, it had done it thirty two times that night.

–

It never fails—just as you feel yourself drifting off every early morning, Joel is awaking you with the sound of his heavy footsteps and a bag of food. Sometimes a tray or plate. It varied.

You’ve been here three full days now, not counting the night they had taken you in.

You hadn’t left the room, hadn’t asked for a single thing.

Joel was starting to believe that your tongue was cut out—that you were robbed of the ability to speak entirely, but he knows that isn’t the case when he watches your tongue peek out as you take a bite of the scrambled eggs he had grabbed from the town dining hall for you.

You haven’t seen an authentic plate of food in months, and with proper silverware—having half the mind to dig in with your hands before Joel passes you the fork. It was real, warm food. Your stomach growled with greed as you shoveled the food into your mouth quietly.

Joel watches you with a strange look, not with judgment but a genuine curiosity that he doesn’t act on with questions or crude statements. He waits until you're done, leaning against the door that leads to the rest of the house, only coming near when you press the plate to the floor with a soft clang.

And it continues like that for a couple days—occasional Joel will bring more than food; a book, a magazine, a set of cards. He never explicitly acknowledges the items, but he does leaves it behind. You can’t bring yourself to leave the room, in fear of what you faced outside of here. Even just a few steps into Joel’s kitchen and it made your stomach twist and the bile stir.

Sometimes the food comes in only paper bags, a few at a time and things that didn’t need to be kept cold because when Joel had to go away on patrol he couldn’t watch over you, even if he felt the need to.

He wasn’t sure if you were going to try and make a break for it, escape over the walls.

He wouldn’t stop you, wouldn’t blame you either. But, the state you're in, he can’t see you surviving more than a day. Bruises were healing, cuts were scabbed up and scarred over. He never tended to your wounds, always allowed you to do that on your own. At least, he assumed you were. You’ve learned to not scamper away as much, taking things from him with minimal contact and a small nod, sometimes allowing a small gesture of thanks with a hand on your chin that you bring downwards.

Joel only scowls his brow and looks at you confused.

“You stink.” Joel says one day, out of the blue over dinner as he watched by the doorway.

You stop chewing mid-bite and look at him.

“Have you showered at all since the first day?”

Impishly you look away toward the bathroom.

It felt selfish, to overuse the hot water and indulge in the pleasure of the heat—always used to cold showers and the bare minimum of scrubbing yourself down in thirty seconds. It was routine: in, wash, out. There was no enjoyment.

You shake your head after a while and push your plate aside, feeling your stomach turn.

“Go,” He nods as he steps toward you, swiping up the plate in his right hand and leading the way toward the bathroom, noting the way the coat was still hung over the mirror. He doesn’t comment on it, but he nods his head in the direction of the shower.

You look at him slightly unsure, “If I have to force you in there I will,” He says, but there isn’t any real bite behind, although the look in his eyes tells a different story, “there’s plenty of hot water, use it.”

But…

The word lingers in your head.

“I’ll have Ellie grab you some new clothes, somethin’ that fits better.” Joel tells you, “Just get in the goddamn shower.”

You brush past him quietly, beginning to undress yourself without warning which alarms Joel.

“Oh—well, shit. I mean after I left.” Joel turns away and his descending footsteps eventually fade and despite how hard it is to get your body to work, or even move, you shower.

You grab the unused towel hanging over the barely clinging metal rack nailed into the wall, wrapping it around your body securely, bare feet pressing against the ground and for the first time in a while, it doesn’t hurt. It’s sore, but it doesn’t sting as harshly as it did.

There’s a suspicious lack of clothing—your dirty ones nowhere in sight, no clean ones either. In fact, the room was practically bare of all trash and old clothing. You ignore the dull pain at your hip, a wound still on the mend and step around the corner of the doorway carefully and hear the sound of footsteps above you, the soft hum of voices until one fades, a door closing following in the wake of the newly discovered sounds.

The door is open. Joel left the door open.

You stop several feet away, staring out into the hallway, the house was dim aside from the bright glow of flames burning in the fireplace. You feel so strongly to run toward the door and slam it closed, clamber back into bed—fearful that if you left the room then this bubble of safety and protection would be broken. But, there was the small voice in the back of your mind screaming to take a step forward, and then another, until your fingers were lingering over the doorknob and pushing it open further.

You take a step out, only to be met with the chest of someone else running into your arm clutching at the towel wrapped around your body—it couldn’t be anyone but Joel, and of course, you’re right.

He’s staring at you emotionless, aside from the subtle acknowledgment that you had listened to him.

“Got you a couple sets—something to sleep in, something to wear during the day.”

He doesn’t elaborate, handing the clothes over into your empty hand. You’re halfway in the process of dropping your towel before Joel’s hand is wrapping around your wrist, forcing you to stop.

“Stop doin’ that,” Joel commands, nodding toward the bathroom behind you, peeking over your shoulder in that direction before looking back at him with wide, startled eyes, “privacy—do you understand that?” His voice is slow, almost patronizing.

Privacy wasn’t lost on you—but it had long been a foreign concept.

You nod.

“Then go, get dressed.” He reprimands, pointing down the hall, a different bathroom then you’ve seen before.

You scurry away with the clothes clutched to your chest, catching a quick glimpse of yourself in the mirror as you step inside the room—it was startling, having not seen your appearances in weeks, days and days of constant guessing, wondering how the time starved in the Wyoming forest had damaged you.

Physically, mentally, emotionally.

It had taken a toll and it was even more visible than you expected.

You looked rundown, eyes tired and sorrowful. It was pathetic. You tried not to linger for long, noting the appearance of your body and moving on—having to look back at yourself in the mirror was far worse than being attached to it.

The clothes Joel gave you were thin, fleece pajamas that felt soft to the touch and kind against your still sensitive skin. You exit the bathroom quietly and Joel is nowhere to be found in your immediate vicinity, half-expecting him to be waiting outside the bathroom door. You edge back toward the basement door before you spot him on the couch in the living room, the back of his head and broad, stocky shoulders the only glimpse of him you have.

He seems relaxed, staring off into space as he looks down.

You don’t know where the pull comes from, but it wraps around the ache in your chest and pulls you closer, toward him. The creak in the floorboard gives you away.

“Don’t sneak around,” Joel says, “makes people anxious ‘round here.”

Makes him anxious, clearly.

After a moment of silence, he extends the invitation to join him.

“If you’re cold, sit—got room if you want to sit somewhere closer to the fire.”

He did have quite the sizable living room, a couple couches and a few arm chairs surrounding the otherwise bare living space.

You can see the softness on his face under this light, his eyes drawing up to look at you while his head is still tilted down, his hands rubbing away at his stiff knuckle joints. He keeps flicking his eyes between the two—his hands, you, then back again.

If he has something he wants to ask, he doesn’t.

You’re silent as you avoid each piece of furniture all together and quietly make your way between his outstretched legs, a perfect place to tuck yourself between as you kneel.

Thank him, he deserves it.

He didn’t strike you as a shy man, but you’ve done this plenty of times before—it was really no different, but this was more of a silent offer than the usual demands you were faced with.

Joel doesn’t move right away, doesn’t even react.

Until you touch him, your hands gliding over his knees, his thighs, leaning forward to nuzzle your face against his thigh as you pull at his zipper—again, his fingers wrap around your wrist. But, no words follow. You make eye contact with him then, feeling at your most confident and bold when he looks so worried, frightened—the deep feeling of intrigue buried underneath it all.

You pull away from his grip and wrap your fingers around his waistband, pulling slowly until he moves, wordlessly he responds by using his thumbs to push his jeans far enough down that you can comfortably press your hands over the obvious bulge in his boxers—it wasn’t hard or straining, but the touch of your hand against his cock had it growing to that point quickly, his eyes downcast and half-lidded.

It was like he didn’t want to look, but couldn’t look away. You took it in stride and pulled at his boxers until you could tug his cock free of the confines, watching it spring up against his stomach—thick in every sense of the word and large, much more than any man who’s ever claimed you. Pretty, almost, if you could consider it that. He’s well-kempt and clean which was nice, unusual given the time you lived in now. More importantly, you feel your mouth watering at the prospect of taking him inside, pressing your tongue flat against the tip and swallowing him down.

That has never happened before.

You settled between his legs more comfortably, raising up on scabbed up knees and dragging your fingers delicately along the shaft and down to his balls, watching them tighten at the attention you showed before you’re leaning down to take his cock into your mouth without much of a warning. Joel shifts slightly and you ancitpate him to push you away.

But, really, you just wanted to thank him. It was the only way you’ve learned how.

He breathes out softly, the first sound you’ve heard since you touched him.

You drag your tongue from base to tip, hand pressed his cock flat against it as you circle around the tip before dipping back down, slipping back into the motions so easily it feels mind-numbing.

Your eyes flutter as you force yourself to take him as deep as possible, nearly gagging before you pull away, catching a slight glimpse of him behind bleary, wet eyes.

His own are wild, hands pressed flat against the cushion, mouth only slightly ajar. But, he won’t look at you. Only the action, your hand wrapped around his shaft, the other pressed against his thigh and he fights off that urge to touch you, tilting his head back against the couch as you continue with a sudden fervor you didn’t have before.

You bob effortlessly, taking him just near the point of impossible before you’re pulling away, repeating that until you can feel that faint throb, that familiar pulse as his balls tighten with his impending orgasm and just as he reaches for your hair, ready to pull you away, you fight against it. He comes in your mouth with a low groan, gripping onto the surface of the couch in desperation.

When the pulsing finally calms you pull away, wiping at your mouth with the back of your hand and standing slowly, adjusting your clothes where they had shifted out of place slightly before taking a silent seat on the couch beside him, laying down and curling up into yourself.

You hear the dull sounds of him readjusting his pants, zipping them, shuffling slightly as he clears his throat and suddenly there is a throw being draped over you—a soft, sherpa lined blanket that immediately bathes you in warmth.

Joel catches your gaze as you blink up at him, pausing briefly to acknowledge how lost you seem—in need of guidance. It settles in him then, dawns on his mind that this was what you were used to, wherever you had escaped from was far worse than anything he’s ever suspected. He tucks the blanket in gently and double checks the locks on the door. You’re already asleep by the time he passes by, leaning over the back of the couch to check on you.

Joel feels the guilt creep in slowly.

He should have stopped, he knows he should have. But, he didn’t.

Why? He couldn’t explain it.

The walk to his bedroom seems miles away and when he finally reaches it he’s closing the door with a dignified sigh, immediately making his way toward the en-suite bathroom and undressing his clothes—it was his second shower that day but he didn’t give a shit.

He needed a moment to reconvene in his mind…or escape.

Really, he just needed a distraction. It was selfish need.

The clothes pile up on the tile floor as he turns on the water, the stream shooting out of the shower head in quick spurts before it levels out and Joel steps inside, head first as the water soaks his hair, face, traveling down his body.

It wasn’t the first time he’s allowed his hand to travel to his cock within the privacy of this bathroom—a man with no one to keep his bed warm at night, or morning–or ever, really. He’s learned to cope, release some of the built up anger and frustration even if for a brief moment.

But, this was different. Because the only thing he could think of was you. The meek looks you offered, dumb-founded and lost, like a young gazelle lost in the woods. He can only imagine, suspect what you’ve been through, but the look you had given him while you took him into your mouth was something Joel couldn’t describe.

There was no clear acknowledgement, no hard line of yes and no. The lines were blurred and he doesn’t know why, but he was okay with it for a moment. Truly, you’d had all the power in the moment anyways—Joel was helpless under the touch of your mouth, a goner the second your hand touched his skin.

He tugs at his cock lazily and with no real purpose, knowing if he tried to come again so soon it wouldn’t happen, but for the brief moment of peace, he imagines you there, kneeling before him with the spray of water over your face and his cock buried in your mouth, puffing out your cheeks and how you would be so willing to do whatever he’d ask.

Obedience—that was the one thing that stuck out. You always listened when he spoke.

He could help you, he thinks. Heal you.

Or, he would fuck up and make it far worse.

He wasn’t sure if it was even worth the trouble.

The next morning you wake to the startling clang of pans behind you, shooting upright on the couch and snapping your head toward the kitchen to catch a glimpse of Joel’s back, shoulder blades stretched and outlined under the thin material of his shirt, clinging to his back snuggly. There’s a savory smell that breaches your nose–meat, potatoes, something of a near feast as you spot the few plates on the table stacked with various other foods.

Joel seems to sense your eyes, turning his body slightly to look behind him and your gaze quickly averting down, playing with a loose thread on the blanket as he plates the remaining food.

“Beginning of the month,” Joel explains, “usually the only time we get to eat like this.”

Joel swiftly decided that taking the route of pretending nothing ever happened was the easiest, brushing off the events of the previous night with a point to the seat near the kitchen island.

“C’mon, dig in,” He invites, “Ellie should be up soon and lord knows that kid doesn’t care about savin’ enough for the rest of us. Fill up while you can.”

Your footsteps are quiet and slow as you approach the island, the long sleeves tucked under your fingers mid-palm, crossing your arms over your chest as you look at the cacophony of items. Not sure where to start or end. Joel reaches for a plate and points to the items in order from left to right, plating a couple items with every nod you give him.

He was an enigma of a man—so brute and intimidating at a glance and he was when he needed to be, but this was a soft crack in a hard exterior, years of built up trauma intertwined with a rough world dependent on the strongest to survive. It had to level out at some point–and here that big strong man was, making up your plate and plopping a piece of bacon down before you impishly nod your head toward the pile of bacon.

“More?”

You nod quickly and Joel feels a subtle grin tug at his face, nodding in agreement with your choice as he gives you another piece.

You eat in silence—chewing slowly and methodically as you listen to the quiet, roving chatter of people outside, neighbors readying for their day. It was a community, a town, well-oiled and rare in this world.

“Are you done hiding down in the basement?” Joel asks eventually, peeking up from his plate as he leaned against the counter adjacent the island, “Eventually you’re gonna have to talk to Tommy, get you set up with a job.”

Right. Work. Sustenance. You had to carry your own weight.

“You can talk here, you know?” Joel tells you, “You can talk, can’t you?”

Your eyes flick away briefly, avoiding the question.

“Let me try that again,” Joel clears his throat and tosses his empty plate behind him in the sink, fingers curling around the edge of the counter beside him, “Can’t?”

You shake your head.

“Won’t?”

A jerky nod as you push your own plate away.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry or force it—jus’ think it may cause problems eventually.”

You make a motion of writing with your hand shyly, hoping he’ll understand.

Joel nods jerkily and turns to rummage through a drawer in the kitchen, filled with a miscellaneous amount of junk, finding a pad of paper and a pencil and handing it over to you.

Not scared. Of you.

Joel watches as you scribble the words down and furrows his brow.

“No, I’m not sayin’ you are—”

You scratch out the words and start a new line.

If we talked, they hit.

They?

Joel doesn’t voice the word but you see the confusion on his face.

They do nice things and we thank them. The men. If we didn’t, they would hurt us. Or kill if they were angry enough.

You scrunch your nose up slightly, looking disgruntled. Joel watches your hand shake as you continue—it didn’t help to be vague, but that fear they had instilled in you lingered like a dark, suffocating cloud.

I grew up in that place.

Bad place, Joel reminds himself. That was what you had told him and Tommy.

“People—they ain’t like that here—” Joel says, but you’re already scribbling before he can finish.

You don’t know that.

Ellie disrupts the quiet conversation with her loud entrance through the back door, looking tired as she tugged her jacket over her shoulders, pack already slung over her back.

“You’re up early,” Joel notes, preemptively handing Ellie a slice of bacon.

“Jesse wants to get an early start for the patrol since that big storm is supposed to hit tomorrow.”

Joel nods, noting how you looked between the pair curiously.

Ellie seems to notice you’re staring too, offering a casual, “Hi,” around the bacon her teeth tore into.

“Right, shoulda remembered to tell you,” Joel looks over at you, “we’ll both be gone for a few days, longer patrols with all the extra ones Tommy’s pushing at.”

“Seems pointless,” Ellie shrugs, “but…whatever.”

“You get goin’,” He tells Ellie, “I’ll catch up.”

Ellie chews at her breakfast indifferently, nodding in response as she departs, the front door closing gently behind her.

Joel gathers the dishes quietly but you feel the urge to move, helping him gather the rest of the dirty dishes and pile them into the sink. You don’t ask and he doesn’t either, but as he washes, you dry, and it feels normal.

Maybe the only normal experience you’ve had since you ended up here.

You couldn’t place your finger on him, though—Joel. One moment he was kind, talkative and curious, willing to take his time to figure out what he could about you. But, other times you felt like you were a stray dog that popped up at his doorstep and refused to leave. So, now he was forced to house you, feed you, take care of you.

So, obviously, it only made sense to take care of him.

He’d enjoyed it the first time.

Joel’s drying his hands on a towel you hand him before you’re reaching for his belt, metal clinking against metal and you tug, but you’re stopped short, his hand wrapping tightly around your wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?” Joel asks, shoving your hand away forcefully.

But, it’s the clipped, peaking anger in his tone that forces you back further.

You blink away the quickly forming tears in your eyes and retreat quickly, mouth hung open slightly in shock, frightened at the almost instantaneous shift in Joel’s voice. His face. His entire demeanor—you’ve crossed into dangerous territory, like mindless prey.

You’re amiss to the way Joel’s jaw clenches at his sudden outburst, internally shaming himself for the strain in his jeans at even just the thought of you touching him again—the willingness and eagerness of your actions, how long you’ve been conditioned into this.

He doesn’t call after you, though—only stopping by the house later that afternoon before he left to set you up with enough meals and changes of clothes to last you those three days. A knock on the door startles your timid heart, forcing you to your feet and by the time you reach the door he’s nowhere in sight. You’re thankful for that, actually. You weren’t sure if you could even look at him, fearful of the disappointment.

There was a small note folded on top of the pile placed on the floor, unfolded with a careful touch, it read—House is all yours.

Three days, all alone.

You couldn’t bring yourself to leave that basement once.

–

When Joel returns home it’s late and he’s toeing his boots off at the door the moment he steps inside and notes the lack of warmth—a fireplace unused and the door to the basement closed shut. Ellie had already wandered off with Dina for the night, one less thing he had to worry about. He was more appreciative that she’d finally broken out of her shell and actually made a few good friends.

He ignites the fireplace, looking over his shoulder every few seconds waiting, wondering if you were waiting in anticipation—those curious eyes tracking every movement he made. He’d picked up some dessert from the mess hall on the way to his house, selfishly wanting to keep it for himself but he feels that tug, that push to extend the olive branch.

He needed to clear up this…confusion. Try—he could try, at least.

“Sorry, I actually didn’t want you to suck my dick.”

“I enjoyed it but we shouldn’t do that again.”

“I know it’s wrong, but I didn’t want to stop you.”

Joel knows he sounds ridiculous in his head, but he was at a loss.

He’d stopped you because it was wrong–but not because he didn’t want you to.

Joel doesn’t even consider the idea that you may already be asleep for the night, pulling out the small box of dessert and a fresh pair of clothes he’d picked up alongside the food when he checked his horse back in at the stable, picking up a few other spare supplies.

You hear him before you see him when he opens the door, those heavy boot steps thunk, thunk, thunk against the floor and you lie still, staring at him meekly as he approaches the couch adjacent to the bed in a near corner, resting the items on the table and taking a seat silently.

“You hungry?” He asks casually and your stomach growls on command despite your unwillingness to move, blanket tucked under your chin.

He can see you shake your head slightly, easy to miss if he wasn’t staring you down.

“We need to talk,” Joel says, your eyes jolting to him suddenly, “about the other night.”

He jerks his head over, silently asking you to join him on the couch—he’s leaned back but not comfortable, his hands resting in his lap, much like the position you caught him in that night.

When you don’t move, he sighs. A deep, soft sound that has you turning over in bed to face the wall.

“I’m not asking.”

Heavy footsteps follow, the sounder closer and closer, his boots scuffing against the ground before they stop and you can feel him at your back, the whole of the bed shifting as he rests a hand on a decorative knob of the arched bed frame, creaking under his weight.

“Sit up,” He says again, “come on.”

There’s an irritation in his tone that tells you he isn’t leaving until you do, pushing up slowly and crawling to the side with your hands. The last lingering wound stings as you move, a gash on your lower back, toward your hip that you had haphazardly sewn up a few weeks ago with some sewing thread and a needle. It still hadn’t healed like the rest of your wounds. The last remaining physical memory of that time, aside from the scars.

Joel tilts his head to the side and back, noticing as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain and irritation.

“You’re still hurtin’,” It's a statement, he knows it—he can see it on your face.

You shake your head unconvincingly.

“Let me see.”

You shake again, backing into a corner but Joel is quick, he follows and leans down, pulling at the edge of your shirt that was already riding up your back, noting the red and fussed up wound by your hip—it was infected, there was no doubt in his mind.

“Does it hurt?” He asks now, “Don’t lie to me.”

Your eyes lock for a long, lingering moment before you nod, shifting away from his touch as it presses featherlight against the skin.

“I got some supplies upstairs,” He tells you absently, eyes examining the festering wound, “you need that cleaned and stitched up properly before you end up septic.”

Not that it sounded like too bad of a prospect anymore, you square yourself away as he retreats without another word, his figured disappearing out of sight as he turned the corner outside of the basement, your eyes following the sound of his footsteps and noticing the soft rustle of dust above—it took a while for you to realize his room was above yours at first.

He’s back swiftly, a trove of supplies in one arm and a wooden chair in the other, hauling them like they weighed nothing, sleeves already rolled up at his elbows. The chair skirts the ground, squealing loudly as Joel brings it near the edge of the bed and motions for you to turn around and face the wall.

Again, not asking.

With shaky hands and fingers you move, slowly until you back meets Joel’s fingers at your shoulder, curled up into a fist and pressing gently into your skin.

“Lift your shirt,” You grab the edges, ready to strip it over your head before Joel grabs your bicep and stops you, “—that’s—that’s fine, alright? Just hold it there.”

Joel slowly cuts away the old thread and removes the old stitching with a careful hand. You bite at your bottom lip until it draws blood. It unsettles Joel with how quiet you are, even now. Not a word or a single sound or expression of pain, just white knuckles gripping the shirt bunched under your chest and your head tucked down as you shake with a silent cry.

“Stop movin’,” He says brutishly, cleaning up the wound with an antiseptic that makes you squirm away slightly, “I’m almost finished.”

He cleans, re-stitches and covers up the wound with minimal effort, like he’s done this a million times before. And you hear the shake of a pill bottle behind you, whipping your head around quickly.

“S’just antibiotics,” Joel explains, “we picked away at a pharmacy a few months back that had a decent supply,” He pours one into his hand before it rolls to his fingers and he’s handing it off to you—as he suspects, you eye it wearily, “look, your choice. I got enough here to clear that up within a week or you can continue to suffer, not my problem.”

Reluctantly, you take the pill from him and dry swallow it down with a small, nearly silent wince.

There was no reason to trust Joel, but you did.

At some point between the walk from your bed to the table, Joel realizes he’d bypassed the entire reason he had come down here–to talk. About it. That instance you were both dancing around, the one he’d fended off the second time with a barking, heavy voice.

His lingering presence is hard to ignore and you grip the edge of the bed, standing on your own two feet with his back turned to you.

He’d helped you again. Maybe you wanted to thank him.

Or you just wanted a distraction from the pain, the creeping loneliness.

He’s so distracted he doesn’t hear your footsteps approach him, a newly found vigor as you pull at his forearm and turn him with a sudden strength Joel wasn’t expecting, sending him tumbling on his heels to the couch. He sees it in your eyes then, the task you’re focused on, already undressed from the waist down, the length of the shirt reaching a few centimeters short of mid–thigh to cover your naked down as you climb onto his lap and Joel allows it.

He doesn’t yell or scream, there is no apprehensiveness there. Not now.

He could sit in your eyes—this was coping with whatever you couldn’t bring yourself to face, unspoken trust that you didn’t want to voice. This was a distraction for him too.

He could fight this off, but Joel never considered himself a great man. Or, really even a decent one. And, as you work at his belt, he finds his hands joining your own, struggling for a moment before he’s yanking the leather from the belt loops and unbuttoning his jeans as you pull at his zipper, lifting slightly off his lap as he pushes his jeans down to his calves—there was a beauty to how easily your bodies worked against each other, your push to his pull.

