#I don’t want to think about his dead body anymore :(

[savagebite]

heyyy sweet cheeks

love your work! could we get some simon hc? I remember you saying that he kinda manipulates us when we're trying to break up with him. I would love to see more of that! like him hurting himself, showing it to us and doing weird/creepy/manipulative shit in general.

xoxoxo

Heyyyy sugar bear! And of course! This will be in a depth headcanon list of how manipulative Simon is and overall what he does that is manipulative. <3

***Tw: Physical abuse, emotional abuse, manipulation, stalker behavior, and noncon. This is dead dove and is all fictional. Don’t like? Block me! ****

Manipulative! Simon x Gn!reader

-Simon is…a lot. In so many ways. He’s a lot of body, a lot of brain, and a lot of words. He’s a much bigger guy than any normal guy you’d walk by. So if you think you can fight back physically then you have the biggest confidence ever and I love that for you but let’s be serious.

-Simon at first comes off as a confident guy, but a little bit shy. A guy who’d be joking with friends but he wouldn’t be the one making everyone laugh.

-At the first part of the relationship he’s very sweet. He’d make you feel special, so loved with “good morning” texts and plethoras of “sweetheart” and “Baby” nicknames that will litter the disgustedly sweet messages he sends you.

-But they stop. Which is normal, “the honeymoon phases eventually” you’d think to yourself. But…his demeanor is so different. The once arm that was hooked around your shoulders is now resting near your lower back. To close for comfort near your ass.

-So you tell him that you don’t feel comfortable with him groping you in public. Oh. So you don’t like him showing you love? Well. He just won’t anymore. And so his “loving” touches stop.

-You have to beg him to even touch you again, that you miss his touch and you’d do anything to just have a hug. But he does more than hug you. And his touch isn’t a gentle as it once was during your love making. Your neck grows more bruises than you wanted…knees sore and bruised as well.

-He has all the passwords to your accounts, and you do to his. While other men would like bikini pics of other woman or would follow OF models, Simon doesn’t. Instead he follows you. Just you. And you follow just him. No one else. You’re not allowed to follow anyone else. At first you just had to unfollow other guys….then it was friends…then it was family.

-And you swear that he’s always so close when you need him. You’re lost? He’s there in a couple of minutes. It’s sweet, you think. But after an incident where you texted him if he could pick you up from a bar, he’s there within minutes. Like he was from just across the street. Or…somehow at the bar? That jacket he’s wearing hides his face well…

-If you do try to break up with him shit breaks loose. He’ll smash your phone, pointing to old scars that may or may not be self inflicted. Threatening himself, how the building you’re in is high. Really high.

“Do you want me to do that to myself because of you? Do you really want to be responsible for that? Huh?”

-You panic. Because Simon could do whatever he wanted to himself if he wanted. And what could you do about it?

-So you beg for forgiveness, sobbing into his big arms as you shake his head. And you sit there as he whispers disgusting things about how your his, and leaving him wouldn’t be possible.

-You eventually give up. What’s the point in going outside if he’s so close? You don’t need anyone else. His job pays enough for mostly everything. You don’t need to go outside.

[imaginechishiya]

Escape

Pairing: chishiya x reader (no pronouns mentioned)

Summary: chishiya finds you in the backyard after you had a nightmare.

Warnings: a whole lot of fluff, trauma, intercourse implied (no graphic details, it's just about the connection)

Word count: ~1.6k

gif credits

The scream died in your throat before it could escape. Your body shot upright, drenched in sweat, heart pounding like a war drum. The walls of the hotel room loomed around you, shadows crawling like insects. For a moment you weren't sure if you were still in the game, if the twisted reality of your nightmare had followed you into the waking world.

Your lungs forgot how to breathe.

Hands trembled uncontrollably as you clutched the blanket that had entangled itself around your legs. Your mind still echoed with the shrieks of the last game. A labyrinth of mirrors and blood, of faces you once knew turning monstrous, their final expressions carved into your memory. You could still feel the hot breath of a pursuer on your neck, still smell the metallic tang of fear.

You rocked forward, forehead pressing to your knees. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real.

But it was, wasn’t it?

Just not this time.

You stumbled out of bed and shoved open the sliding door that led to the backyard of the decrepit hotel. The cold air hit you like a slap, welcome and sharp. The pool was empty, no partying people in sight. The backyard was dead silent and even the stars above looked hollow.

You sat down on one of the old loungers, legs still shaking, wrapping your arms around yourself. The stillness was a rare gift here. In the Borderlands, quiet didn’t mean peace. It meant the storm hadn’t arrived yet.

A faint sound of footsteps approached. Soft, deliberate. You didn’t have to turn to know it was him. Chishiya.

He sat down beside you, his presence light but undeniable, like the brush of a breeze against skin. Pale-haired and unreadable, he seemed more ghost than man in the silver moonlight. You had seen each other here before, always in the quiet of night when sleep was too heavy or too cruel.

“You had a nightmare.” His voice was low, neutral. A statement, not a question. You nodded slowly, not trusting your voice yet.

In the Borderlands, pride was a useless thing. “It was the last game. The one with the mirrors. I thought I was past it. But they keep finding ways to claw back in.”

He was quiet, as if chewing on the image. “You survive here and it still doesn’t let you live.”

“That’s the worst part,” you muttered. “You keep surviving and surviving… until you don’t even know why anymore.”

He leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “This place doesn’t make people cruel. It just removes the layers that hide it.”

You turned to him. “You really believe that?”

Chishiya’s eyes flicked toward yours, sharp, steady, the only thing that ever gave him away. “People like to think they’re good because they’ve never been tested. The Borderlands just test everyone. Over and over. Until all that's left is the truth.”

“Then what’s your truth?” You asked, heart thudding again, not from panic this time, but something else.

He hesitated.

A flicker of emotion crossed his face, so fleeting you might’ve imagined it. “I don’t know anymore,” he said quietly. “I thought I didn’t feel anything. But I keep coming back to this spot. Same time. Same chair.”

Same you, was the unspoken thought.

The silence between you thickened, pulling tight like a string. There had always been a gravity between you, unacknowledged but undeniable. Something in his eyes told you he felt it too. Even if he didn’t want to.

He turned his gaze back to the pool, hands clenched in his lap. "I’ve watched people die. Made decisions that got others killed. Never blinked. But you…” He trailed off, jaw tightening. “You make me hesitate.”