Wordless, he knew what you wanted. And you knew exactly what to give him.

He was like the bad men, but wholly different.

The wonder and admiration in his eyes told you so, even if they were quickly clouded by desire and lust, his face suddenly stoic as you grab at his cock, tugging it to full hardness within seconds before you’re dragging the tip of his cock down the center of your cunt before sinking down harshly—and the hands stilled at his sides finally act.

He’s careful of the wound on your hip, dragging his fingers over your ass and to your thighs, fingers curling around the back of your bent knees to pull and tug you in, groaning quietly into the thick, thready material of your top as you curl into him.

He couldn’t bear the idea of looking at you, watching you as you moved so eagerly against his cock, soft breaths at his ears that made him wanton for the sounds you couldn’t make, the terrible vocal paralysis like a vice anytime someone looked in your direction, especially him. Your palms press into the wall behind him, dull fingertips clawing at chipped paint as you bounced your hips fiercely, quick and efficient in the process. It was clear you’ve done this before—detached and just a means to an end, a device of pleasure.

And Joel uses it, selfishly. One hand falling to the back of your neck to curl you in further, the other at your ass as he squeezes, guiding your hips down to the sharp, pointed thrust of his own movements and Joel can already feel that familiar cole in his groin—days of staving of his own need for release from the sheer amount of guilt he felt over this, somehow ending up here again.

Using you—and maybe you could admit it yourself, it was just as much a distraction for you as for him, but the sudden warmth in your chest is startling. You could come like this, the drag of his cock hitting so deep inside of you with every thrust that your visions starts to white—a mix of delirium and pure euphoria, the gasp that leaves your mouth is broken and barely audible but Joel can hear it, feeling you tip over that cliff with a hand tangled in his hair, needing an anchor and finding that it was him in that moment.

But, you don’t stop either. Working through the crest of your orgasm with a reflexive squeeze of your cunt as you came apart and pulled him in, his balls tightening in warning as they slapped against your cunt with each drop of your hips and Joel tries to warn you, pushes gently at your hips but you don’t move—won’t. And he comes inside of you with a muffled, tired grunt as he pants into your shirt.

Whatever mutual agreement was made had become void.

“Get off,” He says after a beat, but doesn’t push.

You listen, moving off of him and turning away immediately, arms tucked around your middle as you eyed the fresh clothes and still uneaten slice of dessert, one that Joel had offered to share.

A peace offering, an act of forgiveness. But, that was all shattered and swept away now.

“You stupid, girl?” Joel asks suddenly, turning to him at the harsh words and finding him re-dressed, brow drawn in as he snatches his belt in his right hand, gripping it tight. “That your master plan, here?”

You’re confused and Joel’s eyes drag to your legs, unseen but you can feel his cum dripping down your thighs, pushing out of your cunt as it pulses from the comedown of your own orgasm.

“Gettin’ knocked up and hopin’ that a baby will keep you safe here?”

You were safe nowhere and you knew that.

Joel had no idea, but you couldn’t even begin to explain how wrong he was.

Babies, even the prospect of that idea made your skin crawl.

So, with frustration evident on his face and already anticipating your answer, you shake your head.

“You try that shit again and I’ll—”

You brow raises in anticipation and Joel opens his mouth slightly before he clenches his jaw.

“Knew it was a fuckin’ mistake taking you in.”

And it feels like a gut punch, but he was right.

Joel tosses the pill bottle on the table and you watch as it lands, rolls before hitting the floor and stopping just at your bare toes.

He departs with a deep scowl, door slamming behind him and you wait, count the steps until you hear his footsteps above the basement and you wander over toward the table.

The remnants of the items he’d brought with the intentions of a one-sided conversation, a lecture, really.

It was pointless now.

Opening the container to the uneaten dessert, you sniffed it testingly before swiping a single finger over the icing on top, pressing the sweet, sugar cream against your tongue and letting your eyes drift closed at the flavor, giving yourself a few seconds to enjoy and savor before you’re ripping into the thing with your bare hands, a fuck you the peace offering Joel was trying for.

There was no peace to be had. You would never find peace here, either.

A new emotion floods your body—not anger or rage, but jealousy, greed. You wanted him, and deep within, you knew he wanted you too. Even if just in a primal way, a means to distract.

And in your sudden, newfound boldness and curiosity you linger toward the kitchen in a fresh change of clothes for that night, snatching up the notepad Joel had left out from your previous conversation before scribbling the rest of that out and ripping off a jagged piece of paper.

It was a thank you.

Flipping it over, you continue the message.

There is no plan. I trust you.

You fold the paper up and wander down the hall, counting the steps until you land at a closed door, one that you can only assume and hope is Joel’s and slip the paper under the gap at the bottom of the door.

There was a chance, the anticipation that Joel could convince Tommy to strand you out into the forest again, forced back into harsh survival, but something tells you Joel doesn’t have it in him, not anymore.

Joel catches the sight of your departing shadow as he retreats toward his bed, the paper flying across the floor with the sudden draft and landing right at his feet, he picks it up and readies to trash it without a thought before he catches sight of that simple phrase.

thank you – no plan —

Joel pauses, reading over the final set of words with a dangerous tug in his heart.

I trust you.

That tug was guilt and the creeping sensation of doom.

Trust. You.

He’s really fucked up now.

divider creds: @/cafekitsune

#joel miller #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #tlou #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fic #my writing

2K notes · View notes

pin-k-ink · 5 months ago

Text

OFF THE RECORD ⋆✦⋆ gojo satoru

synopsis ➸ you know gojo too well to believe he’s here for a quick fuck. he’s here for a favor—one you have no intention of granting. too bad he’s never been good at taking no for an answer.

tags ➸ implied former student/teacher relationship, slight age gap, friends with benefits, possessive behavior, mild dom/sub themes, power play, manipulation, daddy kink, mild objectification, dirty talking, semi-public/public sex, mention of past sexual encounters, implied blackmail (it’s really not as bad as you think)

wc ➸ 10.9k

The steamy tendrils still clung to your skin as you stepped out of the shower, toweling off with a contented sigh. Mornings like this—quiet, peaceful routines before diving headfirst into the chaotic world of jujutsu—were increasingly rare these days. So you tried to savor each precious moment while it lasted.

With the towel secured around your body, you padded toward the bedroom to get dressed for yet another long day at headquarters. However, the second you stepped over the threshold, the hairs along your nape instantly prickled upright. A presence. An unmistakable shift in the air currents that could only mean—

"Well, good morning, gorgeous! Sleep well?"

You barely stifled the startled yelp as Gojo Satoru's cheerful baritone seemed to resonate from directly behind you. Whirling around, sure enough, there he was—all towering height, shredded muscle, and bright eyes glinting with clear amusement. How someone so powerful could also be so utterly shameless sometimes, you'd never know.

Doing your best to ignore the heat flooding your cheeks, you planted your hands on your hips in a stern facsimile of composure. "Satoru...what an unexpected surprise. Here I thought teachers were supposed to set good examples about respecting boundaries, not traipsing into former students' homes unannounced."

Rather than appear even remotely chagrined, Gojo simply chuckled and leaned back against your kitchen counter as if he owned the place. You watched in mild annoyance as his gaze slowly trailed up and down your towel-clad figure with undisguised appreciation.

"Hey now, no need for such icy formalities between us old friends," he chided, the barest hints of a smirk tugging at those infuriatingly full lips. "Besides, when have I ever cared about doing what's expected of me, hm? That's like...95% of my appeal, babe."

Rolling your eyes, you huffed out a resigned sigh and crossed the room to your closet, firmly squelching the instincts that urged you to yank the towel higher and more securely over your body. Gojo had seen—and thoroughly enjoyed—far more of you than this in the past. No sense getting flustered over his blazing regard now.

"Right, so does this impromptu visit have an actual purpose?" You shot him a pointed look over your shoulder as you fished out a crisp blouse and trousers to wear to HQ. "Or are you just being a pain as usual and raiding my fridge for a sugar fix again?"

You heard Gojo's low snort of amusement before his heavy footfalls sounded, clearly bringing him closer despite your protestations. "What can I say? Your kitchen is better stocked with sweets than most convenience stores. I can't help craving a little nibble now and then..."

The sultry undercurrent in his tone triggered a fresh blaze of heat along your nape. You could practically feel the smoldering weight of Gojo's stare boring into your ass as you bent to rifle through your bottom dresser drawer.

"But you're onto something with that other theory as well," he continued in a lower, more contemplative register. All traces of levity seemed to evaporate as his presence loomed larger behind you. "I did actually come to ask a favor of my very favorite former pupil. An important one that I wouldn't bother you about if the stakes weren't so high."

Curiosity and trepidation warred within your chest at the unexpected gravity clouding Gojo's usually buoyant candor. You instinctively straightened, clutching your clothes to your chest as you slowly turned to face him once more.

And just like that, the heated tension seemed to ratchet up several palpable notches as your eyes met and held in the claustrophobic space. Gojo's sculptured features had taken on a severe, intense edge—all sharp angles and tightly leashed power that instantly siphoned the breath from your lungs.

Suddenly, his earlier "playful" flirting and teasing manner seemed less like an act and more like a fragile facade barely containing his true tempestuous nature. You swallowed hard against the liquid lick of thrilling trepidation skating down your spine as Gojo maintained that weighty, piercing stare for several moments longer.

"...Is everything okay?" You finally managed in a hushed murmur, scarcely recognizing your own voice under the abrupt spell of Gojo's domineering energy. "What could possibly have you riled up enough to ditch the flippant act?"

Rather than immediately answering, Gojo closed the remaining distance between you with two long, purposeful strides. You had to crane your head back slightly to maintain eye contact as his powerful silhouette utterly consumed your space—the scalding brand of his body heat and crisp, masculine scent enveloping you from all sides.

"Believe me, kitten...if I came here for anything even remotely fun or pleasure-oriented, you wouldn't need to ask," he rumbled at last, voice pitched low enough to instill a full-body shiver along your nerves.

One of Gojo's large hands came up, and you froze as the rough pads of his knuckles grazed a feather-light caress along the line of your jaw. His thumb swiped over the seam of your lower lip in an utterly artless, possessive sweep—smoldering gaze following the motion with incendiary focus.

"I'd already have that smart mouth wrapped around my cock doing something far more useful than talking..."

Despite the crudity of his words, you couldn't quite stifle the punched-out whimper that slipped free at the graphic implication. Gojo's pupils blew fractionally wider in answer, tongue darting out to lave his lower lip as if tasting the charged undercurrents now rippling between you.

"Lucky for you, this is actually about business," he continued in that same resonant timbre that seemed to spark straight between your thighs each time his rich cadence washed over you. "The kind of serious business that even a lazy pervert like me can't afford...distractions for at the moment, got it?"

You managed a jerky nod, too disoriented by the heady spiral of desire cloying at your senses to do much else. Gojo's expression seemed to tighten further—a muscle feathering in his chiseled jaw as if steeling himself for whatever came next as he stepped back a bit.

"Itadori Yuji is scheduled for execution..." The blunt statement punched out like a missile deployment, brutally shredding the increasingly rapacious atmosphere between you. "And one way or another, I need that sentence postponed before it's too late."

You immediately shook your head, mouth set in a grim line. "Postponing Itadori Yuji's execution? That's not going to happen, Satoru."

His brows pinched slightly at your blunt refusal. "This is serious, kitten. That kid is instrumental to—"

"Don't you think I know how serious this is?" you cut him off, firming your voice into an authoritative tone. "I work directly under the higher-ups, remember? I'm well aware of the situation with Sukuna’s vessel and the potential ramifications of his continued existence."

Squaring your shoulders, you leveled Gojo with an unwavering stare. "My answer is final. Bringing this to the elders would be pointless at best, and could potentially jeopardize my position if they see it as insubordination. I'm not sacrificing everything I've worked for just because you showed up and gave me those stupid puppy dog eyes."

Rather than back down, Gojo simply regarded you with a contemplative tilt of his head—bright gaze assessing as if turning over your words from every possible angle. You could practically see the gears turning behind those piercing blue irises as he recalibrated his approach.

"Okay, let's table the business side of things for now," he said at last, tone losing some of its previous urgency. Straightening his body, Gojo prowled a step closer—effectively reclaiming the charged atmosphere from earlier. "Maybe you just need some...persuading to see reason."

You refused to be baited so easily, keeping your expression coolly neutral even as his scalding presence flooded your personal space once more. "I'm not some hormonal teenager letting her heart sway business decisions anymore, Satoru. Those games won't work."

Gojo hummed softly in response, head cocking as his lips curved into a slow, molten smirk. "We'll see about that..."

Without warning, his hands clamped down on your hips, thumbs digging in with delicious friction as he hauled you flush against the solid wall of his torso. You couldn't withhold the tiny gasp that punched free at the sudden, searing contact—every ridge and cording muscle of Gojo's powerful physique branding itself against your towel-clad frame.

"Does this position feel...familiar to you at all, gorgeous?" he murmured in a honeyed rasp right against the whorl of your ear. His nose trailed a path along your jaw as he dipped to mouth steamy, lingering kisses down the fragrant column of your throat. "Maybe sparks a few memories of the last time you found yourself pinned underneath me...crying out for more the whole night through?"

A shudder rippled down your spine at the crude allusion to your long-ago graduation celebration with Gojo. You remembered that encounter vividly—every slick rasp of skin against skin, the sweltering tangle of limbs, the exquisite ache of being split open on his thick cock over and over until the entire room reeked of your joined passion.

Gojo merely chuckled at your flustered squirming, nosing aside the collar of your towel to lave a heated path along your collarbone. "Mmm...that's right. There were points that night where I had my cock buried so fuckin' deep in this perfect pussy of yours that you could taste it on the back of your tongue with every breath."

You bit back a shuddering whimper at the crude imagery, willpower rapidly crumbling beneath his carnal onslaught. Despite your best efforts, the memories he so skillfully stoked were stoking liquid tendrils of arousal thrumming to life between your thighs. Gojo's grin stretched wider as you unconsciously arched into his scorching frame.

"Always did love ruining you on my dick that first time," he rumbled with blatant gratification against your heated skin. "Watching those gorgeous eyes glaze over while I split you open again and again until you passed out..."

Abruptly, Gojo detached his mouth from the thundering pulse at your jugular with one final lingering sweep of his sinful tongue. Smirking down at your glazed, panting expression, he tucked an errant lock of hair behind your ear.

"But hey...while fun memories are nice, I'd rather make some new ones together after work," he said, suddenly all casual nonchalance once more as he meandered towards the door. "I'll pick you up from HQ when your shift is over and we can...discuss this Itadori thing some more in private. That sound good to you, babe?"

You blinked rapidly, trying to reassemble your scattered thoughts as the searing proximity of Gojo's presence withdrew—leaving you bereft and utterly unbalanced by the shift.

"Don't worry your pretty head over giving me an answer," Gojo called over his shoulder as he palmed the doorknob. "I already know you'll say yes when I remind you again how much that tight little pussy loves being split open on my—"

The door snapped shut with a hollow thud, cutting off the rest of his filthy promise. Though the last rakish wink he slanted your way before departing was more than enough to sear the implication deep into your psyche.

Sinking heavily back against the wall, you fought to regain your equilibrium—limbs quaking and breath escaping in ragged pants that did nothing to dissuade the rising tide of feverish arousal still gripping your core. Gojo had utterly unraveled you into a breathless, squirming mess from just a few suggestive caresses and searing endearments.

And despite your best efforts, you got the gnawing suspicion he'd made up his mind to thoroughly capitalize on—and ruthlessly extend—that molten state when you inevitably saw him again tonight.

The long hours crept by at an agonizing pace as you tried to focus on your duties at headquarters. But the memory of Gojo's heated presence that morning, his crude allusions to your long-ago passionate tryst, made it utterly impossible to concentrate.

You vividly recalled the way his powerful frame had caged you against the wall, face nuzzling along your flushed throat as that rich, smoky timbre painted filthy promises about thoroughly splitting you open again soon. Just the phantom whisper of Gojo's searing lips tracing your thundering pulse was enough to catalyze wild tremors of molten arousal deep in your core.

Each time you shifted in your seat or bent over the piles of paperwork, you could've sworn a delirious ache throbbed between your thighs—muscles fluttering with unbearable emptiness. Like they instinctively yearned to be stretched taut around the thick, punishing girth of Gojo's cock once more, just like that rapturous night of your graduation celebration.

The explicit images and flashes of sensation made concentrating an exercise in futility. Only your rigid adherence to professionalism and composure prevented you from squirming like an utter harlot right there in front of your subordinates.

By the time the evening hours finally rolled around, you felt strung as taut as a high wire—electrified nerves screaming for any sort of reprieve from Gojo's lingering psychic imprint. So you hastily packed your bags and paperwork, determined to slip out before he had a chance to accost you again.

However, the second you passed through the main entrance gates, a powerful hand shot out to clamp around your bicep in an authoritative grip. You barely contained the strangled gasp as Gojo's sheer masculine presence enveloped you, dragging you into the shadowed seclusion of a nearby alcove.

The cool stone bit into your back as he firmly levered your wrists overhead, utterly pinning you in place with his hulking silhouette. Gojo's piercing blue eyes glinted in the dim light, scorching a path down your disheveled figure with undisguised intent.

"Leaving so soon?" The deep, resonant timbre of his voice washed over you in smoky tendrils, already catalyzing a fresh blaze of arousal in your veins. "And here I was looking forward to picking up where we left off earlier..."

To emphasize his point, Gojo surged forward until every inch of his powerful frame molded against yours in a delicious, searing brand. You whimpered softly as his weight pinned you fully, feeling the unmistakable rigid line of his erection notching against your lower belly.

Gojo ducked his head with a low rumble of approval, searing lips and tongue mapping a scorching path along the fragrant hollow of your throat. You instinctively tilted your head aside to grant him better access, shuddering helplessly as he indulged in long, openmouthed draughts of your scent and flushed skin.

"F-Fuck...Satoru, not here!" The words emerged in a reedy, breathless whine against your better judgment as his wicked mouth found that sensitive bundle of nerves just below your ear. You writhed beneath the slow torment with increasing desperation. "Anyone could catch us...this is crazy!"

Rather than immediately address your token protests, Gojo merely chuckled—the warm puffs of his amusement ghosting deliciously along your tingling nerves as he mouthed a stinging graze against your racing pulse. One of his large, calloused palms slid down to engulf your hip in a possessive squeeze, already kneading and grinding you in a slow simmer of friction.

"You say that like you've never been desperate enough to beg me to fuck you right here in these hallways before..." The low, sensually-charged growl shivered your bones down to the marrow. Gojo finally pulled back enough to cage your dazed features fully within his piercing stare—lips curved in a lascivious smirk of fond reminiscence. "Multiple times, if I'm recalling correctly."

Heat flared through your cheeks as the graphic imagery took shape against your fraying resistance—lurid memories of breathless encounters where the thrill of potentially being caught by patrolling sentries only fueled the delirious flames higher. You swallowed hard against the thickness now cloying your throat, squirming in feeble denial.

Gojo's smirk deepened into something utterly sinful as he drank in your expression with clear relish. "Do you need me to refresh your memory about the last time you had me backed into a supply closet?" he rasped, leaning in until the blistering brand of his body seared you from chest to hip once more. "How hard you came when I finally pulled those thighs apart and licked straight through your soaked—"

"Enough!" you gasped out before he could fully unleash the damning words. You renewed your efforts at wriggling free in earnest, well aware your weakening restraint wouldn't last against Gojo's relentless carnal onslaught. "I-I...maybe we should actually go somewhere more appropriate first. Dinner, maybe?"

Despite your sudden meek suggestion, you couldn't quite mask the desperation laced through the plaintive request. Gojo's eyes seemed to glitter brighter at the shift in your demeanor, clearly scenting weakness in the offing as he allowed his grip to relax somewhat.

"Dinner first, huh?" He pursed those full lips into an exaggerated pout of contemplation before relenting with a dramatic sigh. "Well, I suppose that's only fair since I'm the one working up an appetite here..."

With one last blistering look that robbed you of breath entirely, Gojo stepped back and pivoted on his heel to swagger away down the narrow thoroughfare like a man supremely assured of victory. You could only sag back against the alcove wall, chest heaving with exertion as the towering remnants of arousal slowly ebbed.

However, there remained little doubt in your overwrought psyche that this temporary reprieve from your joining was little more than the universe's taunting cruelty. You'd awoken Gojo's darkest, most lascivious appetites earlier that morning.

And if the way he slanted one final look over his powerful shoulder—bright irises already blown wide and jaw clenching subtly around what had to be punishing levels of restraint—then the true feasting was only just about to begin in earnest. With your achingly empty body as the main course.

The opulent restaurant oozed sophistication from every polished surface and perfectly-starched linen. The sommelier's formal bow and crisp recitation of the evening's premier wine offerings seemed utterly wasted on the two of you.

You eyed Gojo over the rim of your glass, the dry Cabernet doing little to dull the lingering tension still thrumming between your joined frames. As always, he looked utterly nonplussed about the lavish indulgences surrounding you—crisp white dress shirt straining across his muscular torso and sharp jawline rasped by the beginnings of late evening stubble. Like a predator eternally at ease, regardless of situation.

Gojo's piercing gaze roamed over you with the same slow, assessing intensity one might reserve for an exquisite delicacy awaiting consumption. You tried not to squirm under that molten scrutiny, clearing your throat pointedly.

"I'm assuming there was some purpose behind corralling me into this place," you remarked in your best professional tone. "Beyond getting me liquored up for some inappropriate table exhibition, that is."

Rather than rebuff your dig, Gojo simply angled his head in a catlike tilt—lips curling into a devilish smirk that telegraphed his carnal interest crystal clear. Leaning further back in his chair, he allowed one broad palm to splay suggestively over the crisp linen covering his lap, fingertips drumming out an idle staccato.

"Well now, I certainly wouldn't say no to having those gorgeous lips wrapped around something else for a change." His deep timbre emerged laced with sin and smoky insinuation. "You always did look like an utter vision stuffed under these fancy tabletops sucking me off..."

Heat blossomed across your cheeks despite your best efforts at composure. You knocked back another bracing swallow of wine, struggling not to dwell on the searing flashes his words evoked—memories of delirious encounters where Gojo had hauled you under secluded tables to properly appreciate your skills with relentless, undisguised gratification.

Swallowing thickly, you gripped your fork with slightly more force than necessary."I'd ask if you're always this disgracefully crass and lascivious in public these days...but then I remembered who I'm talking to," you said dryly. "So in the interest of not causing a scene, why don't we get to the point of this little ambush?"

One brow arched infinitesimally as Gojo cocked his head further, clearly drinking in your prim and vaguely irritated state with evident relish. "You seem awfully anxious to rush right to business," he murmured, fingertips continuing their idle rhythm against the tablecloth. "Where's that simmering self-restraint and haughty composure I remember enjoying unraveling piece...by...delicious...piece so thoroughly back in the day?"

You opened your mouth to fire back a scathing retort, only for Gojo to cut you off with a low, lush rumble. "Unless you've simply decided being insatiably thirsty for this cock is more your speed these days..."

With that quiet taunt, his free hand disappeared beneath the pristine linen swathe in a heavy, meaningful descent. You swallowed convulsively as his fingertips slid along the unmistakable ridge of his thick cock straining against the unforgiving fabric of his slacks. Every knuckle undulated in a deliberate, stroking glide that tightened your throat like a vise around trapped breaths and unspoken pleas.

"Can practically already taste how soaked you're getting beneath those prim layers just from the thought alone..." Gojo continued in a molten rasp heavy with undisguised gratification. "Imagining that filthy little mouth stretched wide around my girth again, glazing yourself in my cum right here in front of god and all these polite company..."

A tiny, reedy sound slipped unbidden from your constricted chest despite your best efforts at locking it down. Gojo's lascivious smirk turned rapacious as he correctly scented the spike of liquid want now cloying the humid space between you.

"So what do you say, gorgeous?" He pitched his timbre slightly lower, allowing each gravelled syllable to curl around your senses with lashes of pure elemental sin. "Going to be a good little famished cocksleeve and give me a hand under the table before we get down to—"

You cut across his brazen soliloquy with a forceful rap of your fork against the tabletop. Pulling yourself together, you fixed Gojo with a severe glower that finally seemed to give him pause.

"If you can't conduct yourself with any semblance of decorum befitting your station, then I'm through entertaining these adolescent displays," you bit out in a hushed tone edged with adamant warning. "I'm not some wide-eyed underling fresh off the training fields anymore, Satoru. I have higher standing and responsibility than you seem to grasp."

Silence stretched between you for a weighted beat—Gojo's heated gaze flickering over you with renewed focus you couldn't quite decipher. When he finally spoke again, there was a note of uncharacteristic control underpinning his typically buoyant candor. Clearly, he'd grasped the need to change tactics once more.

"You're absolutely right," he said after a prolonged pause. "Part of me forgets just how much you've grown and ascended the ranks over the years." One side of his mouth curved higher in a lopsided ghost of his usual smirk. "Clearly earned the elders' respect and esteem far beyond that of a simple 'secretary' as I put it earlier."

Before you could retort, Gojo pressed onwards—hand sliding almost absently back into view to wrap around the stem of his wine flute. "Which is exactly why your assistance is pivotal to turning the tide regarding Yuji's current...perilous circumstances."

There was a grim finality in his words that snapped you back to the seriousness of the moment like a sobering slap to the face. You shifted fractionally taller in your seat, expression hardening as Gojo continued in low, adamant tones.

"Whether you're fully aware or care to admit it right now, that kid is destined to be pivotal for the upcoming events on the horizon," he rumbled with quiet conviction. "Leaving him to get executed off the books tomorrow morning would be tantamount to losing our most powerful asset before the real battles even begin."

Swirling his wine idly, Gojo paused to take an unhurried pull directly from the bottle before continuing. "Which is why I'm going to need to call in more than a few favors getting his sentence postponed tonight. Starting with you, of course..."

There was a new current of steely focus glinting in his gaze as it bored into you with ruthless intensity. For several protracted beats, you simply held each other's stares—gauging the lengths and motivations rumbling beneath the surface beyond petty physical exploits.

Finally, you pursed your lips and shook your head in a solemn negation. "I'm sorry, but I can't overstep protocol and abuse my influence with the elders like that," you stated, quietly adamant. "Not even for you, Satoru. The ramifications could unravel everything I've worked decades to attain if word got out I went rogue."

Rather than exploding in his usual flashes of arrogance or wounded pride, Gojo merely raked you with a glower of narrowed, simmering intent. His next words emerged more pointed and resonating than any innuendo or filthy endearment preceding it.

"Are you sure about that stance?" he intoned darkly. "Because if memory serves, there are a few distinct...indiscretions we've engaged in that could certainly be construed as 'unraveling' by the elders' view, wouldn't you agree?"

The waiter's polished footsteps faded as he departed to fetch their entrees, leaving you and Gojo in a weighted silence. You could practically taste the undercurrent of tension simmering in the air between you both.

Sipping his wine slowly, Gojo dragged his incandescent stare over your features with undisguised intensity. "I'm serious about this," he stated in a low, firm rumble that brooked no further evasion. "We're talking everything from inappropriate use of jujutsu techniques to conduct we both know crosses so many lines..."

He trailed off meaningfully, leaving the implications to hang heavy as his tongue slicked over his lower lip. You swallowed hard against the rising heat prickling across your cheeks and neck.

"Like that night in the east gardens behind the training halls," Gojo continued, voice dropping into a deeper, more intimate register that curled straight between your thighs. "Where I pinned you down in the grass and ate you out until you came all over my face. And then I fucked you so hard, you nearly passed out before we got caught."

Despite yourself, a tremulous shiver raked through your nerves as the visceral flashes assaulted your mind's eye—the frantic rasp of his calloused palms roaming and kneading, the slick motions of his tongue probing and savoring parts of you meant for far more intimate settings.

Gojo noticed your reaction with a dark chuckle, clearly satisfied he'd reeled you back in completely. "Or what about the time you wrapped those pretty lips around my cock in the maintenance closet and let me rail your throat until you choked on my load? How many rules was just that one encounter bending, hm?"

The directness of his words scorched through you with dizzying potency, making you flush and squirm. You parted your lips on a shaky exhale, determined to regain some semblance of control.

But Gojo smirked knowingly and pressed his verbal advantage in a low, filthy rumble. "Face it, I've got enough material on you ruining me with that greedy little mouth and pussy all over campus to get you defrocked hard." His hooded azure gaze practically seared into your core. "And yet you really wanna risk me airing all those dirty details to the elders? Leaving Itadori's fate to chance like that?"

Your mouth felt suddenly dry as you wrestled with the undeniable truth behind his taunting words. For several fraught beats, the frustration and righteous indignation warred with your embedded sense of duty to the cause. Finally, you released a shuddery breath and lifted your chin.

"I'll...see what I can do about swaying things in your favor," you muttered in a low, slightly strained tone. "No promises, but I'll try discussing options with the higher-ups."

Rather than seem appeased, Gojo's expression only hardened further—carved features settling into a granite mask of tenacious stubbornness and smoldering impatience. "'Not good enough, kitten," he rumbled, forearms tensing atop the table. "This mission is too fucking important for halfhearted measures. I need you to outright insist on a stay of execution being granted, got it? No more stammering 'I'll try' bullshit that lets them sidestep."

His unyielding stare pinned you with the intensity of a physical force, raising your hackles slightly despite your attempt at diplomacy. Still, looking into those blazing blue embers, you got the distinct impression that you'd sooner achieve moving a mountain with vocal commands than sway Gojo on this matter. That steely resolve would accept nothing less than complete victory in postponing Itadori's fate.

Just as you began resigning yourself to digging in for another round of heated back-and-forth across the fancy tablecloth, the arrival of the main courses mercifully broke the combative spell between you. Gojo seemed to settle back imperceptibly as the waiter swept in—that scorching intensity banking down to a more companionable smolder for the time being.

Still, you recognized the temporary reprieve for what it was as you tucked into your meal with far less gusto than anticipated. Despite his best efforts to gloss over the previous tension with idle banter and lighter conversational tones, it remained silently understood that the evening's main purpose still hung unresolved and delicate between you until matters were final.

So it was with an undercurrent of somber expectation that you finally settled the check and rose to follow Gojo from the opulent dining hall at evening's end. A subtle snap of his fingers triggered a curiously disorienting sensation of compression and vertigo—only to release you blinking in surprise mere heartbeats later, finding yourself suddenly standing in the familiar living quarters you called home.

"I'd say you're handling that little trick with far more aplomb these days," Gojo remarked with a lopsided grin, clearly drinking in your adjustment to his impromptu teleportation with amusement. "Remember when I first started zipping you around like that? Pretty sure you heaved your guts all over those ugly penny loafers you used to wear back in the day."

Huffing out a noise of semi-fond exasperation, you aimed a swat at his sculpted arm without malice. "Yes, well I suppose youth and naivety breed certain...overzealous behaviors, don't they?" you retorted before immediately sobering once more. "Like making reckless judgment calls that imperil an entire system..."

Gojo's expression remained impassive, giving no outward indication whether your choice of words struck any particular chord with him. However, you caught the faintest glimmer flickering behind those incandescent blue irises - the barest hint that perhaps you'd underestimated just how much gravitas your dissenting opinion potentially held with the higher-ups.

After all, you were Gojo Satoru's first and most distinguished pupil back when he initially ascended to teaching status, weren't you? Not only that, but your judicious control and prime mastery of your innate techniques embodied many of the fundamental philosophies and fighting styles the old guard so staunchly valued. On numerous occasions, your skills had been cited as quintessential examples to uphold for future generations...

You blinked, momentarily caught off guard as the weighty truth of your potential sway with leadership gradually bobbed to the surface of your consciousness like drift debris after a storm. This entire evening, Gojo might have simply been maneuvering to forcibly realign your perspective on leveraging the hidden influence you apparently wielded without ever fully grasping it.

To truly comprehend the magnitude of the gambit he intended to play using your standing as the key gambit.

Before you could properly parse that sobering epiphany, however, Gojo had already closed what little distance remained between your frames with purposeful strides. The blistering heat of his body all but blanketed yours as he leaned in with that familiar aura of prowling, casual intensity that always made your breath stall.

"So..." he murmured, voice pitching into a lower register that seemed to slither straight down your spine. "Does that mean you're gonna be a good girl and invite me inside so we can continue this intriguing conversation in more...comfortable accommodations?"

Gojo punctuated the brazen implication by cocking one arm against the doorframe, effectively caging you between the cool wood and the searing, masculine planes of his torso and hips. You were abruptly overwhelmed by the reality of his proximity - each subtly shifting ripple of sinew and musculature utterly inescapable from this range.

That distinctly virile, elemental musk that always set your senses clamoring was back in full force as well. You swallowed hard, nostrils flaring fractionally as the delirious essence of Gojo's body heat and clean, faintly spiced perspiration flooded your olfactory receptors. Despite your most ardent efforts, you felt your lids grow heavy and mouth part unconsciously as liquid frissons of pure, burgeoning temptation licked through your veins.

Just like that, with a few deftly aimed strokes, Gojo had reeled you back to the precipice of helpless surrender once more. Still, you summoned the dregs of your stern resolve and planted your palms squarely against his chest, levering back an inch to preserve some semblance of boundaries.

"Subtle as ever, I see," you managed in a tone you hoped came across more dryly exasperated than outright breathless. "I should've guessed the moment we arrived you'd be angling to make yourself at home uninvited."

One brow arched higher, though you didn't miss the slight crinkling at the corners of Gojo's stupidly pretty eyes betraying his hushed amusement. "Oof, someone has their defenses wound just a tad tightly if they think I require permission these days," he shot back with a wry rumble.

Before you could summon a retort, that leonine physique surged forward in a slow, sensual undulation—once again pinning you fully against the unyielding wooden slab with the scorching brand of his larger frame. Gojo's free hand drifted down to palm the generous curve of your hip with sinful insistence, hips canting forward until there could be no mistaking the ridge of his erection notching against your lower belly.

"Better question might be..." His voice dropped several delirious octaves into those sandpaper-rough timbres that seemed to sizzle straight through your nerve endings. "Why even bother pretending at token protests when we both know how this little dance is gonna end...?"

Those incandescent azure irises flickered down to where his fingertips were already stroking teasing swirls against the exposed strip of skin between your top and waistband, silently daring you to rebuff such an implicit capitulation.

"So why delay the inevitable any longer, gorgeous?" Gojo rumbled against your lips, voice dropping into that gravelly timbre designed to liquefy your restraint. "Let's get down to stripping off all these formalities once and for—"

"You haven't even kissed me yet today," you blurted out, cutting across his heated soliloquy.

Gojo's pale brows pinched infinitesimally as the words seemed to momentarily stall his single-minded determination. You could practically see the gears turning behind those hooded azure irises as he processed your statement—likely running back through every provocative encounter and instance of attempted seduction throughout the evening.

When his piercing stare finally snapped back to yours, there was the faintest glimmer of sheepish realization burning there. "...Huh. You're right," he remarked in a slightly lower, more subdued tone. "Here I've been working overtime to rile you up, and I haven't even had the balls to properly lay one on you yet."

You tried not to visibly preen under the gratifying acknowledgment, but couldn't quite suppress the tiny quirk tugging at the corners of your mouth. Sensing a rare window of opportunity, you shifted your weight more fully against the solid contours of Gojo's frame, allowing your fingers to trail upwards in delicate spirals.

"Well?" You arched one brow in playful challenge, throat bobbing on a swallow as your digits mapped higher along the tendons of his powerful neck. "Are you going to actually follow through, or am I going to have to take the initiative here?"

For one heated beat, Gojo simply held your pointed stare in taut suspension—the atmosphere between you both seeming to atomize down into charged ionization particles awaiting the slightest catalyst to detonate. Then, his lips curved higher in a lopsided smirk you'd come to recognize as pure, unrepentant recklessness sublimating into physical form.

"You're going to have to come and get it, gorgeous," he rumbled, the raspy undercurrents sending delicious frissons shivering along your nerves. "Show me just how badly you've been starving for a real taste all evening."

His dexterous fingers slid up to cup the line of your jaw, thumb sweeping suggestively across your lower lip in a searing caress. You struggled not to whimper at the electrifying friction as Gojo leaned further into your personal space.

However, rather than ducking his head the final few scant inches to seal his mouth hungrily over yours, the insufferable tease merely arched backward—body undulating in a slow, sinuous retreat until he towered over you at his full impressive stature. The tip of his tongue darted out to lave his lower lip in clear relish, eyes glinting with wicked invitation as he silently dared you to make good on rising to his heated gauntlet.

A thrill of excitement and determination lanced through your chest as you instantly grasped the game afoot. With purposeful, unhurried movements, you allowed your palms to splay across the granite warmth of his abdomen before slowly, teasingly tracking higher in a worshiping glide. Every rippling corde and sinewy groove of his musculature became briefly profiled as you glided your touch upwards - mapping the scorching acreage in ardent appreciation.

Gojo watched your journey with blown pupils and ragged breaths, torso visibly expanding with each shuddering inhalation he dragged against his impressive restraint. You didn't miss the flex and bunching of his arms and shoulders as you passed over his pectorals, clearly fighting not to haul you bodily against him right then and simply crush your pliant frames back into mutual rapture.

But still, he remained steadfast and motionless—a living marble statue gloriously chiseled from pure virile perfection, awaiting your reverent indulgences with a banked smolder burning behind his hooded stare.

Finally, your fingertips dusted across the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones, body arching and straining upwards in your single-minded pursuit of that elusive, smug mouth you craved with mounting desperation. Try as you might to extend yourself onto the balls of your feet and go fully up on tiptoes, Gojo maintained a scant whisper of distance—always hovering just out of your reach with an expression of blatant masculine gratification at your squirming efforts.

A huff of breathy frustration nearly slipped free at the persistent denial, only to be silenced by the way Gojo instinctively dipped lower as if to grant your wish...only to arc back with a low, filthy chuckle that reverberated against your now-thundering pulse. It was as much a sensual dance of control and restraint as a taunt or test of wills at this juncture—simply savoring the delirious friction generated as your pliant, questing form sought to twine and pull him down into decadent oblivion, inch by maddening inch.

"Easy there, kitten..." he rasped in a low, smoky cadence designed to further short-circuit your resolve. "Why don't you try dropping to those pretty knees for me? Might give you better leverage and angles to play with in reaching those tempting lips that have been tormenting that insatiable appetite of yours..."

You answered with a full-body shudder and a needy keen spilling free from your very marrow—all thoughts of recalcitrance and willpower now thoroughly banished beneath the inescapable gravity well of Gojo's hypnotic presence and unholy temptations.

You whined out loud, an unguarded noise of pure pleading desire that seemed to momentarily crack through your usually reserved demeanor. "Satoru...please, wanna kiss you so badly."

The raw, plaintive tone of your entreaty hung in the air between you, heavy with naked yearning in a way that gave even Gojo pause. His brilliant eyes seemed to smolder brighter for an instant, no doubt dredging up fond recollections of past occasions where he'd so thoroughly unraveled your ironclad poise and reduced you to this state.

Rather than pounce on your vulnerability or tease further, however, Gojo's expression softened ever so slightly. One broad palm cradled the back of your skull as he ducked in closer, guiding your trembling frame until your brows nearly brushed.

"Since you asked so nicely..." he murmured, deep timbre emerging somewhere between a graveled purr and heated rumble.

You barely managed a shuddering inhalation before Gojo sealed his mouth over yours in a searing brand of possession. The initial clash of lips and tongue was something closer to an elemental force than a mere intimate exchange—not at all gentle, but rife with pent-up longing and ravenous need finally given free rein.

Your fingers instinctively knotted in the soft fabric of his shirt as Gojo laid an utterly thorough claim upon your senses. He swallowed each desperate little noise and whimper that punched free as if savoring the most delectable of delicacies. One thick forearm banded around your lower back to anchor you fully against his solid frame as he deepened the devouring cadence with relentless intensity.

A husky growl of clear approval and gratification rumbled against your slick, swollen mouth as Gojo momentarily allowed a scant parting for air. "Fuck...I'd almost forgotten how greedy and eager this talented little tongue can get," he grated with clear relish.

You could only pant and squirm fitfully in answer, thoughts scattered like dandelion seeds on a breeze. Gojo simply chuckled richly—the timbre vibrating straight through your very cells in a way that somehow untethered your feet from the ground entirely.

The next thing you clearly registered were his powerful arms banding beneath the backs of your thighs to haul you securely against his body in one smooth, easy motion. Your startled yelp melted into a tremulous sigh as the bunching plains of his torso and abdomen braced your arched spine in a sublime full-body embrace.

"Don't go passing out on me before the real fun starts," Gojo husked against the thundering pulse at your nape, even as his long strides carried you across the threshold of your apartment. "I've got plans for putting that gifted mouth to far better uses than just kissing..."

With your legs now locked around his narrow hips, you could feel every delicious ridge and twitch of his growing erection grinding against your dampening heat through the flimsy barriers separating you. A piteous whine slipped free as the swaying rhythm of his determined gait threatened to unravel you down to your very foundation.

"That's it, let me hear just how desperate I've got you aching to taste me properly again," Gojo growled against the whorl of your ear, each guttural rasp sparking fresh convulsions of need between your thighs. "Been waiting all fucking day to unwrap this gorgeous little prize and savor you inch...by...inch."

Gojo punctuated the lascivious promise by swiveling to carefully lay you out amidst the rumpled linens and cushions—each flickering shadow casting his chiseled features into harsh relief. No more levity or evasion glossed his expression, only the stark severity and zero-compromises focus of a predator fully engaged.

Rather than pounce on you immediately, however, Gojo seemed to pause and simply drink in the sight of your breathless, disheveled state with smoldering intent. His bright eyes roamed over every inch of your upturned features and the generous curves left tantalizingly displayed by your askew clothing.

"Goddamn..." he rumbled in a deep timbre thick with undisguised yearning. "Look at you splayed out for me, practically begging to get worked over already."

You swallowed hard, unable to tear your gaze away from the pure masculine intensity blazing in his stare. There was an undercurrent of restrained hunger there that made your pulse thunder—heady and distinctly feral even as Gojo slowly prowled over your prone body.

Rather than immediately claim you in a reckless flurry of lust, his calloused palms mapped your sides in a languid, purposeful glide all the way up to your rib cage. You arched instinctively into his maddening caresses, whimpering softly in anticipation.

"Easy there, baby..." Gojo murmured in a low rasp against the whorl of your ear. His nose trailed along the thrumming tendons of your neck, clearly savoring the scent of your desire. "You act like it's been months since this pretty pussy has been spread out and stuffed full. And after all the time I spent working you into this gorgeous, wrecked state..."

You squirmed fitfully beneath his unyielding weight, needy whines spilling past your parted lips as Gojo continued leisurely nuzzling and nipping along your jawline and throat. Despite the unhurried leisure of his attentions, you were rapidly spiraling into molten delirium between his hoarse endearments and the tantalizing friction where your bodies met.

"What, so impatient you can't even let me take a second to savor this?" Gojo husked out in a gravel-rough rasp that made you shiver. "I had to spend all damn day thinking about bending you over the second we were alone...so you'll excuse me if I take things slow now that I've got you all wound up and drenched for it."

Emphasizing his point, Gojo slotted one thick, muscular thigh between your parted legs, rocking forward in a slow grind that dragged the solid length of his cock against your molten entrance through the thin barrier separating you. You cried out sharply at the delicious friction, back bowing as frantic nails scoured tracks down his flexing shoulder blades in desperation.

"Yeah...that's it, squirm and moan for me like a good girl," Gojo growled in clear approval, tongue laving a wet path along the fragrant hollow of your throat. "Keep making those filthy sounds and just MAYBE I'll finally give you what you've been gagging for all night."

You could only whimper raggedly in compliance as his mouth moved lower, searing a path from collarbone to the generous swell of your breasts. His large hands cradled and kneaded the soft flesh with relish before tugging the stretchy fabric aside to bare one nipple to the calloused heat of his lips and tongue.

"That's right...let Daddy get his fill and reacquaint himself with every lush goddamn inch," Gojo growled around the rosy peak, sending lightning bolts of sensation zinging straight to your molten core. "Been thinking about sucking and biting these perfect tits all over again ever since you walked into that restaurant looking like a goddamn meal..."

Despite his crude admission, there was an undercurrent of clear reverence and tender devotion laced through his ragged cadences now. Gojo laved and nuzzled at your breasts with all the ardent indulgence of a penitent savoring their last meal before execution. His hooded azure gaze seemed to blaze brighter with each piteous keen and arch you offered up in answer to his lavishing.

Just as you felt yourself ascending the spiraling crescendo toward mindless bliss under his skilled attentions, Gojo abruptly detached from your saturated nipple with a low noise of harsh restraint. You whined plaintively, eyes glassy as your hands reflexively fisted in the front of his shirt—silently pleading for him to resume lapping away at the fiery deprivation swiftly devouring you inside out.

"Easy, baby..." he rasped through gritted teeth, clearly suppressing his own spiraling ardor through sheer force of iron will. "I didn't wait this long to absolutely wreck you just to blow it all on some half-assed foreplay."

Slanting his mouth over yours in another scorching, possessive claim, Gojo cradled your overwrought features between those rough, calloused palms with surprising tenderness.

His thumb smoothed along your cheekbone as the kiss gradually shifted into a slow, sensual undulation.

"Tell me what you want," he murmured against the seam of your lips. "Let Daddy hear you ask for it nice and loud."

The command emerged as a gravelly whisper, though his blazing stare held an unmistakable glint of command. Still, the blatant carnal hunger etched into his expression made you feel positively giddy and invincible as your fingertips trailed along the corded lines of his powerful throat.

"I want you inside me, Sensei," you pleaded, voice pitching into a breathy whine. "Please, I need to feel you filling me up again."

Gojo groaned, clearly relishing the shameless admission and the way your thighs clenched reflexively around his hips. You could feel the rigid contours of his cock twitching eagerly against your slickened folds through the layers separating you.

"Fuck, the mouth on you," he rasped, nipping lightly at the underside of your jaw. "You know what it does to me when you call me that."

"Good," you purred, allowing your fingers to trail higher until they carded through the silky soft strands of his hair. "Now, are you going to stop stalling and show me how much better you are at playing teacher in bed?"

Your bold retort earned a snarl of pure male approval, though the sound quickly tapered into a groan as you deliberately canted your hips to drag the seeping damp of your panties against his throbbing erection. Gojo's fingers instinctively curled tighter around your neck, pinning you into place as he bucked and rolled his pelvis forward to reciprocate the delicious friction.

"Alright then, smartass..." he rasped, pupils blown nearly black with ravenous need as he stared down at your upturned, flushed face. "If that's how you wanna play it, I'm gonna make damn sure you're thoroughly re-educated on who exactly holds the reins here."

Without further ado, his hands drifted down to tug insistently at your waistband, practically shredding the flimsy fabric in his haste to free you from the rest of your clothing. You shivered at the way the cool evening air instantly pebbled across your newly exposed skin, though any instinctive modesty was quickly chased away by the hungry stare drinking in your naked form.

Gojo's expression shifted into a predatory leer, the sight sending another jolt of electric anticipation shooting through your already-jangling nerve endings. "That's better," he rumbled, broad palm skating a path up your inner thigh with unhurried reverence. "Nothing should be allowed to hide such a perfect view of my favorite fucking dessert."

You bit back a whimper at the possessive timbres lacing his gravel-rough voice, thighs twitching restlessly as Gojo's touch continued mapping higher. Finally, his questing fingertips slid into the sticky slick coating your swollen folds, dragging the copious evidence of your desire back to where your clit throbbed with need.

"Oh, look at that..." Gojo practically cooed, the filthy delight and awe laced through his voice sending a fresh rush of warmth spilling out against his dexterous ministrations. "Daddy's been neglecting his baby girl, and she's absolutely soaking wet already. How long has my gorgeous kitten been aching like this, hmm?"

The words emerged somewhere between a teasing croon and a gravelly growl, and you could only shudder and keen as Gojo continued rubbing maddening circles over your hypersensitive bud. The friction was already pushing you rapidly to the edge, and judging by the way Gojo's hooded gaze flickered up to watch your rapture, he could tell as much.