The air between you felt charged, humming like a live wire. You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe both of you did. But suddenly you were closer. Your faces mere inches apart.

You saw the conflict in his eyes. That cold, brilliant mind trying to process what was happening, trying to calculate it like another game. But this wasn’t something that could be measured. It just was.

His hand brushed against yours, hesitant. Then, when you didn’t pull away, he closed the distance.

The kiss was slow. Testing. A question, not an answer. But it deepened quickly, hunger and fear and desperation spilling out in the space where words had failed you.

Chishiya broke it first, breathless, eyes wide, as if the moment had taken him by surprise.

"I shouldn’t…” he whispered. "I know.” You responded.

But you leaned into each other again anyway because shouldn’t had never meant anything in the Borderlands. Not when every day could be the last. Not when your heart ached for something real in a world built on games and death.

In that moment, you weren’t just survivors. You were human. And for once, it felt as if that was enough.

The kiss deepened, growing heavier. Less of a question, more of a plea. His breath hitched as you shifted in closer, your legs straddling him before either of you realised. You could feel the tension in his body, the way his hands hovered over your waist, unsure. Always calculating, always withholding.

But not now.

Now his fingers finally found you, tracing the shape of your hips with a hesitance that quickly gave way to hunger. They roamed upward, memorising every inch and you gasped against his mouth. Your own hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring yourself to something real in this nightmare world.

He broke away, forehead resting against yours. His voice was ragged, breathless. "I need you,” he whispered, barely audible. “So badly. But this… it’s not the right time.”

"I know,” You whispered, “But I don’t care. I need you too.”

His gaze searched yours, that familiar analytical sharpness softening into something raw. Then, without another word, he stood, lifting you easily in his arms. You clung to him, burying your face in the curve of his neck as he carried you through the quiet corridors of the hotel.

His room was cold and dim, but it didn’t matter.

The moment the door clicked shut, he set you down gently, his hands cupping your face as if afraid you might vanish. What followed was not desperation for escape or victory, not the frantic pace of the games you played by day. This was something else. Something sacred.

You undressed each other slowly, like peeling away layers of armor. His lips barely left yours, lingering on your skin as if trying to memorise it. Everything was slow, deliberate. A silent defiance against the chaos of the world outside.

There was something surreal about being in Chishiya’s room, the chaos of Borderlands sealed outside the door. The air was still but charged. Like the moment before a storm, except the storm wasn’t violent. It was something far more intimate.

As you moved toward the bed, it was with a quiet reverence, like crossing into sacred ground. There were no games here, no threats, no masks. Only the two of you. And that, somehow, felt more terrifying than any of the horrors outside.

His fingers brushed over your skin with a hesitation that surprised you. Not from lack of desire but from restraint, as if he feared that touching too deeply might break something inside both of you. For all his control, you could feel how carefully he handled you, like you were something fragile.

And yet, under that care, there was intensity. A kind of desperation that neither of you voiced but both understood.

Every time your lips met, it felt like you were trying to communicate things you couldn’t say. Apologies for everything you've had to become in order to survive. Each kiss lingered too long. Every touch burned with the question: What if this is a mistake?

When your bodies finally met, it wasn’t rushed. It was deliberate. Like you both needed to prove you were alive, here, still capable of something that wasn’t cruelty or calculation. Still capable of connection.

You felt him tremble, not from fear but from something deeper. Vulnerability. He held you like he was letting go of years of walls. And you let him see you completely, not just in body but in every guarded piece of yourself you'd kept hidden since you arrived in this cursed world.

There were no words. There didn’t need to be.

Everything you were feeling, the grief, the longing, the fear, the fierce, trembling hope, was in the way you touched each other. It wasn’t just passion. It was refuge. A space where, for a little while, you weren’t pawns or players. You weren’t just survivors.

You were people. Two broken, bruised souls who had found a brief escape in each other’s arms.

Afterwards, you lay tangled together beneath his thin blanket. The silence was warm now, not empty. Your head rested against his chest, rising and falling steadily. His arms wrapped around you like they didn’t know how to let go.

He didn’t speak for a long time. But you could feel the tension in him. Not physical anymore but emotional. Like he was standing at the edge of something he didn’t understand.

“I wasn’t supposed to feel anything here,” he finally said, voice quiet and strangely fragile. “Not care. Not connect. It’s how I’ve survived. But now… you’ve made everything unclear.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers along his collarbone. “You don’t have to figure it out right now.” He was quiet again, and when he finally spoke, it was almost a whisper. “But I want to.”

His hand found yours beneath the blanket, fingers intertwining. A simple gesture but in this world, in the Borderlands, it felt like something forbidden.

However, it was a welcoming escape from the reoccurring nightmares and the horrors you had to endure.

[boopieluvsyou]

HEY QUEEN, can you do a ghost face!travis x reader ?🙏🙏🙏

um yes??? this was kinda hard to write but i think i did good! *i do want to say never expect good writing from me- most days im very mid*

Do you like scary movies?

warnings- topics of abuse, descriptions of murder

The murders started in October.

First it was Mr. Lewis, a substitute for your English class. Nobody liked him, but nobody expected him to end up dead in the school parking lot. His body was found slumped over the steering wheel of his beat-up car, his blood staining the front seat in long streaks, like he’d tried to crawl away and didn’t make it. And next to him, left like a calling card, was a white Ghostface mask, staring blankly out the windshield.

At first, people called it a Halloween prank gone wrong.

Then someone else died.

A senior from the football team, Jason Monroe, was found two weeks later in the hallway near the gym. Same stab wounds. Same mask, this time placed upright against a locker door. The janitor found him, and by first period the school was crawling with cops, and the entire west wing was taped off like a crime scene in a movie.

After that, Wiskayok fell into chaos.

Theories multiplied: jealous exes, twisted revenge plots, satanic cults. Misty started carrying around a whistle and pepper spray she insisted was "detective-grade." Jackie launched into student council mode, organizing memorial posters with glitter borders. Jeff and Randy were interrogated twice. 

But in the middle of all that frenzy, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t random.

Because both victims had something in common, they had both had something to do with you.

Mr. Lewis had lingered too long at your desk one afternoon. Placed his hand on your shoulder like he had every right to, leaned in close and told you your handwriting was “too pretty to be real.” You laughed it off before needing to stand up abruptly due to the fact that he had closed the gap so much it felt hard to breathe. It had stuck with you. That uneasy chill, that feeling that a line was crossed without your permission.

And Jason? Jason had spread a rumor. Said you tried to hook up with him after a party when you were drunk. You weren’t even at the party. But by Monday morning, it was all over school. And when you asked him to stop, he just smirked and asked if you were mad you got caught.

---

The locker room echoed with the sound of wet cleats hitting the floor and metal lockers slamming shut. Practice had run long, and most of the team was too exhausted to talk. You sat on the bench, towel around your shoulders, pretending to scroll through a Walkman that wasn’t even on.

Shauna was peeling off her socks nearby, groaning dramatically. “I swear Coach is trying to kill us.”

“Maybe he’s Ghostface,” Van offered, brushing hair out of her face. “Builds up our stamina just to chase us down.”

Jackie snorted. “Please. Coach Martinez can’t even run half a lap.”

Tai looked up from her locker. “No but really, have you noticed how weird everyone’s been? Like, full-on paranoia. No one goes anywhere alone anymore.”

“Jason was kind of a dick though,” Van muttered, just loud enough. “And Mr. Lewis? Don’t get me started.”

Shauna made a face. “Still. It’s creepy. It’s like whoever’s doing it has a hit list.” Your stomach tightened.

You kept your eyes on the floor, pretending not to listen. But you felt them shift. Jackie nudged Shauna, not quietly enough. “Didn’t Jason used to say stuff about her?”

Your name wasn’t said, but it hung in the air anyway.

---

The third murder hit closer than the others.

This time it wasn’t a teacher or a football star. It was Lucy Varela, a junior who knew everyone’s secrets and spread them like wildfire.

Lucy sold information to upperclassmen in exchange for favors or money. She had helped Jason spin the rumor about you, the one that exploded your sophomore year. She always said it wasn’t personal, just business, but you never believed that.

Now she was dead.

Found face-down on a desk in the library, her back pierced by stab wounds. And, of course, another white Ghostface mask was propped gently behind her.

The school went into lockdown for hours. Whispers swirled that someone had been seen slipping through the stairwell, hiding in the shadows between stacks of books.

You didn’t go to sixth period that day.

You didn’t talk to the counselor or anyone else.

You went straight to your locker, hands trembling as you reached inside, and that’s when you found it. A folded note. You glanced quickly over your shoulder before unfolding the paper.

The ink was black, neat, familiar.

Tell me who deserves it next. - Ghostface

Your throat tightened, vision blurring for a moment.

Not because you were afraid.

Because a part of you, the cold, dark part, understood.

---

That night, sleep wouldn’t come.

Your Walkman played the same song on repeat as you lay staring at the ceiling. Because in the fragile quiet, your thoughts were on Travis.

You and Travis weren’t close, not in the way people called friendship. You didn’t sit side-by-side at lunch or walk the halls together. But he saw you. Really saw you.

Sometimes he’d find you behind the bleachers, earbuds in, sketchbook open, and he’d just sit there. Quiet. Just existing nearby, like the silence between you was something shared.

He never mentioned the rumors. Never treated you like a story. He just glanced from across a crowded hallway, slid a pencil to you when yours snapped. Little things. Quiet moments.

You wondered if anyone else noticed how his fists clenched when Jason passed. How he looked at Lucy like he wanted to say something but didn’t. How he slipped out of parties early, like he needed to breathe.

And lately, how his eyes lingered too long when you passed, not in a creepy way. 

---

The next day, the locker room felt heavier than usual.

The air was thick, as if everyone carried something they didn’t know how to name. Mari sat beside you, peeling athletic tape from her wrists.

“She messed with you,” she said without looking at you.

You didn’t ask who.

“She spread that thing. About the party.”

You tightened your laces. “You sound like you’re glad she’s dead.”

Mari’s eyes found yours. “I didn’t say that.”

Van collapsed onto the bench next to her, still catching her breath. “It’s getting closer. Like, it’s not just assholes anymore. It’s people we know.”

“I never liked Lucy,” Misty said from a few lockers down, carrying some flags towards the equipment room. “She cheated on the chemistry final and stole my answers.”

Van snorted. “That’s enough to get you killed?”

Misty shrugged. “People are complicated.”

---

Your home phone rang just past midnight, its sharp shrill slicing through the silence of your room. You stared at the screen, no caller ID, just a flashing question mark. Every hair on your skin prickled, your breath catching in your throat. You knew exactly who it was.

With trembling fingers, you picked it up.

“Hello?” Your voice was barely steady, the room suddenly feeling much colder.

There was a long pause. Then, from the other end, a voice low and rasping, like a shadow brushing against your ear:

“Do you like scary movies?”

You swallowed hard. The words felt like a trap.

“Who is this?” you managed.

The voice chuckled, dry, hollow, like the rustling of dead leaves. “You know who I am.”

Your pulse hammered, your mind racing through every nightmare you’d ever had.

“Why are you doing this?” Your voice cracked. “What do you want from me?”

“The list isn’t finished. The story isn’t over. Tell me, who deserves to be next?”

Your hands clenched the phone so tightly your knuckles whitened. You stared into the darkness of your room as if that could keep you safe.

“Travis,” you blurted suddenly, the name burning on your tongue. “Is this you? Stop playing games.”

Then, in a voice you barely recognized, strained, quiet, came a single word.

“No.”

A click.

Silence.

Your heart shattered into pieces as the line went dead.

For a long moment, you just held the phone, the last words hanging in the air, colder and heavier than the night.

---

The day dragged on like a slow, winding nightmare.

From the moment you stepped into Wiskayok High, the weight of the previous night’s call pressed down on your chest like a stone. You couldn’t shake the icy dread curling in your stomach, the paranoia that made every shadow a threat, every whisper a secret meant for you.

You kept glancing over your shoulder, scanning the crowded hallways, half-expecting to see the ghostly outline of that mask lurking just beyond sight. But no one approached. 

Not until after practice.

Travis hadn’t shown up that morning. Not at first period, not during lunch. Your heart clenched every time you caught yourself looking for him, an empty space in your day that echoed louder than any scream.

The rumor mill churned in the background, some said Travis was grounded, others whispered he’d skipped school to hide, to avoid suspicion. You tried not to listen, but the quiet questions, the stolen glances, followed you like a shadow.

Practice ended just as the sun dipped below the horizon, turning the sky a bruised purple. The field was almost empty, just you and a few stragglers gathering their things.