"Ah-ah...no cumming until you beg Daddy to fuck you properly," he rasped, even as his index and ring fingers dipped shallowly into your fluttering channel—teasing and stretching the seeping velvet heat in a way that made you sob out loud. "Don't make me have to punish you for being so naughty, kitten. You know I can keep you on the edge all night if I need to."

Your spine bowed and back arched as you writhed and thrashed beneath his touch, a litany of breathy whimpers and pleas falling from your kiss-swollen lips. "Please, please, Daddy, don't tease me," you begged shamelessly, the words nearly slurring together with raw need. "I'll be a good girl, I swear. Please, please just fuck me..."

Gojo's gaze sharpened with clear gratification as you entreated his mercy, and he finally eased off on the merciless friction between your thighs. Your lungs burned with the force of gulping down ragged lungfuls of air, but you were given scant reprieve before his hands gripped and lifted your thighs, effortlessly hauling you closer and spreading them wide.

"There's my good girl," he murmured, the raw timbre of his voice sending delicious frissons shivering across your fever-warm skin. "Such a sweet little angel when you finally submit."

With one more brief nip at the delicate flesh of your inner thigh, Gojo began working the fly of his trousers open, finally freeing his massive erection. He stroked and pumped his straining shaft a few times for good measure, eyes raking across your splayed, naked form with clear relish.

"Look at how pretty this tight little pussy is, dripping all over my fingers and cock just begging to get filled," he grunted, lining the bulbous crown against your quivering entrance and rubbing it back and forth through the sticky arousal saturating your folds.

A pitiful keen slipped past your parted lips at the taunting pressure, and you could feel a fresh gush of slickness welling up in response to his crass praise. Gojo smirked at the telltale reaction, one calloused palm sliding down to part the plush folds of your pussy even further.

"Goddamn, look how wet and greedy this is for me," he rumbled in a low tone thick with pure male satisfaction. "Bet you were fantasizing about having Daddy's cock stuffing this pretty cunt the whole time we were sitting there in that restaurant. Isn't that right, kitten?"

Your brain was barely capable of stringing together a coherent thought, much less a snarky comeback, but somehow the words slipped free despite the mindless delirium clouding your head. "Y-you were the one who wouldn't stop teasing," you moaned, squirming fitfully against the delicious pressure poised at your molten core. "Can't say I wasn't tempted to drag you into the bathroom and suck you off..."

The words dissolved into a keening cry as Gojo abruptly slammed into the hilt, filling you to the brim and beyond in one brutal, unyielding stroke. Your legs reflexively locked around his hips and lower back as he immediately began pounding into your clenching walls, each powerful thrust punching the breath from your lungs.

"Is that so, sweetheart?" Gojo gritted out, hissing through clenched teeth as the clutching vice of your inner walls seemed to squeeze the very life from his engorged shaft. "You were just planning on being a dirty little tease the whole time we were at dinner? What a fucking minx..."

Gojo punctuated the statement by angling your hips upward to drill even deeper, each merciless thrust nudging the sensitive spot at the very end of your channel until the pressure sent stars exploding behind your eyelids. The only sounds that could emerge were a series of broken mewls and wordless whines, utterly incapable of doing anything but lay there and take the exquisite torment of his unrelenting, devastating pace.

"Yeah, that's it, let me feel just how desperately you've been needing this," he snarled, large hands gripping your waist as his pelvis hammered a merciless rhythm against your overstimulated sex. "Soak this fucking cock like a good little kitten. Don't hold back on me, baby. Show me how much you missed Daddy's cock and I might let you cum."

You could barely process the filth spilling free from his mouth at this point, each syllable dissolving into an electric buzz as his ruthless assault stoked the pressure mounting inside you. It was a familiar, heady rush of sensation—a coiling tension that seemed to grow tighter and more unbearable with every punishing roll of Gojo's hips against yours.

He was driving you toward a cliff's edge without pause or quarter, and the sheer force of his intensity was dizzying. Yet, despite the frantic, almost savage cadence, you could feel the subtle shift in his grip and angle as Gojo's gaze bored into your face. Even in the midst of his own delirium, the sheer focus and attentiveness in his stare was intoxicating.

"F-fuck, I'm so close," you gasped out, feeling your core spasming and clutching against the rigid pistoning length impaling you. You feebly reached out, desperate for any kind of anchor amidst the relentless tidal wave of sensation threatening to pull you under. "Satoru...please, want you to kiss me again."

Without missing a beat, Gojo's hands shifted, scooping you up until you were practically cradled in his lap. Your legs reflexively locked around his hips and midsection, ankles hooking together as his thrusts never paused. The new position left your torso arching up toward his chest, and Gojo quickly took advantage, slanting his mouth over yours with renewed hunger.

Each slide and curl of his tongue seemed perfectly in time with the driving roll of his hips, and the added closeness was swiftly becoming too much. You were hurtling toward the edge of the abyss, and this time, Gojo seemed intent on taking you down with him.

"My perfect girl, taking my cock like such a good little slut," he gritted out, one hand tangling in your hair while the other braced your back, keeping your bodies fused together. "Been dreaming about this tight cunt for fucking days, and it's even better than I remember. Now be a good kitten and soak Daddy's cock for me."

You could feel yourself tumbling over the precipice even before Gojo's hand snaked down to thumb your clit, and the dual assault was all it took to send you reeling into blinding euphoria. Your climax hit like a freight train, ripping through you with an almost painful intensity that left your toes curling and vision blurring.

Gojo continued thrusting his full length in a rapid-fire tempo, hissing out a strangled groan as the spasms of your inner walls finally dragged him into the depths of oblivion alongside you. Your limbs felt like jelly, and you were grateful for his grip holding you steady as the waves of rapture subsided.

He didn't release you, though, not right away. Rather, Gojo simply held you in his arms, his cheek pressed to the side of your head and the slow rise and fall of his chest syncing with yours. The two of you remained silent for a long moment, simply breathing together as the room gradually stopped spinning around you.

Eventually, Gojo pulled back enough to cup your jaw and slant his mouth over yours in another gentle, exploratory kiss. It was nothing like the devouring claims and searing conquests that had preceded it, and the tenderness in the simple press of lips left you feeling utterly weightless.

When Gojo finally withdrew, the smirk curling his lips was positively self-satisfied. "I'd say that’s enough foreplay, wouldn't you, baby?"

You could only huff a soft laugh in response, shaking your head as the residual tremors of bliss faded. "You consider thatforeplay?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, was I too gentle?" he retorted, feigning a look of innocent confusion. "Maybe we should try round two, then. I'll give you a chance to demonstrate what you meant about sucking me off."

The words emerged in a low, silky murmur as his large hands gripped and squeezed the supple curves of your ass, eliciting a soft squeal from you. You smacked at his broad chest ineffectually, unable to fight the grin tugging at your own mouth.

"You're incorrigible."

"That's not a no," Gojo pointed out, his smug expression practically radiating his unrepentant satisfaction. "And if you keep acting all cute and sassy, I can't promise I'll be able to resist the urge to bend you over and remind you exactly who's in charge."

Your stomach fluttered at the casual, nonchalant admission. It was an undeniable thrill knowing just how badly Gojo craved this—craved you. The thought alone was enough to send a fresh wave of warmth flooding through your veins.

"Maybe I'm not opposed to the idea," you murmured, biting down on your lower lip as you glanced up through your lashes.

The look was clearly too much for Gojo's self-control. His eyes darkened with fresh desire, and his grip shifted to lift and turn you so that you were sprawled facedown across the rumpled cushions.

"Well, in that case," he growled, the heat and weight of his body blanketing yours as his hips pressed flush to the swell of your backside. "Let's see just how filthy this mouth is, shall we?"

The room seemed to exist in its own hushed, velvety cocoon of tranquility - a stark contrast to the ferocious passion that had consumed every inch mere moments ago. You lay draped languidly across Gojo's powerful frame with your cheek pillowed on the rises and valleys of his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat reverberated through your lashes in a soothing cadence.

One of your hands traced idle, featherlight patterns over the expanse of his toned abdomen - mapping the ridges and grooves so recently sheened and flexing under your ardent worshiping. Gojo remained equally at peace beneath your sprawled embrace, those brilliant azure irises at half-mast while he reclined with one arm crooked behind his head.

Despite the palpable aura of repletion surrounding you both, a new undercurrent began to gradually assert itself in the weighted stillness. You felt compelled to disturb the quietude to address what this entire evening had truly culminated towards - the deal quietly brokered between heated sheets and joined bodies.

"I'll contact the elders first thing," you murmured, the words seeming to slip free before your mind fully grasped their implication. "About postponing Itadori Yuji's case, like you wanted."

Gojo's chest expanded minutely on a slow inhale, but otherwise his statuesque form remained comfortably inert as your words hung in the air between you. After several beats, you felt the subtle weight of his stare alighting on your upturned features.

"Yeah?" His resonant timbre emerged in a low, stripped rasp - sounding as thoroughly unraveled as the rest of his carefully compartmentalized composure. "They'll actually listen to your stance on something so high-stakes?"

You allowed your own eyes to slip shut in a protracted blink, thoughts rapidly trying to align and process how to even begin verbalizing the sheer revelations that had bloomed open tonight about your place within the jujutsu hierarchy.

"I didn't fully grasp it at first," you admitted, voice coming out slightly roughened from earlier exertions. "But now I'm starting to understand the actual leverage my positioning and reputation has afforded without me even noticing."

Rather than respond directly, the only sound came from a protracted exhalation through Gojo's nose - seeming to signal his grasp of the situation finally mapping out as well. You hoped he also understood just how monumental a gambit he'd set into motion by hammering the truth home in his uniquely heated approach tonight. Not to induce guilt, per se...but perhaps a smidgeon more humility about the harrowing stakes being juggled.

As if sensing the direction of your thoughts, Gojo abruptly shifted his weight until you were rolled over onto your back - his solid bulk carefully blanketing yours without pressure. When your gazes met and locked, you felt that simmering connection arc back into incandescence once more between your joined frames.

"You continue underestimating yourself," he murmured in a timbre now rendered warm gravel thanks to its gravelly softness. He cupped the side of your jaw, thumb tracing the bow of your lips in a barely-there caress that spoke to so much more than surface motions. "Which is exactly why I'm never going to stop knocking some sense into that stubborn head of yours..."

With that throaty declaration, Gojo dipped his chiseled features lower until your foreheads brushed - noses scanting along one another in an electrifying gossamer graze. The intimacy of the motion seemed to steal your very breath straight from your lungs as he carried on in a husked rasp.

"So thank you. For listening to reason and actually wielding your power for once when it really mattered..."

Unable to resist the unspoken pull between your joined gravities any longer, you surged up to seal Gojo's mouth in a slow, simmering clash of satin flesh and indulgent possession. All the unvoiced sentiments and roiling tides of turbulence hovered for a suspended eternity within that singular nexus point before gradually dispersing into peaceful becalm once more.

Eventually Gojo broke away with the barest hint of a crooked smile tugging at those stupidly perfect lips, clearly satisfied with your acquiescence for the time being. The two of you simply basked in silence for a while longer, relishing in this well-earned moment of bonded lassitude.

That is, until the first stirrings of Gojo's impish irreverence inevitably bubbled back up in the form of his rich baritone laced with none-too-subtle swagger:

"So...I take it this means I get to thoroughly ruin you again before breakfast? No more insufferable teasing about you not putting out until your higher-up buddies get their precious signatures?"

You scoffed out a long-suffering sound of semi-amused exasperation, already anticipating the thick cloud of smug virility about to descend. Sure enough, Gojo's chest puffed with unrepentant satisfaction as he slung one heavy arm around your waist and lightly squeezed.

"That's what I thought. Face it kitten, that pretty pussy has officially been drafted into service under my uncompromising authority until further notice..."

He punctuated the lewd declaration by slanting his mouth over yours in a deliriously thorough deluge of hunger and virility, effectively stealing your very breath for a second rapturous cycle before exhaustion could dare creep back in.

And as your joined frames spiraled back into the delirious vortex of blissful dissipation once more, you couldn't help hazarding one last, bemused thought: somehow, you got the distinct impression Gojo would be exercising his latest "authority" over you with particularly unrestrained enthusiasm this time around.

2K notes · View notes

sceletaflores · 1 month ago

Text

KILLING ME ANY WAY BUT SOFTLY...

|| masterlist || update blog || inbox || taglist || ao3 ||

｡𖦹°‧￫ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader x Tommy Miller

｡𖦹°‧￫ WC: 5.5k

｡𖦹°‧￫ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, DDDNE W/ NON-CON & DUB-CON THEMES, no outbreak au, some pov switching, smoking, drinking, large age gap, unspecified but still brought up, joel and tommy are NOT good men, drugging, somnophilia, fingering, oral sex (f/m!receiving), nat writing a blowjob scene? the world must be ending, dacryphilia, more finger sucking (i can't stop…), p in v, unprotected sex, hair pulling, biting, blood, pain kink, creampie, mentions of prior assault, it's just super gross and super perverted yk, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧￫ NAT’S NOTE: i thought of this like halfway through my frankie fic but i was good and didn't start it until i was finished writing. be very proud of me because that never happens...anyway i've never written a dark fic before so this was very interesting slash fun in like the most morbid way possible. this was also partially inspired by angel @pedgito! PLAYTHING altered my brain chemistry so badly that i needed to partake in the depravity or i would die, like it was medical. everyone go read it and shower her with so much praise and love! once again please please please heed the tags and take your own personal triggers into account before reading. hope y'all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune & @saradika-graphics! special shoutout to @iamasaddie for the icons!

you spend a night with the miller brothers…

You're too pretty to be at a place like this. Too soft. Too young.

That's what Joel Miller thinks the second he sees you.

All done up in short little cutoffs, sipping at something fruity and colorful out of a sweaty glass. Your legs are crossed neatly in front of you like you’re pretending to be grown, pretty white teeth idly chewing on the plastic straw as your eyes bounce around the room curiously.

This bar is too old, too dirty, too mean. The kind of place with dark, sticky floors and crude words carved into the tabletops. Joel’s probably been coming here since before you were born, since before you could walk, talk.

You’re the youngest in the room by well over a decade—and that’s not lost on anyone. Not on the bartender who checked your ID twice, not on the group of bikers throwing dirty leers your way from the pool table, and sure as hell not on the two men at each end of the bar.

Tommy would call you jailbait, all dewy cheeks and big dumb eyes. Joel clocks you as one of those college girls from the next town over, still clinging onto that teenage naivety and misplaced hope that the real world won’t chew you up and spit you out a mangled mess.

The kind of girl who lies about her age to older men because the attention makes her feel special. The kind who doesn't even realize she’s being hunted until it’s too late.

You're still sweet, Joel thinks. Sweet and soft and stupid.

And he’s right, he always is.

You don’t know what the fuck you’re doing.

But Joel? Joel knows exactly what he’s doing.

He catches Tommy’s eye from across the way, jerks his head in your direction discreetly. Tommy follows his eyeline, his face sparking with interest at the look of you. Hungry eyes rake over the expanse of your body with all the subtlety of a shotgun blast, lingering on the soft swell of your breasts through that flimsy top and the bare skin of your thighs.

Tommy cuts his eyes back to Joel after a good long look, brows raised in obvious approval. He nods once, a winner, before his gaze wanders back to you and he’s shifting impatiently in his seat. A moth to a flame.

Joel huffs over the rim of his glass, unamused. He should’ve figured, they haven’t found one as pretty as you in a while. His brother’s bound to get a little rowdy, a little eager.

Out of the two of them, Tommy’s always been the more excitable one. That’s why it’s Joel’s job to set the bait. Tommy’s certainly prettier than Joel, he’s got a safer look to him. He’s just too damn trigger happy, comes on too strong too quick. It can raise red flags.

Joel’s better at playing it down, at taking it slow. He can butter girls like you up and still feign just the right amount of disinterest to keep them wanting his attention. He can tell you’re one of those types, one that’ll preen under anything he gives you. You want someone like him to come over and fawn over you.

You want to feel mature. Powerful. Sexy.

You’re practically begging to be used. He sees it in the way your thighs squeeze together, in the way your glossy lips leave smudges along the rim of your glass.

Joel smiles to himself.

If you only knew.

Joel waits until you finish off your second drink. He sips at his whiskey and watches the way your tongue swipes along your bottom lip to chase a drop of syrupy liquid. You’re tipsy now, giggling at something the bartender says, the dazed glow of your eyes giving away just how sweetly warm you feel.

You’re still in your right mind, not drunk enough to be sloppy, not yet. That’s how he wants you—pliable, loose, thinking you’re the one still in control.

He downs the rest of his drink in one go, the familiar burn coating his throat and settling in his chest as he slides off his stool. It takes nothing to make his way over, a few long strides and he’s leaning up next to you. Not too close, just close enough to smell the perfume you’re wearing—something bright and sugary that has his cock stirring behind his fly.

“Now what’s a pretty thing like you doin’ in a place like this, sweetheart?” he asks, voice as deep as molasses and twice as slow, Southern charm oozing from every word.

You turn, blinking up at him, pupils a little too blown to be from two drinks alone. It makes him grin. You’re sensitive, easy. This might be a hell of a lot simpler than he thought.

“I could ask you the same thing,” you chirp, voice sugarcoated, a little too bold for your own good. “A place like this seems kinda…grungy for someone wearing flannel.”

That bright little smile of yours is like a hook in the roof of his mouth, tugging something dark and mean loose behind his teeth.

Joel chuckles low in his chest. “You sayin’ I look outta place?”

You shrug, all coy-like, swirling the last few sips of your drink. “A little.”

Joel leans in then, just enough for it to mean something. His eyes pin you down like a thumb over the belly of a butterfly, giving you a little once over that has your breath hitching. Your lips part, showing off the teasing pink of your tongue. Joel thinks about pushing into that sweet little mouth, getting that gloss all messy on his cock.

“Maybe I was waitin’ on somethin’ worth comin’ out for,” he says, voice gone low and smoky.

You giggle, that tipsy, flirtatious little sound. You don’t notice the way Joel signals the bartender with two fingers and a single nod. He already knows what he’s ordering—something that’ll go down smooth but hit you fast. A new drink is slid in front of you before you can blink, warm amber liquid swirling in a clear tumbler.

You look confused. “I didn’t—”

“On me,” Joel says, voice slick. “Try it.”

You hesitate for just a second before bringing it to your lips, eager to please. Eager to prove you can keep up. You make a face when the smell hits you, strong and punchy. Joel just grins, already amused by the way you wrinkle your nose like it’s cute to be difficult.

“C’mon now, can’t drink that sweet shit all night,” he drawls, lifting his glass in a mock toast. “Gotta learn how to hold your liquor, baby.”

You giggle again, your fingers dainty around the tumbler as you mimic his movement. He watches you sip and watches your throat bob as you swallow. Watches the little wince, the tremble in your lips as it hits your system.

“Good girl.” Joel smiles around the rim of his own drink, eyes wandering over to where Tommy was sitting. He’s long gone now, a few bills shoved under the empty glass sitting on the bartop.

Joel turns back to you, clueless and sipping slowly at your whiskey. He drops his hand from the bar, lets his fingers brush against the soft skin of your thigh. You don’t flinch, hardly even bat an eye. You just smile up at him, lashes low and lazy against your cheeks, body heat rising with the alcohol laced through your bloodstream.

Your thigh twitches under his knuckles, but you don’t move away. If anything, you lean in a little, nudging your shoulder against his arm. Your shirt slips down a few inches, showing off the lacy trim of your bra snug over your breasts. Joel sets his drink down, tongue sweeping over his bottom lip at the sight.

“You always this friendly with strangers?” he murmurs, voice quiet enough that only you can hear it, eyes dragging up to your face.

Your lips part again, catching the low bar light. “Only when they’re buying my drinks.”

Joel laughs—deep, rich with something secret.

And he orders another round.

It takes almost nothing for Joel to get you off your stool and obediently following him out of the bar. A few sweet words and lingering touches is all you needed, liquor clouding your good judgement when you agree to come home with him.

It’s still warm, even with the sun long gone and the moon casting a white shine over the two of you. Crickets sing in the grass as you walk together, Joel’s hand splayed out across the small of your back, thumb slipped up under the hem of your shirt to rub soft circles over the notches of your spine as he gently steers you towards his truck.

The drive to his house isn’t long, a little less than ten minutes. Joel’s knee bounces impatiently as he watches the road, window rolled down so he can flick the ash of his cigarette out. It gives him something to do with his hands, something to chew on before he can get at what he really wants.

You’re sitting pretty in the passenger seat, giddy as you swipe even more sticky gloss on in the truck mirror, asking dumb questions like “Is that your guitar in the back?” and “You live all the way out here?”

Joel grins around the filter and exhales slow, smoke curling through the cab like a warning. “Mhm. I like it quiet.”

You laugh, all honeyed sunshine, no idea that you’re being carted out into the woods like a lamb prepped for slaughter.

His house is tucked back further in the trees, down a road so far out it turns from asphalt to dirt. Not a neighbor in sight, nothing but grass and dark skies for miles. The porch light is already on when he pulls in, gravel crunching under his tires loud in the quiet. Another truck takes up the space next to his, red with the paint peeling like a nasty sunburn.

You peer up at the place with shiny, awed eyes like you’re some damn princess and this is your castle. It makes him want to ruin you even more.

The truck’s barely in park before Joel’s out and striding over to your side, opening the door for you to keep up his Southern gentleman act. You thank him with a bold little kiss on the cheek before making your way to the door. Joel rubs at the sticky mark you left behind with his thumb, flicking the butt of his cigarette on the ground.

He tosses the keys on the counter after you step inside, booted feet dragging heavy across the floor as he watches you wander around, fingers trailing over worn furniture and sun-bleached curtains. It’s not much, but you look impressed anyway.

“Cute,” you hum, bending over to peek down the hallway. He can see the way your shorts ride up the curve of your ass, lace peeking out just like before. Your turn to him, arms crossed behind your back as you sway on the balls of your feet. “This isn’t the part where you murder me, right?”

It’s light, teasing. An innocent joke.

Joel’s smile is tight as he walks to the kitchen. “Not unless you ask me real nice.”

You laugh again, that breathy little sound, and Joel listens for the faintest edge of unease. He’s gotten good at that—spotting the cracks before they show, gauging how much of a fight this might be.

You’ve been good since the bar, and Joel hopes it stays that way. He wouldn’t want to ruin that pretty face because you tried acting out.

Joel busies himself in the kitchen, back turned as he opens a cabinet and pulls out a couple glasses. He grabs some things out of the fridge, well aware that you can’t see the little silver tin hiding in his armful of honey and bourbon.

“You like it sweet, right?” he calls over his shoulder, masking the rasp in his voice. “Figured you’d need a chaser after that whiskey.”

“Aw,” you say from your spot on his couch, clearly drunk on attention, “you’re taking such good care of me.”

Joel laughs as he rounds the corner, handing you a glass. “Only fair, since you’re bein’ so good for me.”

“I’m already in your house, Joel. You don’t need to lay it on so thick anymore.” You take the drink with a smile, clinking it against his own before bringing it to your lips.

He watches the slow press of your lips to the rim, the way your throat moves when you swallow, how you down half the glass in one long pull. It has him shifting in place, his cock straining against the rough denim of his jeans. He sets his glass down on the coffee table, untouched, and leans back against the cushions.

You turn to him, your gaze languidly roaming over his body. Over where his shirt is stretched tight across his chest, where his arms rest on the back of the couch, where his legs are spread wide. Your eyes are hungry, pupils blown wide and dark as midnight.

Joel lets you look, waits until you make it back up to his eyes to jerk his head in an obvious invitation. “C’mere, baby.”

You bite your lip, setting your glass down next to his and crawling over to him without another word. Your arms loop around his neck, knees on either side of him as you settle in his lap. His hands fall to your hips, thumbs sliding up and down the waistband of your cutoffs.

Your lips part under his like they were made to, your soft sigh swallowed up by the hot press of his mouth. He kisses you hard, slow and deep, like he’s been starving for it. You taste like lemon and honey, the sharp bite of his bourbon buried somewhere beneath all the sweetness.

Joel’s hands tighten on your hips, dragging you closer as he nips at your plush bottom lip. “Feels good, doesn't it, sugar?”

You nod, moaning as you bury your hands in his hair. Your lips part easily for his tongue, letting him claim your mouth. Joel groans, pressing the hard line of his cock over your clothed cunt, chuckling darkly at the high whine you breathe into the space between you both.

He lets you have your fun, necks with you on his couch like a couple of horny teenagers while he waits.

Sure enough, after a while, he can feel the first few signs trickling in. Your grip on his hair goes slack, your lips grow lazy and slow against his own, your posture slips into something more relaxed and hunched over, leaning on him heavily.

Joel pulls back, a single strand of spit connecting your lips before it dips and breaks under the weight of gravity. You’re panting, mouth slick and swollen as your chest heaves with every breath. Your chin is red and raw, scratched up from his beard.

It takes a second for you to open your eyes, blinking at him sluggishly. You look nice and fucked, pupils so big he can hardly see the color around them anymore, glassy and unfocused in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol filling up the half empty glass on his coffee table.

“Joel…” It’s hardly a whisper, so soft and breathy. “Feels funny…tired…”

“Poor thing,” he tuts, squeezing your hips once. “Let’s get you on your back.”

You go easy enough, let him push your shoulders down until you’re splayed out across the couch. Your eyes slip shut again, your breath evening out as it finally sinks its claws in you.

Joel grins, wastes no time before he’s on his feet and sliding his arms under you. You don’t make a sound as he lifts you, your body completely pliant, head lolling to rest on his chest.

He starts down the hallway to his bedroom, the light on and bleeding through the bottom of the door to shine dimly over the carpet.

And like a ship being led safely to port by the fiery orange glow of an old light house, Joel walks, and he whistles as he goes.

You feel like you're floating, mind groggy and filled with the cloudy haze of sleep. The bourbon must have hit you harder than you thought.

The air is cold but your skin is so warm. Your limbs are heavy when you try to move, like you’re suspended in a thick, syrupy water.

Your fingers twitch against something soft. Sheets. You’re in a bed now. That much registers. You can feel the give of the mattress beneath you, the press of a pillow behind your head, the way your legs are bare.

Were you wearing shorts earlier?

Were you?

You pry your eyes open, barely having enough energy to. The world is warped, stretched at the edges like a funhouse mirror. Your vision swims, and all you can make out is light—the orange cast of a bedside lamp. The bulb buzzes faintly in your ear, the sound low and persistent, like it’s drilling into your brain.

That’s when you feel it, featherlight pressure making its way down your bare stomach. It’s soft, almost ticklish.

It takes your mind a few long seconds to catch up, to realize what’s happening.

There are hands on your body.

A slow, possessive drag over your thigh. Calloused fingers part your legs, thumb dipping just beneath the hem of your panties. You try to shift, try to close your legs, but you barely twitch.

You stir, a soft sound pushing out of your parted lips as you grip the sheets harder than before.

“Shhh, baby,” he murmurs, pressing wet kisses down your neck. “You were beggin’ for it all night, remember?”

Joel.

It comes flooding back to you in stages. The bar. The whiskey. The truck.

It goes fuzzy after that, you can’t remember anything past sliding onto Joel’s lap.

You whimper, body moving sluggishly under him. You try to twist away but it’s useless—he’s strong, and you’re dizzy and weak and pinned.

“You said I could fuck you,” he whispers, calloused fingers rubbing slow circles over your clit. “Said you wanted it bad. Don’t back out now, sweetheart. That’d be real mean.”

You sob, but your body betrays you—hips rocking forward against his hand, chasing the teasing pressure of his touch. Your eyes screw shut, tears burning hot and wet in your waterline.

Joel hums, fingers spreading you open like he’s flipping through pages of a well-loved book. “Look at you,” he mutters, voice thick with want. “Fuckin’ leaking through these sweet little panties. This sweet pussy’s just beggin’ to be filled.”

You don’t hear the footsteps at first.

Not until the floorboards creak by the door.

A new voice filters in from somewhere far away, piercing through the cotton in your ears. It’s different from Joel’s, that same Southern twang but just a little lighter. A little smoother, like honey laced with iron.

“Thought I heard you gettin’ started without me.”

Your eyes snap open.

There’s a man in the doorway.

He’s shorter than Joel by a few inches, leaner too but just as broad in the shoulders. Another strong, blue collar looking type—a man that works with his hands.

Joel lifts his head with a lazy grin, glancing over his shoulder. “Not my fault you took your sweet fuckin’ time, Tommy.”

You try to move, try to push at Joel’s chest, but your arms are still too heavy to listen. “I don’t—” you start, but he hushes you again, thick fingers still sliding up and down the wet seam of your pussy over your panties.

“I know, sugar,” he murmurs, all mock sympathy. “S’too much to think about, huh? Why don’t you let us help you feel instead.”

The bed dips behind you, and a new warm breath ghosts over your neck. You flinch at the sudden weight pressing beside you, and when you tilt your head, you finally see his face—Tommy, lit in the glow of the bedside lamp.

He looks at you like you’re a gift. Something precious and shiny, wrapped up just for him.

“She’s pretty,” he mutters, brushing his thumb over the sweat beading on your brow with a touch gentler than it should be. “Damn, Joel. You always know how to pick ’em.”

“Wait—” Your voice is hoarse, small and cracked. You start to sit up, but Joel stops it with a heavy hand to your chest, keeping you pinned to the mattress.

He leans in close, presses a kiss to your temple, and whispers against your skin. “Don’t be rude, babygirl. You’re gonna be real nice to my brother, ain’t you?”

Brother.

Your stomach lurches and you’re shaking your head before you even realize it. “No,” you whisper. “No, please—”

“Easy now,” Tommy coos. His hand is warm as it strokes over your cheek. “Ain’t no need to fight. We’ll be real good to you, sugar.”

Joel leans back, peeling your panties down your legs with a reverence that would almost be sweet—if you could move. If you could say no. If you weren’t so dizzy that you can’t tell if the ache building in your core is from fear or the sick twist of arousal.

The cool air hitting your core is a shock to your system, you gasp as it nips at the skin of your thighs, slick and gleaming. Your legs twitch, trying in vain to snap shut, but Joel holds you spread open with wide palms.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes glued to your bare pussy. His thumb runs along the seam of you, his touch slow and light. “Look at that.”

“Please,” you gasp, even as your hips twitch up off the bed. “I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what?” Tommy asks, dragging his lips down your neck. “Didn’t mean to make us hard? Didn’t mean to spread your legs the second Joel smiled at you all sweet? Don’t play innocent now, babydoll. You knew exactly what you were doin’, didn't you?”

“She knew good and well.” Joel says, sliding off the mattress, big hands keeping you pinned as he settles on his knees near the edge of the bed. He shoulders his way between your thighs, dipping his head down to blow cool air over the expanse of your pussy.

“So damn pretty down here,” he mutters, the edge of a smirk curling at his lips. “Bet you taste as good as you look.”

Then his mouth is on you.

He dives in with a hunger that knocks the breath from your lungs. His tongue is practiced and hot as it drags through your folds, the groan ripped from his chest as you flood his tongue is more animal than man.

The sound vibrates through you, and your spine arches off the mattress, another tear sliding hot and fast down your temple.

Tommy brushes it off your cheek, but instead of wiping it away, he licks it from his fingertip. His eyes flick down to yours, and his smile is soft. Mocking. “Aw,” he coos. “She’s cryin’ already, Joel. Thought we’d have to work harder than that.”

“She’s fuckin’ sweet,” Joel groans, nosing at you like a man starved. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, coaxing—then he seals his mouth around it and sucks. Hard.

Your hands fist the sheets beneath you so tight you can hear the distinct sounds of seams ripping under your nails. It’s an onslaught of pleasure, an attack. There’s nothing kind about the dull scrape of his teeth against your sensitive clit, but it has your thighs clenching around his head all the same.

Joel’s fingers slide into you without warning—two of them, thick and rough and curling just right as he keeps his mouth working on your clit. The stretch punches a sound from your chest, a high, keening noise that has both brothers groaning in tandem.

“Squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight,” Joel grits out, dragging his fingers in and out lazily. “You’re gonna milk my cock just like this, huh?”

You couldn’t answer him if you tried, pure ecstasy racking your brain in all the wrong ways—burning through your veins like kerosine—too garbled and confusing for you to even think of speaking. You can only whimper, a pathetically desperate noise that’s drowned out by Joel fucking his fingers into you impossible faster.

The sound of it is loud, the wet slap of his palm and the dirty, slick sounds of your pussy sucking him in bouncing off the walls to echo back at you mockingly.

Your hips shift helplessly, held down by Joel’s strong forearm as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. You can feel your own slick mixing with his spit start dripping down between your legs, soaking the sheets, and he groans like he loves it, nose bumping your clit as he moans into your cunt.

Tommy’s fingers start to trace the outline of your lips, dragging down to your chin before forcing them into your mouth. You choke, gag a little, but he doesn’t flinch—just presses them deeper, twisting his wrist slowly as he watches your throat bob.

“Pretty mouth,” he says, rubbing the pad of his thumb over your tastebuds. “Bet you give real sweet head, huh?”

You cry out around his fingers, your pussy fluttering around Joel’s tongue. Before you can think, you sink your teeth into Tommy’s thumb, hard. Hard enough that you feel the skin break under it, the unmistakable taste of iron spreading across your tongue. Maybe it’s a last ditch attempt to make him stop, maybe it’s a sick way of making him stay.

“Fuck.” Tommy groans like he’s been shot, chin dropping to his chest. His eyes go dark, something wicked swimming in the brown of his irises. His mouth slips open, soft pants falling from between his slick lips.

Joel chuckles darkly from between your legs, he raises head to catch your bleary gaze. The whole bottom half of his face is drenched, beard wet with your slick. “Biting won’t do you any good, honey. Tommy likes that shit.”

Tommy hums in agreement, low and vicious, pulling his thumb from your mouth with a soft pop. “Look what you did, darlin’,” he murmurs, holding it up for you to see, blood dripping down his skin in a thin stream of red. He drags it across your lips to smear it along them like warpaint. “So mean. That’s alright, sweet thing. Joel and I like 'em a little mean, it’s more fun to put you in your place that way.

He leans down and kisses you, soft at first, then deep—tongue sweeping over the inside of your mouth, sucking his own blood off your tongue. His fingers grip your chin hard enough to bruise as he keeps you still, mouth moving hungrily against yours until you whimper, struggling to breathe around the heat of it.

Joel still hasn’t stopped.

His fingers keep dragging against that spot deep inside you, stretching and curling until you’re clenching around him. His mouth sucks another bruise onto your thigh before pulling away with a low moan.

“She’s close,” he growls, sitting back on his haunches. “C’mon, Tommy. Let her mouth do some of the work.”

Tommy pulls back without another word, and reaches for his belt. Silver clinks softly as he undoes the flashy buckle with nimble fingers, never taking his eyes off you. He pops the button of his jeans, pulls his zipper down slowly, making sure you see every inch of it slipping open.

His cock springs free, hard and flushed an angry red at the tip. He takes it in his hand, pumping himself in the tight grip of fist—once, twice—before he’s tracing the drooling head along your lips. “Open up for me, beautiful.”

Joel chooses that moment to curl his fingers again, pressing right against the swollen spot inside of you, and your body reacts on instinct.

Your mouth falls open with a gasp, and Tommy takes the invitation, pushing inside until your lips are stretched tight around the thick head. He doesn’t ease in—he sets a rhythm fast, shallow thrusts that drag over your tongue, just enough to make you choke a little.

Joel chuckles at the sound, giving your ass a quick swat before he’s standing. His jeans are already undone, his own cock just as hard and straining against his stomach. It’s flushed and leaking, veins bulging, too big for someone as stretched as thin and soft as you feel right now.

He takes your ankles in one hand, the other wrapped tight around the base as he drags the sticky head through your spit soaked pussy to rub it over your clit torturously slow.

You can’t even protest as he lines himself up to your clenching hole, Tommy filling your mouth so much you can only let out a broken whine around him, your legs straining in Joel’s firm grip.

Joel hushes you gently, like a lullaby. “It’s too late for all that, baby. You’re already open for me.”

And then he pushes in.

The stretch is sharp and immediate, your back arching as your walls struggle to take him. There’s no patience, no easing in—he feeds you inch after inch, his hips not stopping until they’re pressed flush to yours, his cock buried deep.

You sob, overwhelmed by the burn, the pressure, the way your body is forced to accept every bit of him.

“Christ,” Joel groans. “She’s grippin’ me like a fuckin’ vice. Could stay buried in this pussy forever.”

You can feel every throb, every twitch. The way he shifts slightly just to feel you react—your body spasming around him. The rhythm he sets is savage from the start. Rough, unrelenting thrusts that slap your skin raw where his hips meet yours.

“Shhh,” Joel soothes as you mewl, bending low to press a kiss to your cheek. “You're takin’ it. You’re takin’ me so good, baby. Feels like you were made for this cock.”

The bite of sharp teeth nip their way down to your sternum, his mouth moving along the skin of your chest, sucking until deep bruises bloom. His hands wrap around your thighs, lifting your hips off the bed as he fucks into you harder, groaning with every wet slap of skin against skin.

Tommy isn’t gentle either. He fucks your mouth with slow precision, moaning every time your throat flutters around him. One hand strokes your cheek, the other twisted in your hair, tugging hard enough to make your scalp burn.

Your eyes roll back, spit running down your chin, tears streaking your cheeks—and they moan at the sight.

Every thrust is a jolt, hips slamming into the backs of your thighs as Joel fucks you deeper, each stroke driving the breath from your lungs, his heavy balls slapping over your sensitive clit. The pace is brutal, all the more suffocating with Tommy fucking your mouth in tandem, the obscene sounds of spit and slick filling the room.

“Jesus,” Tommy laughs, breathless and mean. “She’s perfect. Fuckin’ perfect.”

Joel fucks you harder, one hand slipping around your throat to pin you in place. “Gonna pump you so full, babygirl,” he pants. “You’ll be drippin’ for days.”

You feel it building, that terrible, traitorous heat pooling deep in your belly, curling tight like a fist.

You're caught between them, nothing but a warm, wet hole for them to use—your body split open, trembling and full.

“You’re ours now, honey,” Tommy pants. “Say it.”

You can’t. You choke, mouth stuffed full, brain scrambled.

Tommy pulls out, stroking himself fast. “C’mon, sugar,” he murmurs. “Tell us. Tell us you’re ours.”

Joel hammers into you, hand on your belly to press down and feel the outline of his cock. “Say it.”

You sob, the words tumbling out broken and wrecked. “Yours. I’m—fuck—I’m yours.”

Joel groans loud, hips slamming forward one last time as he spills inside you, hot and thick. You feel it fill you, warm and endless, leaking out around his cock.

Tommy’s not far behind, fisting his cock roughly until hot spurts of come stripe across your cheeks, your lips, your tongue. He lets out a ragged groan, hand still tight in your hair.

It’s too much, the dual sensations finally snapping the fragile rubber band of sanity that held you together. You shatter—mind blanking out under the weight of it all, pleasure and pain entwined so tightly there’s no telling one from the other.

Both men stay still for a long while after they’re done, suspended in the aftermath.

Tommy’s hunched over you, chest heaving as he rubs his come into your skin like a filthy sacrament. His voice is wrecked, as soft as you’ve heard it all night. “Pretty girl.”

Joel doesn’t move off your spent body, his softening cock twitching in your abused pussy as he presses his face into your sweaty throat, breathing hard.

Then he leans back, watches his cum slowly drip from your abused cunt. “You took us so good, babygirl.”

Tommy brushes your cheek with the back of his knuckles, gaze soft again. “Think she’s got one more in her?”

Joel chuckles darkly. “Only one way to find out.”

MINI NAT'S NOTE: it's literally seven in the morning. i'm posting this and then i'm passing the fuck out. thank you to chronic insomnia but mainly to my geek bar and addison rae's new song drop for giving me the energy to power through this. also ofc thank you to baby @ebodebo (cause she was mad i wasn’t going to mention her and threatened to hit me...someone save me...call 911…) for listening to me complain about this and not telling me to shut up even though i probably deserved it. most of all, thank YOU so much for reading! love you, mwah <3

891 notes · View notes

dailynnt · 2 months ago

Text

NO MERCY PART I: The dark pulls you under

𖥔 Summary: You are a strong and intelligent, a princess of a mafia clan who has been fighting for years against Jungkook, a dangerous and powerful enemy. Your enmity is mixed with tension and mutual desire. After you ruin an important deal for him, Jungkook kidnaps you to settle the score. An emotional confrontation erupts between you, where the power play borders on a dangerous attraction. But you both know that the first one to give in is the loser.

𖥔 Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

𖥔 Age restrictions: 18+

𖥔 Size: mini series (7.6 k words)

𖥔 Tags: enemies to lovers, mafia au, domJungkook/subReader, stockholm syndrome, dark romance, kidnapping, emotional tension, obsession, possessive behaviour, dangerous love, protectiveness, forced proximity, broken characters, betrayal, manipulation, slow burn, angst with a hint of love, toxic romance, redemption arc, intense connection, forbidden feelings, survival, rough tenderness, detailed smut, sex, unprotected sex, table sex, mirror sex, possessiveness, defiance

𖥔 From author: Hello dear Army 💜 I wrote a new story in the style of the mafia au, which as you know I love very much 🖤 I came up with this story while writing chapter 14 “One night…” (this is how it happens when in the middle of the creative process a scene for a separate story appears in my head) and I decided to write it. I really hope you like it 🥺 A big request for those who will read and at some point you don't like my fanfic, or it seems illogical, not interesting or too fictional - just pass by. Respect the effort, time and resources I have spent for those people who will really appreciate my efforts. I sincerely thank EVERYONE who likes this fic, and EVERYONE who likes my work, I appreciate each of you for the weight of gold 🥺😭❤️‍🔥

𖥔 Dedication: I want to dedicate this work to you my BIGGEST LOVE @curse-of-art 🖤 For your support, endless love, faith in me, in the love of my version of JK 🤭 I love you with all my big heart ❤️‍🔥

𖥔 Warning: This story contains dark themes that may be triggering for some readers like table sex, mirror sex, possessiveness, defiance/bratty behavior, stockholm syndrome, and kidnapping. Please read with caution. If you are under 18, please refrain from reading this story. Also, English is not my first language, so you may notice some grammar mistakes or awkward sentence structures. I appreciate your understanding and kindness 🙂‍↕️

You have never asked for mercy. And you certainly weren't going to beg for it now.

Some time ago, you woke up and realized that you were in a dimly lit hotel room. It seemed to be a presidential suite, and you probably knew who it belonged to.

You were sitting tied to a chair, your hands tied behind your back, and a sneer playing on your lips. You knew who was coming. You knew this meeting was inevitable.

Jungkook entered the room quietly, but you felt him before you saw him. His presence was like an impending storm, like an electric shock in the air before a thunderstorm.

"Well, finally." You looked up at him when he came into view. "I was getting tired of waiting for you."

Tall, broad-shouldered, with a palm covered in tattoo ink that peeked out from under the sleeve of his shirt colour of night.

You knew that most of the drawings were hidden under his clothes. Once you could only see his tattoos up to his elbow, and you always wondered how they ended.

You remember how the tiger lily on the inside of his arm caught your attention the most - delicate, but as bold as he was. It was his birth flower, a symbol of pride, nobility, and strength hidden behind a reserved expression.

His light colored hair was slicked back carelessly, and above his ear it was shaved, so you could see that his hair color was actually black. This hairstyle emphasized his sharp features and jaw that could cut through the tension in the air. The black earrings in his ears glittered with every movement.

"You made a mistake, Y/N." He was approaching like lava, slowly burning everything in his path. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest, but you had to behave with dignity.

"Really? From my side, it looked like a perfectly planned trap." You said, hinting at the reason you were here. You smiled at the corner of your mouth. You didn't want to show this man how he affected you.

He crouched down in front of you. He smelled of cold freshness after a shower, mixed with something more personal - the tart scent of leather and spices.

There was a slight hint of bergamot in his scent, subtly mixed with the smell of black tea and a little wood, something deep and rich. There was also a faint trace of musk, the kind that made the skin react as if it had just been touched.

This scent was not intrusive, but dangerous in its restraint, just like him. It was the kind of scent that would stay on your pillow, on your fingers, on the inside of your wrist if you let it get close enough.

"And who is trapped now?" he asked. You smiled as you looked into his black eyes.

"Caught doesn’t mean defeated." You say and see his gaze boring into your lips. Your breathing instantly became uncontrollable.

You've always played this game. You made him lose control. He made you feel your body burning with anger. You wanted to break him, he wanted to conquer you.

But predators don't subdue. They either win or die.

You remember the moment when everything went wrong. You were sitting in the VIP lounge of the club, waiting for your sister to celebrate your brilliant victory. The deal that Jungkook wanted so badly was now yours. That's when the door slammed open, and they came for you.

Everything happened in a flash. People in black suits easily dealt with your bodyguards. They grabbed you, clamped your mouth, tied your hands, and in a few minutes you were sitting in a car. Without a word. Without the right to choose. And only then did you realize...

Jungkook is angry. Really angry. And then the prick in your neck and the darkness.

He stared at you for a long time, too long. Jungkook towered over you before he spoke. His voice was low and steady, but it vibrated with a dangerous note that sent a chill down your spine.

"You have no idea how much trouble you've caused me." His voice sounded calm, but it was seeping with menace.

You just tilted your head slightly, playfully, with a self-assurance that irritated him.

"If you're talking about how I took the deal with the Japanese partners away from you, I was expecting more fireworks, to be honest."

Something dark flashed in his eyes, something you'd seen many times before - rage hidden beneath an icy mask of control.

You and Jungkook had never been friends. You had known each other for years, but you had always been on opposite sides of the war.

You were the princess of the “Violet Dragons” clan. Your parents were the leaders of the clan, so from childhood, you knew what the world of shadows was and how to survive in it.

Your family controlled part of the city’s illegal business — casinos, underground clubs, and exclusive weapons trade.

You grew up smart, cunning, and ruthless, just like your parents, who unfortunately became victims of mafia conflicts.

You possessed that dangerous beauty that made men forget you could destroy them with a smile on your lips.

You remember well when Jungkook appeared. It was when your uncle took over the clan and you became his right-hand man.

He saw your potential, trusted your sharp mind and strategic thinking. In the mafia world, a woman could not officially lead, but she could guide. And you did it brilliantly. You became an integral part of the top of your family's clan. You planned. You acted. You played the game.

And Jungkook... He immediately established himself as a strong player. He didn't just enter the business, he took full control of it. His name quickly became the law. His word was a verdict. No one worked in this city without his permission. Those who wanted to stay alive bowed their heads to him.

But not you.

You never bowed your head.

Even though your uncle wanted to cooperate with Jungkook, you were against it. You saw him as a threat. Not a partner.

Instead of submitting to his sudden and overwhelming power, you fought for your place, taking away his contracts, disrupting his deals. You've been fighting this war for years - over people, over money, over power.

But something more than just hatred has been burning between you all along.

Your gazes lingered longer than they should have. Your conversations were always too intense, too provocative.

Your bodies were always too close when you met at formal events.

You knew he wanted you.

He knew you wanted him.

But neither of you could allow it.

Because as soon as someone submits, this game is over.

But here you are. You're tied up in his hands. Completely at his mercy. Jungkook looks at your face and for a moment he thinks that everything you did was on purpose. In order to be here with him, giving him the opportunity to destroy you.

"You think you're here because you blew my deal?" Jungkook grabbed the arms of the chair, squeezing them so hard that his fingers turned white. His face came closer to yours. "It's not the business, Y/N. It's you. You crossed the line." He growled. You tried to remain indifferent, but somewhere deep inside you, something trembled.

"What are you talking about?" You asked, putting on a dramatic tone. His smile was dangerous. He had seen you play too many times.

"You know what I mean. Last night, your little performance..." He explains. Before you could answer, he abruptly lifted you up with the chair, leaning forward so that your faces were almost level. His breath touched your lips.

"You made a fool of me. In front of everyone. My credibility has been undermined... You're overplay, princess." He sounded threatening, dangerous.

"This is business, Jungkook." You said, using his words, the ones he said to you every time he took a good deal or partner from under your nose. You sounded mocking, but he shook his head.

"No, princess. It was a game you played with me without thinking about the consequences."

You were silent, not knowing what to say. The smile that was on your face a moment ago disappeared. Of course, you knew that sooner or later he would realize that the deal that had been broken was your doing, but so soon?