That’s when you heard footsteps.

Slow. Deliberate. Coming from the direction of the bleachers.

“Hey.” The voice was low, rough with emotion.

You spun around. There he was, Travis. His dark eyes caught the last rays of daylight, filled with something raw and desperate.

“What the hell, Travis?” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “Where were you all day?”

He hesitated, then stepped closer, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets.

“I needed to think,” he said quietly. “I had to figure out how to say this without making it worse.”

You crossed your arms, heart pounding in your ears. “Then say it.”

He took a breath, eyes locking onto yours with a fierce intensity. “It was me. The calls. The murders. I did it.”

Your stomach dropped, breath catching.

“Why?” you whispered.

“Because they hurt you. Because no one else was going to stop them.” His voice cracked, like he was breaking apart. “I wanted to protect you… but I lost control.”

Your chest tightened, breath hitching. You wanted to scream, to run, to shove him away from the edge of a darkness that threatened to consume you both. But instead, you swallowed the fear and anger twisting inside you, folding it away like a secret too heavy to carry out loud.

“How could you think that was protection? Murder isn’t protection, Travis.”

His face twisted with guilt, haunted and raw. “I know. I was wrong. I’m so sorry.”

A thick silence stretched between you, each second dragging like a stone through mud. The world felt impossibly quiet, distant. Then, without thinking, your hand rose, trembling slightly as your fingers brushed gently against his cheek.

His eyes fluttered closed at your touch, as if grounding himself in the warmth, the only anchor he’d known through so much pain.

Slowly, he leaned in.

Your lips met, soft, desperate, tangled with pain, regret, hope. It was a kiss full of unspoken apologies and fractured promises. You tasted the sharpness of fear on his breath, the lingering sadness that clung to him like a second skin. You kissed him not because you were sure it would fix anything, but because it was the only thing you could do, an offering of understanding in a world that suddenly felt cruelly out of control.

When you finally pulled away, your breaths came fast and shallow, mingling in the cool dusk air.

His dark eyes searched yours, vulnerable, pleading for something beyond forgiveness, maybe redemption, or just a chance to start over.

“I’ll stop,” he whispered, voice ragged but fierce. “For you.”

Your heart thundered painfully against your ribs, caught between relief and the crushing weight of what he’d admitted. “I want to believe that,” you said, barely more than a breath.

He reached out, his hand covering yours, grounding you both in the fragile truth of the moment.

“We’ll find another way,” he promised. “Together.”

---

The days that followed were heavy with unspoken fears. At school, Travis kept to himself, eyes dark and haunted, but he never avoided you.

Y You didn’t want more bloodshed. You didn’t want to lose him to the cycle of violence that had gripped his past. Lying awake in your bed at night, the moonlight spilling pale across the sheets, your thoughts spiraled.

There has to be another way.

The answer came slowly, like a faint light flickering in a dark room.

You thought of Coach Martinez, the man who had haunted Travis’s nightmares long before the murders began. The man whose cruelty had shaped the boy you cared for into someone capable of such pain. The bruises beneath long sleeves, the days Travis vanished without explanation to take care of his little brother, away from who you knew as your coach, but saw as a monster.

You hated the idea of killing. You hated the idea of blood on your hands, of crossing a line you couldn’t uncross.

But you hated even more the idea of letting coach keep hurting Travis.

A plan began to take shape in the quiet moments between fear and hope. What if you could protect Travis without letting him spiral any further? What if you could take the blame away from him and put it where it belonged?

When you finally told Travis your idea, his eyes flickered with surprise and cautious hope.

“We’ll make him take the fall,” you said softly. “We’ll make sure the mask, and everything gets blamed on him.”

He nodded, relief mingling with fear.

---

The night was cold and still as you and Travis slipped quietly through the darkened rooms of his childhood home. The house felt smaller than you expected, walls closing in with memories and shadows. Every creak of the floorboards beneath your feet was loud enough to echo through the silence.

You glanced at Travis. His jaw was tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides. This was the place where the worst of his past had lived, where bruises had been hidden under long sleeves, where nights had been filled with whispered threats and unbearable silence. This was the house he had run from but was about to confront.

You didn’t say anything as you followed him to the kitchen, where the coach stood by the counter, seemingly unaware of your presence. His back was turned to you, shoulders broad and rigid, the faint hum of a refrigerator filling the tense air.

Travis was moved fast, his hands gripping the knife. The fight was brief but brutal. You barely had time to process the sudden movement before coach was on the floor, the air thick with tension and the metallic scent of blood.

The mask, white and blank, lay beside the coach’s fallen form, chillingly out of place.

You knelt beside Travis as he struggled to steady his breath, the reality settling hard in his eyes.

You helped him collect himself, your hands steady despite the whirlwind inside.

Together, you arranged the scene, careful, methodical. The mask was placed where it would be found, evidence positioned to suggest the coach had taken his own life, overwhelmed and cornered by the weight of his actions.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t clean. But it was enough.

As dawn broke, the news spread, Coach Martinez was dead. The police called it suicide.

No one suspected the truth.

Just a few days later, the heaviness of everything still lingered, but with Travis by your side, it felt a little more bearable. You found yourself stealing quiet moments together, sitting under the cracked ceiling of your bedroom, talking in hushed tones, or simply sharing a look across the crowded hallways at school.

One evening, after a long day that felt like it could crush you, Travis pulled you close beneath the streetlights outside the school. The night air was cool, crisp, but his warmth against you made the cold fade away.

Without a word, he brushed a stray lock of hair from your face and kissed you, slow, steady, like he was promising you both a future beyond the chaos.

When you pulled back, your hands tangled in his jacket, and you smiled, a genuine, small smile that felt like hope.

---

A/N- I dont love this, I also feel like it UGH my OCD... pls dont glaze me btw. anyways :)

[izzyezalea]

Til the Last Round - Part 2

Word Count - 2,401

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Fem Reader

Final Part of 'Til the Last Round' - Part 1

The flat was too quiet. You’d left the telly on, low, background noise you didn’t register. Some war doc, ironically. Footage of desert sand and boots, gunfire dubbed over slow motion. It didn’t touch you. Nothing really did anymore.

Six months. That’s how long it’d been since the file landed on your desk like a weight. Official stamp. Short list. Four names. His at the bottom. No remains. No closure.

You were back behind a desk now. Pushing paper, giving updates to people with tired eyes who still had hope. You envied them. Loathed them, a bit. Hope was a luxury. Yours died with him.

You still wore the dog tag he gave you. One of his spares. It hung cold against your skin every day. Your little secret. Didn’t talk about him. Didn’t let yourself think too hard. Not when it hurt that bad. You’d done your crying in silence, behind locked doors, in the middle of the night when the flat felt too big and the bed too empty.

Sometimes, you’d swear you heard him. Heavy boots in the hall. A creak on the stairs. Stupid, really. But grief plays tricks.

Tonight was one of those nights. Thunder rolled in over the buildings. Proper storm. You lit a candle when the lights flickered. Sat on the couch. Pulled your knees to your chest. Didn’t cry. Didn’t move.

Then came the knock. Soft. Two taps. Not the postman. Not your neighbours. Something in your gut twisted. You stayed frozen for a beat too long, heart thudding. Then, another knock. One-two.

You stood slow. Walked to the door. Hand on the handle.

“Who is it?” you called, voice hoarse.

No answer.

You opened the door.

And stopped breathing.

There he was. Soaked from the rain, hoodie up, face mostly shadow, but you'd know him anywhere. The stance. The eyes. The weight of him in the doorway like a ghost. Literally.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you breathed. “No. No no—”

“It’s me,” he said, voice low. Gruff.

You backed up. Shaking. “No. You’re— I saw the file. They said you were—”

“Fake,” he said, stepping inside. Door clicking shut behind him. “They had to. For the mission.”

You stared. Couldn’t speak. He pulled the hood back. Same face. Same scar near his temple. Hair a bit longer. Eyes bloodshot and tired but alive. Real. Not a dream. Not a trick of grief.

“Say something,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You blinked, lips parting. “You fucking bastard.”

He nodded. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

You hit him. Chest, shoulder, then arms wrapping round him, fists pounding weakly until your knees gave out. He caught you. Held you. Strong and warm and solid and real. You sobbed into his chest. Loud. Ugly.

“Why,” you choked. “Why didn’t you—why didn’t they tell me?”

“Because you’d look,” he murmured. “And I needed to disappear.”

You pulled back, looking up at him. “You died. I buried you in my head.”

“I know.”

“They burned your file into the system. KIA. No body. No closure. What the fuck, Simon?”

He sighed, eyes pinched. “Deep op. Disavowed. No records. I wasn’t allowed to contact anyone. Not even Laswell. Only Price knew.”

You stared at him like you were seeing a ghost again. “And you just… let me think you were dead?”

“I had to,” he said, voice cracking. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“You always have a choice,” you snapped. “You chose not to tell me. You let me break.”

He flinched. You stepped away, arms crossed, shaking. “Do you know what that did to me?”

His silence was answer enough.

“I stopped living, Simon. I was waiting. Like a fuckin’ idiot. Thought maybe you weren’t really gone. Thought maybe one day you'd walk through the door like nothing happened.”

He stepped closer. “I’m sorry.”

You looked at him. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”

“I do.” He ran a hand through his hair, drenched strands sticking up. “I wanted to tell you. Every day. But they were watching. Had eyes on everything. If I contacted you, it would’ve put you in danger.”

You swallowed hard. “So you let me mourn you instead.”

“It was the only way to keep you safe.”

You stared at him. Torn. Wanted to punch him again. Wanted to kiss him. So you did the only thing you could.

“You’re a prick,” you muttered, grabbing his shirt, dragging him down.

Your lips met his. Not soft. Not gentle. Desperate. He kissed you back like he’d been starving. Hands gripping your waist. Pulling you in. Not letting go.

This time it wasn’t goodbye. It was finally.

You pulled apart just enough to rest your forehead against his. Breathing in the rain and the sweat and the ache between you.

“I thought I was going mad,” you whispered.

“You and me both.”

“I hated you.”

“I hated myself more.”

Silence settled again. Not the cold kind. The warm, heavy kind that came with truth.

“How long you back for?” you asked.

He hesitated.

You pulled back, suspicious. “Simon…”

“I’m done,” he said, eyes locked on yours. “Mission’s over. Ghost is off the grid. For good.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“I’m out,” he repeated. “Told Price I was finished. Too many ghosts, not enough man left. I’m not going back.”

“You serious?”

He nodded. “Only thing I’m sure of.”

Your knees nearly gave out again. “So what now?”

“That’s up to you,” he said quietly. “You want me gone—I’ll go. No questions. No fight. But if there’s a part of you that still—”

You kissed him again. Harder. Longer.

When you pulled back, you whispered against his lips, “Don’t ever fuckin’ leave me again.”

“Not a chance.”

You held him tight, fingers digging into his coat. Felt the rise and fall of his chest. The steady beat of his heart under your palm.

Alive. Here. Yours.

After a long silence, you pulled back just enough to speak. “You owe me a proper explanation.”

“I know.”

“And a shower.”

He half-smiled. “You offering?” You rolled your eyes. “Don’t push it.”

He followed you into the flat. Shut the door behind him. For once, you didn’t look back. You didn’t need to.

He was here. And this time, he was staying.

-----

Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to send me requests <3

Tags - @mymilkshakebear

[asher-agere]

Alien Stage!

Ok so. This is much later than I said it would be I’m SORRY. I struggled to write these a little bit because we never see the characters casually? Like I don’t have casual body language and dialect to pick up on… I wanted to write fanfics but that was just dead end. For these reasons I won’t be taking Alien Stage requests! But I’m always up for talking about it :3

ANYWAY. Have my thoughts on them all being babies. In no particular order/Lies. Shoutout to @st4rb4byyyyy and @amiagere for letting me know I got the right amount of angst as I bounced ideas off of them :3

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

Luka

⭑.ᐟ BABY. HE’S A BABY. Literally on his character wiki it mentions that he seems like an age regressor… Official wiki guys. Not agere space. SO UH YEAH. I reward him with the 1-4 age range

⭑.ᐟ Okay I think he’d be a permaregressor actually… I saw a theory that since he’s an artificial human he likely wasn’t placed into a newborn body, so his minds actually less developed than his body. So I think he’s permanently regressed like a few years younger than his physical age

⭑.ᐟ Must have something in his mouth at all times! Drools all the time… Sometimes he’ll suck on his fingers until they get all red and wrinkly, but a lot of the time he honestly prefers a sleeve. He doesn’t bite much! Just wants to suck on something. Pacifiers work but he doesn’t love them…

⭑.ᐟ Hyuna is his caregiver. He won’t accept anyone else and he’s incredibly possessive over her. He’s not at all afraid to tell her about his regression, she won’t turn him away right? After she joined the rebellion he basically treated her like a fictional caregiver, pretending she was there to take care of him

⭑.ᐟ He plays in incredibly morbid ways… Storytelling turns graphic, toys get set up for war, drawings are anyways covered in red crayon… First time caregiver Hyuna absolutely horrified but still trying to support him. The kind of kid to rip limbs off his toys and put them back wrong. His only form of traditional play is his rubix cube! 