He turned away, sat you back down, and walked a few steps away. He took off his jacket, then his watch. He threw it on the edge of the huge sofa. You watched his movements and could feel the tension between you growing.

You couldn't let him do anything to you. You had to get out of here. You had to save yourself. So while he wasn't looking, you tried to untie the rope. You were trained to do that. The world of the mafia required you to be strong and able to defend yourself.

Jungkook turned to face you and started to roll up his sleeves. The tattoos caught your attention, and he noticed it. But why was he rolling up his sleeves? Was he preparing to torture you? Or did he have something else in mind?

"I was standing two meters away. And I was looking into your eyes." he laughed softly, almost hysterically, not believing that you could pull off such a scam, "The same ones that are looking at me so brazenly now." His voice surprisingly sounded silky, dangerously soft.

You froze. The events of the previous evening flashed through your mind, the moment you stole the deal he'd been working on for two years from under his nose.

Jungkook had been negotiating hard with Kaizen Securities, a Japanese corporation that would have given him monopoly control of one of the largest illegal arms supply channels in Seoul. This deal was supposed to raise his status to the level of "untouchable" among all other players.

Since you had a long-standing rivalry with Jungkook, you planted a spy in his clan, who worked successfully for three years. You followed the negotiation process, which Minhyuk reported to you, carefully studying all the details.

You decided to do the following: let Jungkook almost finish the job, and then take back what was yours from the beginning. What your family lost when Jungkook arrived in the criminal arena.

Your last move was on the day the contract was signed. You used a fake identity, the name Hanako Shimada, and introduced yourself as an assistant to one of the Japanese directors, specializing in translation, negotiation, and legal support.

You arrived at the hotel where the meeting was taking place with the delegation, bribing the real assistant, who was "suddenly" hospitalized. You thought out your image to the smallest detail, so that it had nothing to do with your usual style, so that Jungkook would not recognize you.

You were dressed in a white business suit, with lenses, makeup, hairstyle, gait, even your voice slightly altered. You spoke flawless Japanese (because you lived in Japan until you were 16). Your accent was perfect. You played the role of an official - restrained, without a hint of your characteristic audacity.

You looked convincing to the last detail. Who would have suspected?

"I heard your voice." His voice darkened with each word. "Heard you translate every phrase, calmly, dryly, perfectly. Saw you hiding in a white suit and pretending to be someone else."

You were so confident and competent in your performance that he saw you as just another functional "gray mouse" and missed the punch right under his ribs. And now that he's already caught you, when he looks at you, he remembers everything - your gait, your eyes, the slight tilt of your head, the subtle smile - everything was right there in front of him, and he didn't see it.

He rolled up his sleeves and approached again, towering over you. Jungkook looked at you with his black eyes piercingly.

"You set me up, and I don't understand how I couldn't see you play, not recognize you..."

You looked at him silently. Your heart was beating somewhere in your throat, but your face was impeccably calm. He had just admitted that you had defeated him. That you hadn't just taken the contract - you had misled him so that he didn't recognize you from a few meters away.

You couldn't contain your triumph. You slowly raised an eyebrow and with a slight smile, said.

"It turns out I'm a really good actress."

You changed the terms of the deal behind Jungkook's back, telling the Japanese that he would not provide security guarantees. Posing as a trustee of a fictitious investor, you offered better terms: higher profits and security. The Japanese believed you and signed the contract right in his presence.

How sweet it was to see him humiliated in front of the Japanese, because he didn't recognize the manipulation and lost a lucrative contract.

Jungkook's eyes narrowed, his jaw twitched, but you continued, quietly, as if afraid to break the silence.

"And you, Jungkook, have become overconfident. You used to always see everything..."

His eyes darted between yours, sliding down to your lips, then to your neck, then to your thigh, which was visible through the long slit in your dress. You could almost physically feel his gaze touching your body.

His eyes returned to you.

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No," you answered evenly. "I'm just reminding you who's had the upper hand in this game from the beginning."

You paused, still fumbling with the rope, and then said with poisonous tenderness.

"What did you think? That you could play on my turf for years, promise the Japanese control of the port my family has owned since my father's time, and I would keep quiet?"

His pupils dilated.

"You knew about the port?"

"I knew everything. Even which of your men had been leaking information to the Japanese." You were silent for a moment, savoring his defeat, and then spoke. "I won fair and square, Jungkook. I took what was rightfully mine."

"Fair?" He laughed, but there was nothing merry about it. "You played dirty. You lied, you bribed people, you made my partners change his mind." He runs his eyes over your face and almost can't control himself. Your self-confidence in your victory has made him angry.

You lift your chin proudly.

"So what? This is our world, isn't it? A world where the strongest take what they want by any means necessary." You argument. Jungkook leans in so that your lips almost touch.

"Yes, but the difference is that I'm stronger. And now you will play by my rules." His fingers touched your face, and you held your breath.

"And what are these rules?" You asked. Jungkook smiled, slowly, predatory.

"I'll show you. But first you have to understand one thing..." His fingers closed on your jaw, forcing you to look directly into his dark eyes.

"Because of your stunt, you are now at my mercy. And believe me, you will not be spared." He almost whispered it to you. You felt his breath on your lips. Your heart beat faster.

His fingers slid down and stopped at your throat. He didn't squeeze, he just touched, making you feel how close the edge was. His gaze slowly moved down, studying you, as if he was already deciding how you should obey him.

Jungkook suddenly turned away, held you with a cold gaze, and then walked away. You continued your struggle with the rope. A little more and you would be free.

He walked over to the table where there was a bottle of whiskey and a glass. He wasn’t in a hurry. He poured it slowly and turned to you, taking a sip. He liked knowing that this time, you wouldn’t run away. He didn't take his eyes off you. You didn't take your eyes off him.

Jungkook sat down on the sofa, drinking a honey-colored liquid. He sating across from you, looking at you calmly, as if he had won the battle in the end.

"I never thought I'd see you in such a helpless situation." His voice was low, savoring every word. He took another sip without hiding his smile. You clenched your jaw, not letting yourself show the fear that was still present, even though you tried to hide it deep inside.

"Enjoying?" You asked ironically, but your eyes were full of anger.

Jungkook twirled his glass in his hands and smiled, slowly, too confidently.

"You know what's the most interesting thing?" He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "I could have put a stop to your antics a long time ago."

You snorted. The laugh came easily from your plump lips.

"You could have tamed me much sooner? But you only did it when I made a fool of you?" You said through your laughter.

Jungkook didn't answer right away. He just looked at you, calmly, without taking his eyes off you, and there was something frightening in that look. Not brute aggression, but cold calculation. He enjoyed your resistance, knew that you would fight to the last - and that was what amused him.

"No. I was just wondering how far you could go. And now you've made your choice, princess." He finally said, twirling the glass in his fingers. "You played with fire, not realizing it could burn you." Jungkook took a sip of alcohol. He tasted the honeyed flavor, and smiled at the corner of his lips.

"Tell me honestly, you didn't think I was going to ignore this trick of yours like all the times before, did you? Let you play with me as you please?"

You lifted your chin sharply, even now not letting him see your weakness.

"You want to break me just because I defeated you?" you challenged. "Then you're much weaker than you look."

Something much darker flashed in his eyes. He put the glass on the nightstand, stood up and came closer.

"Do you think you've defeated me?" Jungkook repeated quietly, leaning in once more so that your faces were almost touching.

He always violated your personal space. He liked to keep you close, so close that you didn't have time to collect your thoughts.

"If it was really a victory, then why are you here - tied up, without any control over the situation, instead of celebrating your success?" his voice dropped to a velvety whisper, and every word penetrated your skin.

You pressed your lips together.

"You know it well. I'm not afraid of you, Jungkook," you said firmly.

He smiled, his eyes sliding over your face, and he straightened up. He liked to look down on you. His imagination painted scenes of you kneeling perfectly before him, and he looked down on you the same way. Something in his middle caught fire at the thought of your mouth on his cock.

But he calmed himself as quickly as he could and walked around you, standing behind you. You stopped untying the rope and clasped your hands together so he wouldn't see that it was loose.

Jungkook leaned down to your ear and said.

"This is good," he whispered. "Because fear is chaos. And I need order."

His fingers touched your neck, and you flinched. At his touch.

He slowly touched the collar of your dress, letting the fabric slip slightly off your shoulder. Your skin burned where his fingers had left a mark.

"It's time to teach you something really important."

"Ha-ha, teach? What can you teach me?" you asked with undisguised interest.

"Submission," Jungkook replied. The word came out of his mouth as easily as a breath. But there was power in it. A power that was frightening. "Submission." He repeated it almost gently, stroking your collarbone with his fingertips. "It's something you haven't known yet, but I'll take care of it." You felt indignation rising inside you.

"You're doing this again?" You said as if it were boring. "I'll never be yours, Jungkook." He smiled in a way that made you feel hot.

"Oh, don't you get it yet?" His voice was almost playful, but there was a metallic tinge of control in the deep timbre. "You are already mine, princess."

Jungkook was in front of you again. His hand grabbed your chin sharply, forcing you to look him straight in the eye.

"Every fight between us, every moment when you woke up and thought about me, hating it... It all meant only one thing. You've always belonged to me."

Your breathing became heavier. And this time... you really felt that you were starting to suffocate, not just from fear. But also from confusing feelings that you shouldn't have felt.

He was taking over. He control a situation as a usual. But you hadn't lost yet.

All your emotions rushed out - and it was at that moment that you managed to escape. The rope slipped from your hands, and you hit him sharply, creating space for escape. His reaction was instantaneous, but you were already flying toward the door, half out of breath, consumed by a single desire-freedom.

Your hand almost touched the handle when Jungkook's fingers grabbed your wrist. You turned around, trying to strike, but he easily dodged. Your next move, a kick, was blocked.

In a second, you were pinned against a cold wall. Jungkook forced your arms behind your back, squeezing them to prevent you from breaking free. His body was pressed against you, and you could feel the warmth of his chest pressing against your back. His crotch was touching your buttocks, and your legs were locked with his.

"Want a fight?" he laughed low, touching your ear. You were both breathing heavily.

"Let go of me and I'll kick your ass in seconds Jeon," you said angrily. You suddenly felt his cock resting on your buttocks. He was aroused by your little fight.

"I think we'd better take this passion elsewhere," Jungkook said seductively, and he pressed in closer so you could feel the hardness of his cock even better. It was only then that you noticed a throbbing between your legs. And moisture was leaking onto your underwear. It was foolish not to admit that his proximity excited you as much as it excited him.

"You'll never have me, you bastard," you said, in defiance of your feelings.

Jungkook turned you around in one confident motion, still holding you so you couldn't hurt him. He smiled when he saw your hateful gaze. But you're pretending. He knows you want him.

"Oh, I can have you anytime. But you want it too, don't you princess?" he said, licking his lower lip. You stare at his lips, mesmerized. Fuck. You want to kiss him.

Jungkook finally let go of your hands, confident that you wouldn't fight anymore. He ran his fingers along your figure, lowering his hands to your hips. He slid his hand under your dress and squeezed your skin lightly. His touch was confident, almost possessive. Your hands rested on his chest, as if trying to push him, but your fingers dug into the fabric of his shirt.

"You're shaking, Y/N." He spoke softly, his voice hoarse and hot, seeping into your mind, making your heart beat even faster than before.

"You overestimate your influence over me." You tried to sound confident, but your voice trembled treacherously. "I will never play by your rules."

"But tonight you will," he lifted you by the hips, forcing you to wrap your legs around his waist, and carried you to the table behind him. You felt the cold surface against your skin and only then realized how hot you were from what was happening between you.

Jungkook was breathing heavily, barely able to control himself. He suddenly smiled, pressing you tighter to his aroused cock.

"Give me a few minutes and I'll break you." He was serious. His lips barely touched your neck, taking his time, leaving no marks, just burning you with his hot breath. You could feel his palms resting steadily on your buttocks, his fingers flesh squeezing to remind you that the power was his.

"Why don't you push me away, princess?" He whispered it right next to your ear, his voice breaking into hot pulses that ran through your entire body.

Your fingers clenched into fists. You should have resisted. You should have told him it was a game, that he wouldn't make you submit. But when his lips finally touched your neck, when his hot lips sucked in your tender skin, leaving marks, you lost the ability to think.

"You've been playing strong for so long that you've forgotten what it's like to just give in." He said when he had left enough hickeys on your neck. His voice was quiet, but it filled the entire space between you.

You didn't like the feeling of being under his control. But what you didn't like even more was how much you wanted it. You squeezed his shirt, as if balancing the desire to push him away and pull him closer.

"Tell me I'm wrong..." His lips stopped right next to yours. You met his gaze. Full of lust, full of power to conquer.

"I..." You paused, inhaled. Your pride dissolved, burned under that look. "...I hate you."

Jungkook smiled.

"Little liar."

His lips finally covered yours, sharply, all-consuming, so that you forgot how to breathe. It was an invasion. A struggle.

You squeezed his shoulders, trying to hold back - but your lips responded. At first it was a protest. Then it was an explosion. The kiss became deeper, hotter, as if you were both surrendering to all the emotions that had been building up for so long and burning from the inside.

His tongue penetrated you without asking for permission, just like everything else he did. And you... didn't stop him. Because you wanted it too. You wanted it.

He tore the zipper of your dress open and it gathered at your hips. The sight of your perfectly taut breasts, erect nipples, and goosebumps made Jungkook want more. He uncontrollably took one of your breasts in his hands and squeezed it. His wet tongue circled around your bud, tasting the pleasant taste of your nipples.

You were moaning above his head, just from his caresses, so what would you sound like when he entered you? When he fills you to the brim?

"Feel that?" His voice was husky, heavy with desire. You didn't know what he was asking specifically, whether it was his hard cock resting against your needy pussy or his power over you. But you felt it all. His strength. His desire. His complete control over your every move. "You've always belonged to me." He whispered it right next to your ear, breaking into a hot breath.

His hands, which had been under your dress, boldly reached for your underwear. He stopped, his lips still touching yours.

"Are you finally admitting it, princess?"

Silence. Only your breaths. The pulse in your temples. Hot air, saturated with tension. But you didn't say anything. Are you really losing this war that has lasted so long?

His hand moved your underwear to the side. Your body shuddered as he ran his fingers between the damp folds, easily finding a spot that made you sigh softly.

Jungkook smiled triumphantly. He massaged your clit, with slow, blissful strokes. When he plunged a finger into your passage, you grabbed his free hand, squeezing it.

"So wet... Fuck, you're just dripping onto my fingers, baby." He whispered. In between kissing your neck, your jaw, your breasts. He wanted to explore every inch of your body with his lips.

Jungkook added another finger to your passage and fucked you with it. He created a friction that made you want to feel something more.

"I want to hear that…Tell me I won." He demanded. His voice was full of power, he knew you belonged to him completely.

You opened your eyes and met his gaze, heavy and piercing. And you had to surrender. You had to admit it. You belonged to him completely and utterly. You wanted to be his. You fucking wanted this man to fuck you.

"You win, Kook. I'm yours." You whispered. He stretched you, plunged into every cell of your body, took you over, made you forget where you were, who you were, and why you'd ever tried to resist.

His movements became deeper, more confident. And you couldn't fight anymore-your hands reached for the buttons of his shirt, and you pulled them open randomly, wanting to tear them off.

Jungkook slipped his fingers out of your passage and helped you undress him. In the dim light of the suite, his body was so hot and sexy. His skin was perfect, every muscle as if carved by God himself.

You gulped in a breath, as your eyes touched his torso. Elastic, well-defined chest, broad shoulders. His abs, like marble, consisted of perfect lines that stretched down, right to the place where your imagination was already drawing the most daring images.

Your fingers reached for his body, sliding over his hot skin. Now you knew what his tattoos looked like, the ones that were always hidden behind his clothes.

There was ink that seemed to come to life under your touch. First, you noticed the words "Rather be dead than cool" tattooed in italics on his forearm, a phrase that perfectly matched his personality: bold, unrestrained, living to the fullest.

Above, on his wrist, was a delicate drawing of a tiger and a lotus, symbolizing strength and purity - a contrast similar to his own.

And on his shoulder was a large black flower, and your palm slid over it, gently, almost reverently.

You barely had time to enjoy the sight of it when Jungkook pulled off your dress and then simply tore open your thin black lace thong. You gasped, not expecting such behavior from Jungkook, but it seemed he was losing patience.

He had a sly smile on his face. His eyes never left yours, hungry, dark, and without mercy.

"You know, princess... Now that you're mine, I'm going to make sure you can never forget this moment."

He knelt between your legs. His gaze slid down to your center and he licked his lips like a predator who had finally gotten his prey.

His tongue slid over your folds, gently at first, exploring, making you arch with pleasure, and then deeper, harder, rhythmically, until your moans became shameless. His hands held your hips tightly, not letting you escape, not letting you even think about resisting. He worked his tongue as if he could drive you crazy with it alone, and damn it, he did.

Your stomach was in a knot, wave after wave passing through your body, making you squirm and gasp. You grabbed his hair, trying to hold back, but...

"Fuck..." you cursed, barely recognizing your own voice.

He lifted his head, his lips glistening with your wetness. He flicked his tongue across his lower lip, tasting you. His chest heaved rhythmically, He was on the verge, just like you.

"I can't wait any longer," he said hoarsely and stood up, shedding the rest of his clothes. His cock was hard, tense, ready for you.

You didn't look away. It was perfect. Big. Erect. And all yours.

He pulled you closer to the edge of the table, supporting you under your buttocks, and ran his head between your folds. Just teasing. Just playing.

"Tell me again. Who do you belong to?"

You clutched his forearm, your nails digging into his skin, your body trembling with anticipation.

"You... Jungkook. I belong to you."

"Good girl."

You thought Jungkook was going to take you right now. He was teasing you with those movements of his cock on your clit, but he didn't come in. You weren't expecting it when he pulled back and pulled you to the floor. Your buttocks were resting on the table, and in a moment Jungkook turned you around, bending you over the table.

Your breasts were on the table, your hands resting on the perfectly polished surface. Your hot breath left condensation.

Jungkook came up behind you, pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, and thrust. You felt him penetrate. He had barely plunged into you when you screamed in pain. He stopped when he felt you were in pain. You were tighty, he could feel it as he stretched you.

"How long since you had sex?" he asked in a low voice. You pressed your fingers tighter to the table, so that they turned white. Jungkook moved back and forth, as if breaking through an invisible barrier.

"It's been a long time," you breathed out, but your voice sounded sharp, like the thorns on a beautiful rose. Jungkook smiled, still moving lightly at the entrance. He stroked your thighs, soothing you.

"When was the last time?" he asked. You raised your eyebrows, why was he asking? You should talk less and act more. Even though you were in pain, you needed him inside.

"What the hell does it matter, just come in," you couldn't stand it. You heard Jungkook's guttural laugh. And then his hand was right in front of your eyes. He leaned down and touched your cheek with his lips.

"You're not supposed to be a virgin, are you?" his voice vibrated against your skin, making you tremble inside. His cock was still in your passage, but not fully penetrating.

"Don't even dream about being my first, I had sex before you," you said indignantly. You turned your head a few centimeters. You saw Jungkook's lips and it was at that moment that you felt him enter you completely. It was not very sharp, but you screamed.

Jungkook plunged into you until his hips felt yours. His balls touched your pussy and he froze, still leaning over you. You were breathing hard and fast, feeling pain, but it was being replaced by the pleasure of being filled with his cock.

"You're such a tight princess that even if you did have sex, that idiot had a small cock." he laughed again. "Who was that?" he moved his hips and you bit your lip to keep from screaming again. "Your assistant Dongmin, or was it In-guk, that piece of shit who was always hanging around you?"

Jungkook moved his hips slowly but deeply. He was careful, and you could tell he didn't want to hurt you. His breath was hot, burning your skin, spreading over it in a stormy wave.

"That was Taehyung," you said. Jungkook froze. You smiled because you knew it would surprise him.

"Taehyung?" he repeated quietly, as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. His voice had dropped to a dangerous whisper, and his gaze-though you couldn't see it-was probably as dark as a night storm.

His fingers tightened around your hips, and his breath came in shorter bursts. But instead of getting angry or pulling away, he slowly, almost painfully, moved inside you again, sinking deeper.

"I didn't know he had a small one..." Jungkook said it with a sneer, but you didn't laugh, because Taehyung didn't have a small one. Maybe a little smaller than Jungkook's. "Why... he?" he said hoarsely, as if he wasn't asking, but trying to understand.

You smiled out loud, a little cheekily.

"We had a common project, common interests, spent a lot of time together...and it happened." you said, holding back moans of pleasure.

Jungkook entered you, deeper and longer each time. His movements were slow but full of power. Jungkook felt a stab of jealousy that Taehyung was touching you. He saw the pleasure on your beautiful face, heard your moans... Before Jungkook did. That made he’s movements chaos.

Your fingers slid along the steamy surface of the table, looking for support. Your whole body merged with his in a rhythm that seemed endless.

Jungkook lowered himself, leaning even closer, almost completely covering your body with his.

His lips touched your neck, burning with every word he spoke:

"Shared interests?" he whispered, moving his hips so that you cried out again. "I wonder if he liked the way you squirmed under him too..."

You turned your head as sharply as your posture allowed and met his gaze defiantly:

"What, are you jealous?" you exhaled, trembling from the new thrust. "Maybe you're afraid he was better?"

His whole body tensed. In the next moment, Jungkook straightened behind you and abruptly, but not violently, withdrew from you almost completely... and then plunged in again, deeply, to the very core.

You screamed, clutching the edge of the table.

"Say it again," his voice was low, dark as thunder in the night, "and I make you forget who Taehyung, Dongmin, In-guk, and everyone else who ever dared to touch you is."

His hips pressed firmly against your buttocks again, and his hands were no longer gentle, but strong, saying: "now you are mine."

And you felt it - with every cell.

His fingers slid to your clit, stimulating you to unbearable sensations. He knew how to touch you, how to hold you to make you moan louder for him.

Your sounds filled the room. He picked up the pace, but didn't lose control. Your back pressed against his chest as he lifted you without leaving you. You could feel his heart - it was beating furiously, almost in unison with yours.

"From this night — you only mine," he said. You couldn't even imagine how much he liked the sound of that, "you should remember how you looked when I fucked you for the first time, so you never forget who was the best in you..."

With that, he pulled out of you. You felt your passage hurt. Your pussy was swollen and throbbing unbearably. You tried to normalize your breathing when you felt Jungkook grab you, throwing you over his shoulder. Your bodies touched again, raising the temperature of each other. His hand was on your bare buttocks.

"Oh my God, what are you doing?" you said in agony in front of his buttocks. He couldn't help himself and slapped your ass.

"Going to show you how amazing you are when my cock is deep inside you," he said playfully.

Jungkook carried you into the bedroom. It was dark, but not completely. The lights of the city at night illuminated it barely, but it was enough to see what you needed to see.

You saw Jungkook carry you past the big bed and set you on your feet. In front of a mirror.

You looked at your reflection and saw a girl who was naked, with marks on her neck and chest. She was disheveled with swollen lips.

Jungkook hugged you close. You saw his face and sly smile in the mirror. His big palm touched your stomach.

"Just look how beautiful you are," he said in your ear, not taking his eyes off yours in the mirror, "how beautiful you are when you give yourself to me," he whispered, squeezing you more closer. His lips barely touched your skin, but your body was already on fire from this touch. You looked in the mirror and couldn't recognize yourself.

He grabbed your jaw and turned you around, kissing you. His tongue went into your mouth as if he was the master. Your tongues intertwined, wrestling just like you had all those years before. Finally, he bit your lower lip and let you go.

Jungkook led you to the mirror and you reflexively grabbed the frame. You let him dive into you again. This time he went in less painfully but still deeply, keeping his gaze on your reflection.

"Don't look away," his voice was warm but commanding, "I want you to see what I'm doing to you. So that every time you think back to this night, you will remember yourself like this. Mine."

His hips started moving again, gradually speeding up. His arms held you tightly, one cupping your breasts, the other sliding down between your legs. He touched you gently and hard at the same time, mixing pleasure with fierce passion exists.

You were trembling, and every movement of his body made you forget how to breathe.

"So who's fucking you so good, huh princess?" he hissed, staring at your mirror reflection.