⭑.ᐟ I think his first introduction to playing was with his clones in the scene where he killed them. He just wanted to play! Of course over time he learned. Hey that’s not how it works… But when he regresses he goes back to how he used to play. He’s almost broken Hyuna’s fingers multiple times because he’s just trying to bend them into different shapes. Imagine a baby playing with a parents hand but unlike a baby when he meets resistance due to bone he just applies more pressure

⭑.ᐟ Curls into fetal position… All the time. He’s in so much pain all the time… Overall he has a really weak body. He’s practically never given enough food to actually keep him full. He has migraines and a heart disease… He just needs to curl up and cry sometimes. It doesn’t physically help much at all but he’s trying…

⭑.ᐟ Breathing exercises are the best way to help him! Especially ones with counting… Especially especially counting on his fingers.  He still tracks his heart rate while regressed, he just can’t control it anymore. So when it gets out of the desired range he starts to panic, and it gets worse, so he just panics more, and it’s an endless cycle. A lot of the time he’ll literally hyperventilate to the point of passing out

⭑.ᐟ When he has meltdowns he usually ends up hurting himself! Hitting himself in the head or arms, sometimes biting! He finds it to be self soothing. It reminds him of his harsh training, he tells himself that the momentary pain makes him better in the long run and that’s a soothing thought for him. That pain is temporary. It’ll make him better

Till

✮⋆˙ Ough Till… Voluntarily regresses down to 4-7! Involuntarily though he’s a 1-3 baby. He WANTS to be a big kid! Wants to make his arts and crafts and run around and play. Instead doomed by the baby beam and forced to feel comforted by being swaddled…

✮⋆˙ Doesn’t have a caregiver! He asked Mizi to be his caregiver but she seemed uncomfortable with the amount of commitment that role required, so they settled on her being a babysitter! He doesn’t want to male her uncomfortable after all. Ivan has also offered up helping out! But Till doesn’t seem very interested in that, so he also stays as a babysitter. Sua is a last resort, never ends well

✮⋆˙ Loves arts and crafts! Especially in the toddler age range. He likes the idea of making things! Loves making things for Mizi and giving them to her, sometimes makes things for others but like. If it’s compared by what he gave Mizi they won’t feel as good about it anymore…

✮⋆˙ He always goes to Mizi when he’s voluntarily regressed! It’s when he can try to keep things more fun! He’s more in control of what he does and they can run around and play! But if Sua shows up… Mizi won’t pay as much attention to him anymore. He’s struck with the reminder that he’ll never be her top priority. And it’s a slippery slope into baby town! A slope he usually falls down head first

✮⋆˙ Very bitey baby… He’s gonna bite everything. He stops himself from biting Mizi! He doesn’t wanna hurt her. But Ivan gets bit whenever he watches Till (Ivan doesn’t mind). Don’t give him a pacifier, he’ll chew right through it, needs a proper teether. Also will chew holes in clothes and/or stuffed animals. He doesn’t realize what he’s doing. He’s just a little guy…

✮⋆˙ He never really liked the idea of Ivan taking care of him while he’s regressed, in fact he’s pointedly told Ivan that he wants to regress around him less. Ivan knows a lot of the little things that lead to Till slipping though, he’ll act on those triggers to trigger Till’s headspace because he wants to feel Till relying on him. For example when Mizi and Sua are busy together Ivan will go over to Till and start gently babying Till. During the times Till just wants to be alone

✮⋆˙ After the timeskip he only regressed alone, some of the members of the rebellion have seen Till while regressed, but he refuses to talk about it with them. He doesn’t want them to talk to him or touch him while he’s regressed. Completely non-verbal even after he gets his voice back. Even if he isn’t seeing Ivan there, he’s scared that talking might make him come back. That terrifies him more than anything else

✮⋆˙ More on post-timeskip Till. He’s very quick to try to hurt himself. How I interpreted the scars on his neck was he was imagining Ivan scratching his neck and choking him, but really he was the one doing it, or in trying to pry hands off of him that weren’t really there he ended up scratching himself. It’s not that he physically couldn’t talk, he didn’t want to. He was telling himself he couldn’t, searching for a way he was physically still broken to try and match how mentally broken he felt

✮⋆˙ Stopped voluntarily regressing after the timeskip. It’s 100% involuntary for him. He’ll just curl in on himself and cry. He usually likes to push himself in corners, with his back to the corner and his knees up to his chest. He can still look out to the world. But no one can sneak up on him. It’s the closest he can get to safety. Only exception to this is when he’s dealing with his hallucinations of Ivan, then he’ll hide under a blanket to try and get away. If Ivan’s there he’s already not safe, there’s no longer a point in his false sense of security

Hyuna 

༘⋆ Honestly I don’t really see Hyuna as a regressor? I see her as much more of a caregiver. Mainly for Luka, but sometimes Mizi, also various people in the rebellion at times… She’s a caregiver I’m telling you. But! I already talked about her taking care of Luka and I’ll get to her and Mizi! So little Hyuna! I’ll give her the age range of… 3-9! Big kid! Loves to be a big sister honestly, just doesn’t get many chances…

༘⋆ She started regressing at Anakt! I think she was helping Luka with his regression and she was just… Kind of curious. So she tried it herself! Coming up with little ways to help her feel tiny until she could get it to work. It was a lot of borrowing clothes from her brother and Luka, curling up hugging a pillow, maybe even a stuffed animal, and singing herself lullabies! (Singing herself early workshop versions of Wiege as she fully forms the song…)