You didn't answer, just exhaled his name, shuddering at his fingers on your clit.

"You…" you hardly breathe, "You Jungkook..."

You held back moans from the intense stimulation, the feel of his big cock inside you. And Jungkook didn't like it.

"Louder," he grunted. "I want to enjoying your scream."

You listened to him. You couldn't hold back any longer. Your loud moans, almost screams, filled the entire space around you. They were intertwined with the sounds of your bodies hitting each other, and they were almost sinful.

His cock moving inside you, hot, hard, ruthless. And your whole body merged with him in this rhythm - wild, honest, real. As if he knew no mercy.

He pulled your hair to the side and kissed your neck.

"I'm going to cherish this moment in your memories, because this is just the beginning of our fun adventure."

You let go of all your feelings as your orgasm hit you like a storm. Your body arched in his arms, the last, loudest moan burst from your chest, and your mind exploded with white light.

Jungkook hit you hard a few more times and came out of you. He came on your ass with a hoarse, low growl.

He put his wet forehead against your back, which was covered with a thin layer of sweat.

Your breaths merged into one, your hearts were beating furiously. His arms did not let go, his body did not move away. All you could feel was the weight of his cock on your buttocks and his warm, thick cum dripping down your legs.

You moved, forcing Jungkook to pull away. His cum dripped down your legs, dripped onto the floor, but neither of you seemed to care.

You turned around to face him. Jungkook was still breathing deeply, but he had a satisfied smile on his lips. You smiled too, but slyly, playfully.

"So…it happened," you said first. Jungkook pulled you to him. His lips covered yours, completely. Absorbing you, just as he had done with your body. With your soul. Having enjoyed your lips enough, he broke the kiss. You slowly opened your eyes. They were sparkling.

"It happened, princess, are you satisfied?" he asked, carefully studying your expression.

"Do I have to tell you the truth? Or can I tease you?" you asked playfully. His fingers on your waist squeezed your skin tighter.

"Only tell the truth... because if you lie to me again, or deceive me... you will not receive my mercy, anymore" he warned in a soft voice not without a touch of menace.

"It sounds like a another challenge..." you said, "but if tell honest, I'm really satisfied," you kissed him on the lips, a short touch, and when you pulled away a few centimeters, seeing his eyes closed, you whispered, "you fucked me so good."

Jungkook opened his eyes when he heard your words, but you had already disappeared. He saw you hurriedly walked towards the bedroom door.

"I need to take a shower," you threw over your shoulder and disappeared behind the door.

When you got out of the shower, you didn't find Jungkook. You heard the sound of water coming from the other bathroom and knew this was your chance to run away from him. You put on the dress that was lying on the floor in the living room, but you sewed up your thong because Jungkook had torn it.

You grabbed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote him a short message. You signed it with a kiss and the first letter of your name.

You grabbed key card, opened the door of hotel room and left without being stopped.

Jungkook took a quick shower, replaying your sex in his head. He was excited and happy that you would finally be his. The way you moaned and screamed his name made his mind go wild. And he was going to get even more from you.

Jungkook walked into the living room and heard silence. He became alert, looking around for you because you weren't in the bedroom.

His eyes fell on the white paper left on the table. Nowhere to be seen was your burgundy dress, which he had taken off you somewhere around here. Jungkook laughed as he walked over to the table. Did you really run away and leave a note?

He held the white piece of paper between his two fingers, skimming the contents.

"You still didn't catch me, but I'll be more careful than today. I'm looking forward to your hunt for me. What will be our next meeting? I'm sure you're already waiting for it.

P.S. Thanks for the show anyway, guy with the dark eyes.

Y/N 💋"

Jungkook clenched the piece of paper into a fist. And then he laughed. He sat down on the couch with his head on the back of the couch and looked at the ceiling.

You run away again. You had outsmarted him again. Again made his thoughts boil with the possibility of knowing a way to get you. He closed his eyes tiredly, but a smile played on his lips was predatory.

"No mercy now, Princess. The darkness pulls you under before you know it..." was the sound in his head.

☰ Index: Ⅰ // Ⅱ // Ⅲ // Ⅳ // Ⅴ 𓏧

800 notes · View notes

flowersforbucky · 1 month ago

Text

you drew stars around my scars

bob reynolds x reader

summary: you show bob that he doesn’t need to be insecure about anything with you.

word count: 1k

warnings/tags: 18+ only, mentions of past drug use, descriptions of scars from drug use, insecurities, hurt/comfort, kissing and suggestiveness, implied smut, no use of y/n, some angst, fluff

author's note: i fully believe the sentry project would have gotten rid of any scars but i couldn't get this idea out of my head so.. just pretend with me.

please do not read this if any of the warnings could be triggering for you. you are responsible for your own media consumption, take care of yourself ♡

“Honey,” you breathe. He plants a trail of kisses from your jaw down to the pulse point of your throat, where he begins to bite and suckle.

He knows that it's your weakness.

Normally, you'd melt into it – let him take his time peppering you with love bites.

But right now, you're seeking something else. He knows it, too. It's the reason he's trying his hardest to distract you.

The second that your hands crept under his shirt and began easing the fabric up his back, he broke the heated kiss you’d been lost in, moving his lips to your throat, instead.

And then to your collarbones, and then the peaks of your breasts, and your sternum, and so on – until he’s so far down your body that you have no choice but to let your hands fall away from where they’d been resting under his shirt.

A blissful distraction, but a distraction nonetheless.

“Honey,” you repeat when he gets to the waistband of your panties. He pauses before he can pull them down, looking up at you with an expression of hesitation and uncertainty.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He asks, concern etched in his voice. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Well, no,” you laugh. “I don’t. I just…”

You trail off, looking up at the ceiling. You’d been planning how to go about this conversation in your head for days, but now that it’s actually time to string the words together to formulate what should be a relatively straight forward question, your brain is drawing blanks.

“What is it?” He asks gently. He sits up on his knees, placing a comforting hand on your thigh. “You can talk to me.”

There's a part of you that wants to drop it entirely. The last thing you want is to be embarrass him, or pressure him, but you also need him to know that you want to touch him, feel him, see him completely and fully.

Mostly, you want to understand why.

Why doesn’t he want you to take his shirt off? Why is he insistent on wearing long sleeves when it’s the middle of summer? Why is it that when he does take his shirt off during sex, it’s only at night when all of the lights are turned off?

It hurts you to think that he may not see himself the way you see him. All you want is to assure him that he never has to hide any part of himself – not from you.

“You know I love you, right?” You sit up, eye-level with him. His brows crease, in the endearing way they usually do when he’s confused or in deep thought. “All of you?”

He drops his gaze, as if realizing the direction this conversation is heading. He nods. “Of course I do.”

You place a handle beneath his chin, gently tilting his head back up so that he's looking you in the eye once more. “Can I see all of you, then?”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to see me,” he murmurs. “I’m just afraid that you’ll look at me differently once you do.”

“Bob,” you breathe, stroking the side of his face with your thumb. “There’s nothing in this world that could make me love you less. You’re perfect to me, no matter what.”

He gives you a small, hesitant smile before he grabs the hem of his Henley and slowly pulls it over his head. At first, your eyes go to the muscles of his chest. You have caught glimpses of them and have felt them from beneath his clothing on many occasions, so you’re not surprised by the defined planes of his abdomen, but you still can’t help but ogle.

As many times as you’ve tried to picture what he'd look like without the baggy shirts, you're now realizing that your imagination failed you.

Then, he extends his arms. Your eyes follow his to his inner elbows, and that’s when you realize that his insecurity was never about his physique.

You know what you’re looking at without him having to explain. Though it isn’t something he talks about often, his history with drug addiction is not a secret. You're still surprised to see the slightly raised, discolored lines in the bends of his arms, however. Mostly because you didn’t think it was possible for him to have scars anymore.

There’s a couple on each arm, some more noticeable than others.

“All of the others faded a long time ago,” he says meekly, staring down at the marks. “But these got infected, so they scarred worse. I had hoped that the serum they gave me in Malaysia would take care of them, but I guess it doesn’t really help older scars, ‘cause they’re still here.”

You scoot closer to him, once again tilting his face to look up at you. He gulps, blinking quickly to keep unshed tears at bay. Leaning forward, you slate your lips over his. He kisses you back, practically sighing against your lips with relief.

You pull his right arm to you, leaning down to press your lips to the more prominent of the two dark lines in a series of feather-light kisses. Bob’s posture relaxes, and you hear the faintest hum of contentment emanate from his chest. When you've kissed both scars, you move to his left arm and do the same.

“I love you,” you whisper when you pull away. “I think you’re beautiful, Bob. I don’t want you to ever feel like you have to hide any part of yourself from me.”

“I love you, too. More than you know.” He smiles, no longer looking ashamed or embarrassed. He maneuvers you back down against the mattress, hovering above you. There’s a playful look on his face as he smirks down at you, eyes roaming down your chest and to where his fingers once again toy with the band of your underwear.

“Now that we have that conversation out of the way, maybe I could get back to what I was trying to do a few minutes ago? If that’s.. if that’s okay with you?”

You snort a laugh, pushing away the locks of his hair that fall down over his face. "Of course."

******

thank you so much for reading!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated <3

1K notes · View notes

sixeyesonathiel · 5 days ago

Text

wanted: dead or wed

chapter one: sweet thing with a switchblade

pairing — cowboy satoru x bandit reader

synopsis : satoru’s just passing through—dust in his lungs, a bullet wound in his side, and no intention of staying anywhere too long—when you crash into his life like bad luck with a pretty face. you’re trouble from the start, all sharp looks and sharper secrets, but he’s never had much self-control when it comes to danger dressed like desire. what begins with blood and bad timing turns into something else entirely—something he can’t name, can’t escape, and sure as hell can’t walk away from. you’re the last thing he needs, but the only thing he wants, and if that makes him a fool… well, he’s been worse.

tags -> wild west au, enemies to lovers, sexual tension, dubcon elements, forced proximity, captivity, power imbalance, morally ambiguous character, horny at first sight, feelings later, toxic dynamic at first, eventual healthy relationship (i swear), gojo satoru is down bad, slowly falling into domesticity, eventual smut, eventual fluff, banter, unresolved sexual tension, other additional tags to be added

wc — 8.4k | series m.list | gen. m.list

your scream cuts through the desert air like a blade through silk.

satoru’s hands tighten on the reins without conscious thought, his mare luna already wheeling toward the sound before his mind catches up. dust kicks up around them in russet clouds, the sun beating down merciless and white. he’d been riding for three days straight, his thoughts circling like vultures around the deed folded in his saddlebag—his mother’s house, waiting for him like a grave he’s not ready to visit. but a woman’s scream? that’s different. that’s immediate. that’s the kind of thing mama would’ve skinned him alive for ignoring.

his spurs dig into luna’s flanks and she responds like lightning, her hooves drumming against the hardpan earth. the wind whips through hair that catches light like spun glass, wild and pale against the endless blue sky. sweat dampens his shirt beneath the leather vest, salt stinging where it meets the dust caked on his skin. he can taste the desert on his tongue—grit and heat and something metallic that might be his own blood from where he’d bitten his cheek that morning, trying to stay awake.

through the scrub brush and twisted mesquite, he spots you.

and christ, you’re beautiful.

even terrified, even with dirt streaking your cheeks and tears cutting clean tracks through the grime, you’re the kind of beautiful that makes a man forget his own name. your dress is torn at the shoulder, fabric clinging to curves that make his mouth go dry despite the heat. there’s something about the way you’re positioned—sprawled but not quite helpless, your ankle twisted at an angle that screams pain but your spine still holding some invisible thread of steel.

behind you, two men with guns drawn. standard issue bandits by the look of them, all beard and bluster and eyes like dead fish. one’s got a hand twisted in your hair, yanking your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat. the other’s got his barrel trained on your temple, finger hovering over the trigger with the kind of casual threat that makes satoru’s jaw clench.

“help!” you cry, and your voice cracks just right—desperate but not quite broken, like you’re holding onto hope by your fingernails. “please, they’re gonna kill me!”

satoru’s already moving, luna’s hooves throwing up clouds of red dirt as they thunder into the clearing. he swings down from the saddle with fluid grace, his duster coat billowing around him like dark wings. his hand finds the grip of his colt without thought, muscle memory carved deep by years of staying alive in places where hesitation gets you buried.

“no worries, sweetheart,” he drawls, voice carrying that easy confidence that’s gotten him out of more scrapes than he can count. “i’ve got you.”

the first bandit—scraggly beard, vest that’s seen better decades—shifts his aim toward satoru. mistake. satoru’s already moving, his body flowing like water around the muzzle flash. the bullet whines past his ear, close enough to feel the heat, and then his own gun is speaking. clean shot, center mass. the man drops like a stone.

the second bandit doesn’t even get the chance to scream. satoru’s on him in two strides, his blade sliding between ribs with surgical precision. blood blooms across the man’s shirt, dark and spreading, and he crumples with a wet gurgle.

satoru turns back to you, already reaching for his bandana to clean the blood from his knife. “you hurt, darlin’? they lay hands on you?”

but you’re not looking at him with gratitude. you’re looking at him with something else entirely—calculation. focus. the kind of look a predator gives prey before it strikes.

that’s when he sees it. the flash of metal in your hand. the way your body coils, all that supposed helplessness melting away like sugar in rain. time slows to honey-thick molasses as you lunge forward, your blade aimed with deadly precision at the gap between his ribs.

clever girl.

the steel slides home with a whisper, parting flesh like it was made for it. fire explodes through his side, white-hot and immediate, and he can feel the warmth spreading across his shirt. but even as the pain hits, even as his own blood starts to paint his fingers crimson, he’s almost impressed. almost.

“well, shit,” he breathes, looking down at where your blade has found its mark. the shock in your eyes is almost comical—like you can’t quite believe you actually managed to stick him. “you really had me going there, sugar.”

that’s when they emerge from the treeline. a dozen men, maybe more, whooping and hollering like demons fresh from hell. your backup, he realizes. the real trap. he’d been so focused on playing hero that he’d walked right into it, led by his cock and his conscience in equal measure.

“guess i’m the fool here,” he says, and there’s something almost conversational in his tone. almost amused. because fools don’t last long in the west, and satoru’s been breathing desert air for more years than most men see in a lifetime.

the first wave hits him like a tide of violence and stupidity. guns blazing, knives flashing, voices raised in bloodthirsty chorus. and satoru? satoru becomes something else entirely. something that moves like liquid death and strikes like divine judgment.

his revolvers sing their deadly song, muzzle flashes painting the desert in brief, brilliant light. bullets that should have found their mark bend around him like they’re afraid to touch him, deflected by forces that don’t have names in any language spoken by mortal men. one bandit charges with a wild scream and meets satoru’s fist instead, the sound of breaking bone sharp and final in the desert air.

another tries to flank him, blade gleaming in the dying light. satoru catches his wrist, twists until something snaps, and sends the man’s own knife sliding between his ribs. the scream cuts off abruptly, replaced by the wet sound of punctured lung.

through it all, satoru moves like he’s dancing. coat tails spinning, hair streaming pale as moonlight, those impossible eyes bright as winter stars. blood seeps through his shirt where your blade found its mark, but it doesn’t slow him. if anything, it seems to fuel him, like pain is just another kind of music and he’s conducting the orchestra.

one by one, they fall. screaming. bleeding. dying.

when the smoke clears and the last echo of gunfire fades into the endless sky, satoru’s still standing. breathing hard now, finally, sweat mixing with blood and dust on his skin. his glasses are gone, lost somewhere in the chaos, revealing eyes that burn like cold fire. unnatural. divine. hungry.

and you? you’re staring at him like he’s the devil himself, pressed back against a gnarled tree with your hands shaking and your face pale as bone.

that’s when he hears it. the sound of hoofbeats, fast and fading. your so-called partners, fleeing like the cowards they are. leaving you behind like yesterday’s garbage.

“they left you,” he says, and there’s something almost gentle in his voice. almost. “after all that acting, they just... left you.”

he can see the moment it hits you—the betrayal, the abandonment. your face crumbles for just a second before you school it back into defiance, but that second is enough. satoru’s always been good at reading people, at seeing the cracks in their armor. it’s kept him alive this long.

“fuck you,” you spit, and he laughs. actually laughs, the sound rich and dark and entirely too pleased.

“oh, sweetheart,” he says, closing the distance between you in two long strides. “we’re just getting started.”

his hand shoots out, fast as a striking snake, and clamps around your wrist. you yelp as he yanks you upright, slamming you back against the tree. bark digs into your spine, and his face is inches from yours. close enough to see the gold flecks in those impossible eyes, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin.

“you gonna scream again, darlin’?” he rasps, tilting his head like he’s studying you. like you’re something fascinating and dangerous and worth taking apart piece by piece. “go on. give me another show.”

his free hand slides down your waist, slow and deliberate, fingers pressing through the fabric of your dress like he’s mapping territory. claiming it. his breath ghosts across your jaw, warm and sharp with the copper taste of violence.

“but first,” he says, voice dropping to something low and dangerous, “you’re gonna pay for trying to fool me.”

his grip tightens. his smile deepens.

“and sugar, i charge interest.”

the ride to his mother’s house is torture in more ways than one.

every bounce of luna’s gait sends fire through the wound in his side, but worse—so much worse—is the way you feel pressed against him. soft curves and angry heat, your body rigid with tension and something else. something that makes his pulse quicken despite the blood loss. despite the pain. despite every rational thought screaming at him to get you secured and stop thinking about the way your ass fits against his hips.

you’d fought like a wildcat when he’d hauled you up and thrown you over his saddle, all claws and fury and threats that would’ve made a saint blush. but now you’ve gone quiet, probably plotting your escape. he almost hopes you try. it’s been too long since he’s had a proper challenge, and something about you—the way you’d played your part so perfectly, the way you’d looked at him like he was death incarnate—makes him think you might actually be worth the effort.

“you can stop planning,” he says conversationally, his voice rumbling through his chest and into your back. “wherever you think you’re gonna run, i’ll find you.”

your only response is to dig your elbow into his thigh, and he grins despite the pain. despite the way his shirt is stuck to his skin with drying blood. despite the fact that he’s probably losing his mind, because no sane man would be this entertained by a woman who just tried to kill him.

luna’s hooves drum against the hardpan, steady and sure, carrying them both toward a destination he’s been avoiding for months. his mother’s house sits on the outskirts of a nothing town called redemption, all faded paint and memories he’s not ready to face. but it’s isolated, which is what he needs right now. isolated and empty and far enough from civilization that no one will hear you scream.

the thought sends heat pooling low in his belly, and he has to shift in the saddle to hide his body’s reaction. you feel it anyway—the way his muscles tense, the way his breathing changes—and you go even more rigid against him. like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. invisible.

“easy there, darlin’,” he murmurs, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “i can feel you thinking. it’s giving me a headache.”

you flinch at the contact, a full-body shiver that he feels more than sees. interesting. he files that reaction away for later, along with the way your breathing hitches when he speaks and the way your hands clench into fists when he touches you.

the sun is setting by the time they reach the house, painting the sky in shades of rust and gold. it’s worse than he remembered—sheets over furniture, dust thick as snow, windows so grimy they barely let in light. the garden his mother had tended with such care is nothing but weeds and regret now, the white picket fence weathered to gray.

“home sweet home,” he mutters, sliding you down from luna’s back. you immediately try to bolt, just like he knew you would, and he catches you around the waist before you can take two steps. your body slams back against his chest, soft and warm and trembling with barely contained rage.

“uh-uh, sugar,” he says, his arm tightening around you. “you’re not going anywhere.”

your pulse is racing under his fingers, a frantic rhythm that matches the way you’re breathing. fast and shallow, like you’re fighting panic. like you think he’s going to hurt you in ways that don’t involve bullets or blades.

“what do you want?” you demand, and he can hear the fear threading through your anger. you think he’s going to force himself on you. the thought should disgust him—his mother raised him better than that, taught him that real men don’t take what isn’t freely given. but instead, it makes him wonder what you’d look like beneath him, all that fight turned to desperate need.

the house looms before you two, full of shadows and silence. the porch creaks under their weight, old wood groaning like it’s protesting this reunion. satoru hesitates at the door, one hand resting on the knob, his breath shallow.

“she always hated leaving it locked,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. he turns the handle. the door swings open with a low moan, like it’s waking from a long sleep.

inside, dust motes dance in the last rays of sunlight, and the air smells like lavender and loss. his mother’s presence is everywhere—in the lace curtains she’d sewn by hand, in the photographs lining the mantel, in the rocking chair where she’d spent her last days waiting for a son who’d been too much of a coward to come home. her ghost lingers in the wallpaper, in the creak of the floorboards, in the quiet hum of the house settling back into itself.

satoru steps over the threshold and doesn’t breathe for a moment. his fingers trail the side table by the door, where her gloves used to rest. his eyes flick to the photo near the hearth—her smile caught mid-laugh, dust blurring the frame. he swallows.

“don’t touch anything,” he says, voice tight.

you say nothing, but your eyes sweep the room like a threat. like you’re already planning which window you’ll break when the time comes.

he pushes the guilt down, locks it away where it can’t touch him. there will be time for that later. time for apologies to ghosts and promises to women who can’t hear them anymore. right now, he has more pressing concerns.

like the way you’re looking at him—calculating, measuring, searching for weakness. like the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips when you think he’s not watching. like the way his body is responding to your proximity despite the pain, despite the blood loss, despite every reason this is a terrible idea.

he turns toward you then, the dying sunlight painting his face in copper and shadow.

“strip,” he orders, and watches your face drain of color. the word hangs in the air between them like a loaded gun, heavy with implication and threat.

he drinks in your reaction like fine whiskey—the way your eyes go wide, pupils dilating with terror. the way your hands fly to your chest, protective and futile. the way your breathing goes shallow, like you're drowning on dry land. beautiful. absolutely fucking beautiful.

“please,” you whisper, and something in his chest tightens. something that feels dangerously close to conscience, but he's having too much fun to stop now. “please, i—”

“now, now,” he drawls, taking a step closer. close enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes—those impossible eyes that burn like winter frost touched by flame. close enough that he can see the pulse hammering at your throat, fast and frantic. “don't look at me like that, sugar. like i'm some kinda monster.”

but he lets his gaze rake over you slowly, deliberately. lets it linger on the curve of your breasts, the way your dress clings to your waist, the smooth line of your thighs. lets you see him looking. lets you feel the weight of his attention like hands on your skin.

“you think i'm gonna hurt you?” he asks, and his voice is soft. conversational. like he's asking about the weather instead of the fear painting your face pale. “think i'm gonna hold you down and take what i want?”

you flinch at the words, and he has to bite back a groan. the way terror looks on you should be wrong, should make him feel sick. instead, it makes him want to see what other expressions he can pull from you. what other sounds.

“the thought's crossed your mind, hasn't it?” he continues, circling you slowly. predatory. hair like spun starlight catching the dying light from the windows. “big, scary man like me. isolated house. no one around for miles.” he pauses behind you, close enough that his breath ghosts across your neck. “bet you can already feel it, can't you? my hands on your skin.”

you shudder, and he knows he's hit the mark. knows you're imagining exactly what he wants you to imagine. your body betrays you—the way you lean away from him, the way your hands shake, the way your breath catches when he speaks.

“stop,” you whisper, but there's no real force behind it. you're caught between fear and something else, something that makes your pulse quicken for reasons that have nothing to do with terror.

“stop what?” he asks, moving back into your line of sight. “stop telling the truth? stop making you think about what it would feel like?” he reaches out, fingers barely grazing your cheek. “stop making you wonder if you'd like it?”

the slap comes fast, sharp, and he catches your wrist before you can pull away. his grip is gentle but immovable, and he tsks softly.

“now that's just rude,” he says, but he's grinning. “here i am, being a perfect gentleman, and you're trying to mark up my pretty face.”

“gentleman?” you spit, and there's fire in your eyes now. anger burning through the fear. “you're sick.”

“maybe,” he agrees easily. “but i'm also patient. and i do so enjoy watching you squirm.”

he releases your wrist and steps back, putting space between you again. the absence of his touch is almost as unsettling as the presence of it, and he can see you struggling to recalibrate. to figure out what game he's playing.

he watches your face for a long moment, drinking in the terror, the way your mind is clearly spinning through every horrible possibility. the way you're looking at him like he's already got his hands on you. like you can feel phantom touches burning across your skin.

his eyes drop to your mouth—your lips parted with quick, shallow breaths. soft. probably sweet. definitely something he wants to taste. the impulse hits him like lightning, sudden and electric, and before he can think better of it, he's moving closer.

one hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin with surprising gentleness. the other braces against the wall behind you, caging you in. your eyes widen, confusion replacing terror as he leans in, and christ, you smell like dust and fear and something uniquely you that makes his head spin.

“what are you—” you start, but the words die as he gets closer. close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your skin, close enough that your breath mingles with his.

his eyes—pale as winter sky, bright as lightning—flick down to your mouth again. back up to your eyes. down again. he's so close now that he can see the tiny flecks of gold in your irises, can count your eyelashes, can feel the way your body trembles with each ragged breath.

“just wondering,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, “what you taste like.”

and then he's leaning in, closing that final distance, and you—

you close your eyes.

the realization hits him like a physical blow. here you are, terrified and trapped and completely at his mercy, and you're tilting your face up to meet his. your lashes flutter against your cheeks, dark and delicate, and your lips part just slightly in unconscious invitation.

beautiful. so fucking beautiful it makes his chest ache.

for a heartbeat, he hovers there. a breath away. close enough that he can feel the warmth of your skin, can smell the salt of unshed tears and the sweet scent of your hair. close enough that all he'd have to do is lean forward just a fraction more and he'd be tasting you, claiming you, taking what he wants because he's always been impulsive as hell and you're looking at him like—

like you want him to.

but something stops him. maybe it's the way your hands are shaking. maybe it's the memory of his mother's voice, telling him that real men don't take advantage. maybe it's the fact that you just tried to kill him and he's not sure if this is surrender or strategy.

whatever it is, he pulls back.

just a fraction. just enough to break the spell.

and then he laughs.

the sound is rich and genuine and entirely too amused, echoing off the dusty walls of his mother's house. it's the kind of laugh that makes you feel like you're missing the punchline to some cruel joke, and your eyes snap open, confusion and hurt flashing across your features.

“didn't peg you for the type to fall for a man that fast,” he says, voice dripping with mock surprise. “you must be real easy, darlin'.”

the words hit you like a slap, and he watches the progression of emotions across your face—confusion melting into embarrassment, embarrassment burning into rage. your cheeks flame red, and you look like you want to disappear into the floorboards.

“you—” you start, voice thick with mortification, but he's already moving away, putting distance between you again.

“what exactly did you think i was asking you to do?” he continues, reaching into his saddlebags and tossing you a bundle of clean clothes. the fabric hits your chest and you catch it reflexively, still staring at him like he's lost his mind.

“strip,” he repeats, voice dripping with mock innocence. “as in, take off those filthy rags and put on something clean. you know, basic human hygiene?” he tilts his head, studying you with those impossible eyes that seem to see right through you. “what did you think i meant?”

the realization hits you like a physical blow, and he can see the exact moment your brain catches up to what just happened. the way your eyes widen further, the way the color in your cheeks deepens from pink to scarlet.

“you're filthy,” he continues, his grin widening as he watches you struggle with the whiplash of emotions. “and you smell like horse. there's a washbasin in the kitchen, pump's out back. get cleaned up.” he pauses, letting the moment stretch. “unless, of course, you'd prefer to stay dirty. some folks are into that sort of thing.”

“you—you bastard,” you stammer, and your voice is thick with humiliation and fury. “you did that on purpose.”

“did what?” he asks, all wide-eyed innocence even as his eyes glitter with amusement. “asked you to change clothes? seems pretty reasonable to me.” he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. “can't help it if you've got a dirty mind, darlin'. and apparently a weak spot for pretty faces.”

the look you give him could melt steel, but there's something else there now. embarrassment that goes bone-deep, rage that makes your whole body tremble, and underneath it all, something that might be wounded pride. like you can't believe you fell for it. can't believe you actually thought he was going to kiss you.

can't believe you wanted him to.

“what's the catch?” you ask through gritted teeth, clutching the clothes to your chest like armor.

“no catch,” he says, and for once he's not lying. “just can't have you stinking up my house.” he pauses, then adds with a wicked grin, “and if you need help with any buttons or laces, just holler. i'm real good with my hands.”

you clutch the clothes tighter, and he can see you trying to decide if that was another threat or just more of his twisted sense of humor. the uncertainty in your eyes is almost as entertaining as the fear was. almost as satisfying as the way you'd looked at him when you thought he was going to kiss you.

“the kitchen?” you ask, voice barely controlled.

“through there,” he says, nodding toward the doorway. “and sugar? don't even think about running. i told you—i'll find you. and next time, i might not be so generous.”

you take a step toward the kitchen, then pause. turn back. there's something in your expression that he can't quite read—calculation, maybe, or the beginnings of a plan. or maybe just the desire to salvage some dignity from this train wreck of a conversation.

“you think you're real clever, don't you?” you say, and there's steel in your voice now. fire. “getting me all worked up like that.”

“worked up?” he echoes, and his grin turns predatory. “is that what we're calling it? here i thought you were just scared of a little soap and water.”

the blush that spreads across your cheeks is beautiful, and he files the image away for later. for when he's alone with his thoughts and his hand and the memory of the way you looked at him like he was going to devour you whole. the way you'd closed your eyes and tilted your face up to his like you wanted him to.

“go on,” he says, shooing you toward the kitchen with one hand. “get cleaned up. and take your time—i'm not going anywhere.”

you disappear into the kitchen without another word, and he's left alone with the ghosts and the dust and the sound of his own breathing. but also with something new. something that feels like anticipation, like the moment before a storm breaks.

through the doorway, he can hear you moving around. the creak of floorboards, the splash of water, the rustle of fabric. his imagination fills in the details, and he has to adjust himself in his pants because apparently nearly dying hasn't done anything to dampen his body's reaction to you.

especially not after that moment. that breath of space where you'd looked at him like you wanted to be kissed. where you'd closed your eyes and leaned into him like you trusted him not to hurt you.

like you wanted him to hurt you in all the right ways.

the wound in his side throbs with each heartbeat, a reminder of how close he'd come to dying today. how close he'd come to never making it home. but now he's here, in his mother's house, with a beautiful woman who tried to kill him washing herself in his kitchen.

it feels like the beginning of something dangerous and necessary and entirely too tempting to resist.

left alone, satoru feels the house settle around him like an old coat, all creaking wood and familiar ghosts. sunset bleeds through dusty windows, painting everything in shades of copper and regret. his wound throbs with every heartbeat, a steady reminder of how close he’d come to meeting his maker today. how close he’d come to never seeing this place again.

satoru grimaces, his jaw clenching as he shrugs off his duster. the movement pulls at torn skin, and he lets the leather fall to the floor in a heap of dust and regret. his shirt comes next, pale fingers working the buttons with practiced precision despite the tremor in his hands. he hisses through his teeth as the fabric pulls against torn skin, broad shoulders rolling to ease the sting. the cotton is ruined—dark with blood and dirt, beyond salvation. like most things in his life, really.

he catches his reflection in the mirror above the mantel and almost laughs. he looks like hell—chest streaked with blood and grime, muscles tight with tension, that deep gash just beneath his ribs still weeping red. there’s a bruise blooming across his shoulder where someone’s fist had connected, and scratches on his arms from the scrub brush and flying bullets. he’s all sharp edges and bad decisions, and somehow he’s still breathing.

the pump out back protests when he works the handle, rust flaking off like old skin. his forearms strain against the stubborn metal, tendons standing out beneath sun-weathered skin. the water runs brown at first, then clear and cold enough to make him curse. he soaks a cloth and presses it to the wound, biting back a groan at the sharp bite of pain.

through the kitchen window, he can see you moving around. shadows and glimpses of skin, the sound of water splashing. his imagination fills in the details—the way you’d look bent over the basin, soap sliding down your spine. the way his shirt would hang loose on your frame, the way it would smell like him when you put it on.

christ, he’s losing his mind. getting stabbed and then kidnapping your would-be killer—his mother would’ve boxed his ears for this kind of stupidity. but then again, mama had always said he had a weakness for lost causes and pretty faces. looks like death hadn’t changed that particular character flaw.

“how long does it take to scrub off a little betrayal?” he mutters, pressing the cloth harder against his ribs. the bleeding has slowed but not stopped, and he can feel exhaustion creeping in around the edges. blood loss, probably. or maybe just the weight of this godforsaken day finally catching up to him.

he glances toward the kitchen again. still no sign of you. maybe you’re plotting another escape attempt. maybe you’re just taking your sweet time to spite him. either way, he’s got nothing but time and bleeding wounds to keep him company.

the sound of bare feet on wood floors makes him look up, and then you’re there in the doorway, and his brain promptly forgets how to function.

you’re wearing his shirt—way too big, sleeves rolled sloppily up your forearms, the hem brushing mid-thigh. his pants are tied at your waist with the cord he’d tossed you, bunched and folded but somehow still managing to cling to your hips. your hair’s damp, sticking to your cheekbones, and there’s a smear of soap behind your ear that he wants to lick off.

barefoot and clean and wearing his clothes, you look like trouble. like the kind of temptation that gets good men killed and bad men redeemed. like something he should run from if he had any sense left.

the moment his gaze lands on you, it sticks. travels from your bare legs to the way his shirt gaps at your throat, to the pulse point he can see hammering beneath your skin. the corner of his mouth lifts in appreciation, and his eyes—pale as winter sky, sharp as fractured glass—drag over you with undisguised hunger.

“well, don’t you clean up nice,” he drawls, voice rougher than he intended. his head tilts slightly, studying you like a predator contemplating prey. “almost makes me forget the whole stabbing part.”

you roll your eyes, but he catches the way you shift your weight from foot to foot, the way your hands fidget with the oversized sleeves. your chin lifts in defiance even as heat creeps up your neck. “you bleeding out yet, or just fishing for compliments?”

he nods toward his side, where crimson is still seeping through his makeshift bandage. his smile turns lazy, dangerous. “come take a look. unless you’d rather finish what you started.”

you hesitate for a beat, teeth worrying your lower lip, and he can see the wheels turning behind your eyes. calculating. weighing options. then you sigh, roll your eyes again, and walk over with that purposeful stride that makes his pulse quicken. your bare feet make no sound on the wooden floor, but he tracks every step.

“sit,” you command, and there’s something different in your voice now. less fear, more exasperation. your hands find your hips, pushing the oversized shirt tight against your curves. “if you pass out, i don’t wanna drag your corpse.”

he settles into the chair with a grunt, spreading his legs wide and leaning back. the position puts you between his thighs when you step closer, and he doesn’t miss the way you tense at the proximity. doesn’t miss the way your breath catches when you get your first good look at the damage. his eyes—moonlight and mischief—never leave your face.

“you gonna patch me up or spit in it first?” he asks, tilting his head to watch your expression. his voice drops to a murmur, intimate in the dusty air.

“you deserve worse,” you mutter, but your hands are already moving, peeling away the blood-soaked cloth with surprising gentleness. your fingertips brush his skin, and he watches the way you flinch at the contact, the way your pupils dilate despite your scowl.

“you keep saying that, sugar, but your hands are shaking.” his voice is silk and smoke, and he leans forward slightly, invading your space. close enough that he can smell the soap in your hair, the lingering scent of his own skin on his clothes.

“i’m just trying not to punch you again.” your jaw clenches, but you don’t pull away. if anything, you lean closer, your breath ghosting across his chest as you examine the wound.

“cute.” the word rumbles from his throat, and his smile turns wicked. his fingers twitch against his thighs, fighting the urge to touch.

you shoot him a look that could melt steel, your eyes flashing with fury and something else—something that makes his blood sing. but you don’t pull away. instead, you lean closer, studying the wound with the kind of focus that speaks of experience. too much experience for someone who should be playing tea parties and picking wildflowers.

“it’s not as bad as it looks,” you say finally, and there’s something clinical in your tone. professional. your fingers trace the edges of the wound without quite touching, and he can feel the heat of your palm against his skin. “missed anything vital. you’ll live.”

“disappointed?” his voice is barely above a whisper, and when you glance up at him, he’s close enough that you can see the flecks of silver in his eyes, the way his pupils have blown wide.

“jury’s still out.” your words are breathless, and he watches the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips. watches the way your gaze drops to his mouth before snapping back up.

he chuckles, and the sound makes you glance up at him. for a moment, something passes between you—recognition, maybe. understanding. like you’re seeing past the blood and the bravado to something real underneath. the air between you crackles with tension, with the kind of heat that has nothing to do with the setting sun.

then you’re moving again, cleaning the wound with careful precision. your touch is gentle but sure, and he finds himself watching your face instead of what you’re doing. the way you bite your lip when you concentrate, leaving tiny indentations in the soft flesh. the way your lashes cast shadows on your cheeks. the way you hold your breath around blood like you’re trying not to breathe in the memories.

“they took you young, didn’t they?” he murmurs, and you flinch like he’s struck you. his voice is soft, almost gentle, and that makes it worse somehow.

“you don’t know shit about me.” your hands still for a moment, trembling against his skin before you force them to keep working.

“no,” he agrees, voice soft. his fingers twitch, wanting to touch your face, to smooth away the pain he can see etched there. “but i know the look.”

you don’t respond, just keep working. but he can see the tension in your shoulders, the way your movements have gone rigid. the way you’re holding yourself like you might shatter if he says the wrong thing. he’s hit close to home, and part of him wishes he hadn’t. part of him wants to take it back, to let you keep your secrets and your walls.

but the other part—the part that’s always been too curious for his own good—wants to dig deeper. wants to know what made you this way. what turned a girl who should be worried about dress patterns and sunday socials into someone who can patch a bullet wound without blinking.

“there,” you say finally, taping down a strip of cloth with more force than necessary. your movements are sharp, efficient, but he can see the way your hands shake slightly. “try not to get stabbed again before it heals.”

he hisses through his teeth at the tight binding, but he’s grinning. his eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s something almost fond in his expression. “you enjoy hurting me, don’t you?”

you step back, and there’s something almost like a smirk playing at your lips. your arms cross over your chest, pushing his shirt taut against your curves. “a little.”

“if you were trying to kill me, sugar, you should’ve aimed for the heart.” he pushes himself up from the chair, movements fluid despite the pain. he’s tall, broad-shouldered, and when he stands this close you have to tilt your head back to look at him.

“if i wanted your heart,” you shoot back, chin lifting in challenge, “i’d have to dig through a whole lot of ego first.”

he throws back his head and laughs—really laughs, the sound rich and warm in the dusty air. his throat works, and you can see the way his chest moves with each breath. “christ, you’re mean. i like that in a woman.”

“lucky me.” you turn away, but not before he catches the flush creeping up your neck, the way your breathing has gone shallow.

you finish cleaning up, fingers smudged with his blood, and step back like the sight of him disgusts you. it probably does. he’s shirtless and scarred and grinning like a fool, all sharp angles and dangerous promises. muscles shifting under skin that’s marked with violence and time. but there’s something in your eyes when you look at him—something that isn’t quite hatred.

“don’t suppose you’re a good little housewife who makes dinner after a long day of stabbing,” he says, pushing himself up from the chair with a grunt. every muscle in his body protests, but he forces himself to move. weakness is invitation, and he’s not ready to show you any more of his throat than you’ve already seen.

you scowl, but he catches the way your gaze drops to his chest, to the bandage wrapped around his ribs. “don’t suppose you’re the type who says thank you either.”

“thank you,” he parrots, drawing out the syllables with a smirk. the words taste strange on his tongue, foreign after years of taking care of himself. his head tilts, and those pale eyes study you with renewed interest. “now shut up and eat.”

he saunters to the saddlebag by the door, muscles shifting under skin that’s still damp with water and blood. his movements are deliberately casual, calculated to draw your attention. he can feel you watching him, and he makes sure to give you a good show. broad shoulders, narrow waist, the kind of confidence that comes from knowing you’re dangerous and not caring who knows it.

the canvas pouch hits the table with a soft thud, and he settles into the chair across from you. inside the bag: two strips of smoked jerky, a handful of stale crackers, dried apple slices, and a tin of beans that’s probably older than you are.

“gourmet,” you say flatly, poking at the jerky with one finger. your nose wrinkles slightly, and he finds the expression endearing despite himself.

“better than whatever rot you were cooking with your friends in the woods.” he tears into his own piece with sharp canines, and you can’t help but watch the way his jaw works.

you sit across from him at the rickety kitchen table, and he’s struck by how domestic it feels. no plates, no cutlery, just fingers and attitude and the kind of tension that makes the air thick as honey. he tears into the jerky with his teeth and watches you eat like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“careful,” he says, tone easy but eyes sharp. his fingers drum against the table, pale and long and stained with his own blood. “i counted what’s in there. you pocket anything, i’ll know.”

“you counting how many times i sigh, too?” you chew deliberately, jaw working in a way that makes his mouth go dry.

“yeah. and so far, it’s insufferable.” his smile is all teeth and trouble, and he leans back in his chair like he’s never been more entertained.

you chew louder just to piss him off, and he smiles around a mouthful of cracker like he’s never been more entertained. this is what he’s been missing—someone who gives as good as they get. someone who doesn’t flinch when he shows teeth.

“so,” he says, leaning back in his chair. his arms cross over his chest, and you can see the way the muscles in his forearms shift. “what’s your real name?”

“what’s it matter?” you mirror his position, and he doesn’t miss the way the movement makes his shirt gape at your throat.

“might be nice to know what to carve on your headstone.” his tone is conversational, but there’s steel underneath. his eyes never leave your face, cataloging every micro-expression.

“optimistic, aren’t you?” you lean forward slightly, and he can smell the soap in your hair again. it’s maddening.

“i’m a planner.” his voice drops to a murmur, intimate despite the threat.

you snort, and the sound is almost fond. almost. your lips curve in what might be a smile if you weren’t so determined to hate him. “you plan on killing me?”

“haven’t decided yet. depends on how entertaining you are.” he tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he’s trying to solve. “and so far, you’re exceeding expectations.”

“and if i bore you?” there’s challenge in your voice, in the way you hold yourself. like you’re daring him to try.

“then i guess we’ll find out how deep the well out back really is.” but his tone is almost playful now, and there’s something in his eyes that wasn’t there before. something that looks dangerously like affection.

you should be scared. should be begging or bargaining or trying to run. instead, you’re sitting there eating his food and trading threats like it’s the most natural thing in the world. like you’re not afraid of him at all.

maybe you should be.

maybe he should be afraid of you.

the thought sends heat spiraling through his chest, and he has to look away. out the window, the sun is setting properly now, painting the sky in shades of violence and promise. soon it’ll be dark, and then there’ll be nothing but you and him and the ghosts in these walls.

“finish up,” he says, pushing back from the table. his movements are fluid, controlled, but you can see the way he favors his injured side. “it’s getting late.”

“what, no dessert?” you lean back in your chair, and the movement makes his shirt ride up slightly. he notices. of course he notices.

“if you’re good, maybe i’ll let you have some of the whiskey i found in mama’s pantry.” his smile is sharp as broken glass, and his eyes—pale as frost, dangerous as winter—never leave your face.

“and if i’m bad?” your voice drops to a whisper, and there’s something in your tone that makes his blood sing. something that sounds almost like invitation.

he grins, and it’s all teeth and trouble. his head tilts, predatory and pleased. “then i guess we’ll have to find other ways to entertain ourselves.”

you don’t respond, just watch him with those clever eyes as he moves around the kitchen. he’s checking windows, making sure the latches are secure. his movements are purposeful, efficient, but you can see the way he’s favoring his injured side. the way he moves like a man who’s been hurt before. making sure you can’t slip out in the middle of the night and leave him bleeding in his mother’s house.

“you don’t trust me,” you observe, watching the way his shoulders move beneath scarred skin.

“would you?” he glances over his shoulder, and his smile is sharp as a blade. there’s something almost admiring in his expression, like he appreciates your honesty.

“probably not.” you stand, and the movement makes his shirt shift around your thighs. he notices. he always notices.

“smart girl.” the words are rough with approval, and he has to turn away before he does something stupid. like reach for you. like forget that you tried to kill him just hours ago.

he moves through the house with purpose, checking every possible exit. the window in the bathroom—locked. the one in the room next to his—latched tight. the one in what will be your room—secured with a chair propped under the sill for good measure.

you follow him like a shadow, bare feet silent on the wooden floors. he can feel your presence behind him, warm and dangerous and entirely too distracting. when he lingers by your door, you glare at him from the bed like a hissing cat in a too-big shirt. your legs are curled under you, and he can see the way his shirt has ridden up to expose the curve of your thigh.

“if you lock me in,” you say, voice flat as a blade, “i will break a chair through that window.” your chin lifts in challenge, and there’s fire in your eyes. promise and threat all rolled into one.

“just keeping the wildlife out, sugar. and by wildlife, i mean you.” his voice is honey and steel, and he leans against the doorframe like he has all the time in the world. like he’s not fighting the urge to step closer, to see what you’d do if he did.

he informs you flatly, voice taking on that authoritative edge that brooks no argument: “you’re in the room across from mine. don’t bother trying the front door—barred it already. pump’s out back if you need to wash that filthy mouth.” his eyes drop to your lips as he says it, and you can see the way his jaw clenches.

you bristle at the casual dismissal, at the way he’s arranging your life like you’re a doll in a dollhouse. your hands clench into fists, and he can see the way your breathing has gone shallow. “and if you’re thinking of running,” he continues, his voice dropping to a whisper, “just remember—i don’t miss twice.”

your response is to slam the door in his face, hard enough to rattle the frame. but not before he sees the way you bite your lip, the way your eyes flash with something that might be excitement. he chuckles, low and pleased, and heads to his own room. the sound of your frustrated cursing follows him down the hall, and he finds himself grinning despite the exhaustion weighing down his bones.

his mother’s room—his room now, he supposes—is exactly as she left it. lace curtains and faded quilts, the smell of lavender and old roses. he strips off his boots and settles onto the bed with a grunt, every muscle in his body screaming for rest. the sheets are soft against his skin, and he can still smell your soap in his hair.

but he doesn’t close his eyes. instead, he reaches for his revolver, checks the chambers, and places it within easy reach on the nightstand. old habits die hard, and he’s not about to let his guard down just because you’re pretty and wearing his shirt.

through the thin walls, he can hear you moving around. pacing, maybe. plotting, probably. the floorboards creak under your feet, and he finds himself mapping your movements. three steps to the window, pause, four steps to the door. back to the window. back to the door. he can picture you in his mind—barefoot and furious, his shirt hanging loose around your thighs as you plan your next move.

you’re caged, and you know it. caged and furious and probably scared, though you hide it well. he should feel guilty about that. should feel something resembling remorse for taking your freedom, for making you a prisoner in his mother’s house.

but all he feels is anticipation. like the moment before a storm breaks, when the air goes electric and everything holds its breath. like the moment before a gunfight, when time slows and the world narrows to a single point of contact.

he stares at the ceiling, listening to your restless movements, and mutters: “what the hell have i brought into my mother’s house.” his voice is rough with exhaustion and something else. something that sounds dangerously like want.

but there’s a smile tugging at his lips. because he knows damn well what he’s brought home. trouble. temptation. the kind of woman who stabs first and asks questions later. the kind of woman who wears his clothes like armor and looks at him like she’s trying to decide if he’s worth the trouble.

and he’s never been more awake.

the house settles around them, full of shadows and secrets and the promise of tomorrow. somewhere in the distance, a coyote howls, and the sound makes him think of freedom and wild things and the way you’d looked at him when you thought he was going to die.

soon, he’ll have to decide what to do with you. soon, he’ll have to figure out if you’re worth the trouble you’ll undoubtedly cause.

but not tonight. tonight, he’s content to listen to you pace and plan and probably curse his name. tonight, he’s content to drift between sleep and waking, one hand on his gun and the other pressed to his wounded side.

tonight, he’s home. and for the first time in months, that feels like something worth protecting.

taglist: @sleepykittyenergy @caffine-exe

taglist is open, comment on the masterlist if you want to be added <3

#gojo satoru #gojo x female reader #gojo smut #gojo fluff #gojo x reader smut #gojo x reader fluff #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x y/n #jjk fluff #jjk smut #jjk x reader #jjk series

603 notes · View notes