༘⋆ Initially she wanted Luka to be her caregiver! It seemed like a perfect fit, they were always really close after all! But… I don’t think it went very well. Luka has little to no empathy, and while yes he wants to try as hard as he can for Hyuna especially… It doesn’t make sense to him. If she starts crying? What is he supposed to do? She likes to play games and he plays them morbidly wrong. She expects praise over every little thing… Of course he’s happy to praise her but he doesn’t UNDERSTAND praising her for something simple like brushing her teeth. Why does she need that? It ends up being a pretty upsetting experience

༘⋆ After the disaster of Luka as her caregiver she sort of gave up on regressing. It was mostly voluntary for her anyway, she didn’t need it. And when it tried involuntarily creeping up on her she could usually push it away. While she was with the rebellion I think she briefly accepted Jacob as her caregiver? He saved her after all. But of course he was killed… After that she just vowed never again. She pushed her regression away at all costs and when she couldn’t she isolated herself

༘⋆ Not enough people talk about her prosthetic leg… That’s rough for a little one to move around in! Especially because she wants to move around a lot… Doesn’t want to be carried around even though it would be easier for her. Ends up stumbling a lot because of it… But she refuses to crawl around unless she’s feeling really really young. So bandaids are always on stand by! If she gets ouchies she handles them like a pro!

Sua

୨୧ Tiiiny baby! 0-4 age range though! Absolutely head empty no thoughts kind of baby. Constantly looks vaguely upset unless she’s around Mizi, it’s not that she’s genuinely upset she just doesn’t smile much unless Mizi’s around. When she’s a toddler she’s pouty though, like she’s upset pretty frequently and wants to take it out on people, once again not around Mizi though! Mizi cures all sad feelings

୨୧ If you couldn’t already tell… Mizi is her caregiver. No questions asked. She does NOT like Till, and she isn’t very fond of Ivan either, she won’t even let them babysit her. If Mizi’s busy she’d rather isolate herself in her room than let one of the boys look after her. And when Mizi’s able to go see her the sweet girl will just hold her arms out with teary eyes, never wanting Mizi to leave her never ever again

୨୧ Incredibly clingy to Mizi! Sua planned to sacrifice herself for a long time, I think her conversation with Ivan changed her mind, that’s why they truly had a harmony in the end and their scores were so close, but most of the time… She truly planned to sacrifice herself if and when she was ever up against Mizi. She was viewing every moment with Mizi as precious time before she passed on for Mizi to keep going. I don’t think it was upsetting for her, she was at peace with that decision, but the idea of losing Mizi before she’s ready is beyond upsetting for the poor little girl

୨୧ She doesn’t like regressing in front of many people! Mizi of course, but she likes it when they’re in a secluded part of the garden, perhaps ever in one of their rooms. She doesn’t like anyone taking Mizi’s attention off of her, even for a second. Mizi is happy to comply of course! She likes focusing on Sua best, she’s happy to be away from any distractions and just focus on her little one

୨୧ Very particular with nicknames! Mizi’s favorite nickname to use with her is “Snowflake” hehe, in general likes snow themed nicknames because she loves how pure Mizi’s first impression of her was. But she hates nicknames that comment on physical appearance. She doesn’t want to be called “Beautiful” or “Gorgeous” or “Pretty”… I think her and Mizi have a mutual hatred for the word pretty. It’s a nice compliment to slip in but it should never be the main focus. She doesn’t want to be acknowledged for her looks

Mizi

𝄞 The widest age range honestly… 1-8 regressor! She prefers it when she regresses to her older ages so she can keep up her usual front of innocence easier, but when she’s a baby it’s harder to act oblivious to certain things that go on around her… So when she’s regressed down to a baby she likes being relatively on her own! Sua is generally an exception but sometimes she even tries to isolate herself from Sua

𝄞 Her main caregiver is Sua obviously! Till is a pretty frequently babysitter while she’s in her older ages though, and Hyuna was a temporary caregiver when Mizi was with the rebellion! I say temporary caregiver not babysitter to differentiate between Till and Hyuna’s roles. She was much closer to and more reliant on Hyuna, Till watching her was more like a kid visiting their uncle for the day instead of staying with her mom like usual. Still close, but not even close to permanent or the one she’s most reliant on. Hyuna is more like a foster parent, Mizi learned to rely on her but in a perfect world Hyuna would still never be her first choice

𝄞 Sua is the only one Mizi can truly be herself around, she can be herself and be comfortable! Around Sua she doesn’t need to hide things, even though she still tries to put on a smile for her caregiver! Mizi loves to just happily babble to Sua about how amazing she is, Sua is happy to brush through Mizi’s hair with the smile, thanking the girl for her praise, even if Mizi’s in her younger ages and it isn’t very intelligible

𝄞 Till as a babysitter is only for kiddo Mizi! Till… Isn’t as subtle with his crush as he tries to be. Mizi’s aware of it, but it still grosses her out. She doesn’t like the way she feels like Till objectifies her, plus… That’s a boy. Why does everyone keep saying she’s supposed to like boys? It’s kinda gross/ref While in a kiddo headspace she can act oblivious like she usually is! But… Baby Mizi lashes out. And she doesn’t wanna hurt Till… He is really sweet…

𝄞 Mixed feelings about play dates with Till… She loves the idea of it! Till is fun to play with! But little Till is even less subtle about his crush when he’s tiny… He gets all pouty when she’s paying attention to literally her caregiver, and he always stares at her… Why is she expected to care about cheering him up when this is her time to relax? Play dates usually happen when Till’s voluntarily regressed so he’s in a bigger headspace age, he’s doing this voluntarily, she isn’t, why do his feelings need to take priority?

𝄞 Hyuna as a caregiver! Hyuna sees Mizi at her worst, when the poor girl doesn’t really have the energy to hide behind her mask anymore. She still tries to stay strong, choose the right things, but very often Hyuna has to explain to a little Mizi about how people dying now hurts, but it’s to save people in the future! Little Mizi doesn’t have a very good grasp on that concept. She doesn’t like the way Hyuna dismisses Sua’s death

𝄞 Really likes it when Hyuna brushes her hair! Her hair isn’t long like it used to be when Sua would brush it, and that’s upsetting, but still the feeling of someone brushing her hair is soothing enough! Luckily Sua never really styled it much, just liked to brush it, so it doesn’t feel all that different

𝄞 Has a tendency to lash out at people… Certain wording can trigger her and she’ll just lash out without thinking, she can’t hold herself back like she can while she’s big. Sometimes it’s wording, being called “pretty” or someone saying it “must be nice” or “how cute”. She doesn’t want to hurt people! It’s just… Certain words make her think about bad things. She doesn’t want to think about bad things

Ivan

ᯓ★ Ivan… Little guy… 0-5 age range! Very much head empty no thoughts kinda guy in his baby age range, but when he’s in a kiddo age range he’s pretty smart! Always plotting and scheming something… Whether it’s ways to get more attention or the right things to say to earn him another cookie. He’d also enjoy brain teasers! He likes feeling smart

ᯓ★ Time for my ranting to really start… He wants Till to be his caregiver. Till… Isn’t very enthusiastic about that idea. Being a caregiver really isn’t comforting to Till, so why would he want to do that? He’s okay with like babysitting, but even that he’s a little hesitant to do at times, so being a full time caregiver? Ivan responded respectfully to this! Even though it really hurt him. He really wanted at least that little way to be close to Till, but Till is showed him little to no interest in being in that role

ᯓ★ Ivan during his times regressing with Till looking after him… He loves it. Ough he’s absolutely overjoyed. He’s getting Till’s attention! Till cares about him! And… Well he wants more of it. He can’t help himself. He just slips in little comments, sleepy mumbling mentioning how he knows Till doesn’t really like him. Self depreciating comments, calling himself unlovable. It makes Till feel awful. And… Eventually he gives in! He agrees to be Ivan’s caregiver and Ivan is absolutely overjoyed. All he needed to do was say how he felt!

ᯓ★ Ivan sometimes will try to reach out to Mizi to babysit him? But only as an absolute last resort. He wants Till obviously, most of the time if Till is busy he’d rather just regress on his own, though I think he’s mainly a voluntary regressor so he can also just try not to regress. But if he’s alone and feeling pretty bad he’ll reach out to Mizi! Sua tends to stay with the pair which Ivan isn’t fond of, but he doesn’t mind too much. Though being around Mizi too much makes his head hurt… She can be exhausting

ᯓ★ For a long time Ivan was content with Till as his caregiver, it was everything he wanted after all! But… Then he saw Till babysitting little Mizi. He saw the way that Till lit up taking care of her, the way Till went out of his way to make her happy, and…. How Till didn’t do that with him. That night he told Till that he didn’t need to be his caregiver anymore. Till asked him if he was sure, but he didn’t really pry deeper, he just accepted the offer at surface level, and that felt so much worse. Ivan started repressing his regression a lot after that

ᯓ★ While he’s big Ivan tries to work on showing emotions, but while he’s regressed the aliens training tends to be meaningless. He always has a blank look on his face, he doesn’t laugh, doesn’t cry. He’s just… There. If he is asked to smile and does it he’ll complain about how it hurts his mouth. His mouth has been stretched and pulled into that shape by machines too many times to count. It just hurts. He doesn’t want to

♫⋆｡♪ ₊˚♬ ﾟ.

I have more thoughts about Ivan but I can’t for the life of me articulate them… He’s just a guy/silly

[foxmulderautism]

at this point im just speeding through chapter one of lover boy like im trying to get through the perfume department

[catharusustulatus]

I just know. I just KNOW. That they’re bringing Eddie back, and the season will play out like this:

Vecna turns Eddie into Kas

The gang goes looking for Eddie’s body (in the UD or using El’s powers) and can’t find him

Kas! Eddie escapes or is sent out of the UD and starts trailing the gang

Dustin trusts Eddie and doesn’t listen to Steve or the gang, and it doesn’t go well

Either Kas! Eddie kills or hurts Steve, and Dustin blames himself and then sends them on a quest to go back in time to save Steve or stop Eddie’s death or something, or Kas! Eddie steals Steve or “turns” him

The rest of the season is about time travel and preventing season 5 from happening while some of the gang fight the government bad guys in the present 

The only other way I can think they would bring him back is Dustin and the gang have nightmares/visions of Eddie’s mangled body due to guilt and taunting from Vecna.

Will it happen? We shall see. But I bet you….

[rafeslittlepup]

rafe wants you to move in with him

you’re sitting criss-cross on your pink silk bedspread, still in your tiny nightgown and fuzzy socks. the scent of your vanilla cupcake body spray lingers in the air.

rafe is standing in the doorway of your childhood bedroom, arms crossed, wearing that smug smirk like he already knows you’re gonna give in.

“you can’t live here forever, baby,” he says. “come to tannyhill, alright? let me take care of you.”

you blink up at him, lashes clumped from the half-done mascara, lip gloss glimmering.

“rafe, i’m eighteen.”

“and I’m not waitin’ another year to fall asleep with you in my arms every night.”

you swallow hard, glancing at the baby-pink walls and the framed family photos.

“you know my mom would lose her mind.”

“your mom’s a bored and drunk golf lady who thinks sugar-free jello counts as dinner,” he snaps.

“well, she- she says you’re too… intense.” you say embarrassed

rafe shrugs, stepping into the room.

“maybe... but I’m the only one who actually gives a damn about you, in this house at least”

your silence is telling, you know he’s right. rafe comes closer, kneeling in front of you, pressing his forehead to yours like it’s something sacred.

“bunny,” he whispers, “i already built the closet for you. pink velvet hangers... room just for your shoes… clawfoot tub and a vanity. i’ll get you a puppy if that’s what it takes.”

and you laugh softly, this was very tempting. but he’s dead serious.

“i don’t want you playin’ house here anymore. you’re mine, move in. you already know our plan.”

and when you hesitate again, all doe-eyed and unsure, he cups your chin and says

“you wear my ring, you sleep in my bed… that’s just how this works, baby.”

[suuuupernovaaa]

Flinch

Summary: Joel finds out what your previous partner did to you, and has trouble dealing with it. Based on this request.

Warnings/tags: mentions of abuse, age gap relationship, jackson joel, comfort, established relationship, joel is obsessed, 50s joel, 30s reader

MASTERLIST

Sometimes, you flinch. Just a little. If someone reaches quickly for something near you, or raises their hand to adjust their glasses or hair, you’re unable to stop yourself.

It isn’t like you completely back away, or have some kind of full body reaction. You just wince a little, shut your eyes tight and brace yourself for only a second, until you realize a blow isn’t coming.

It’s been two years, but the habit is hard to break.

Most people don’t notice, anyway. Except Joel.

It takes him a few months. You’re still sort of getting to know each other, but it feels deeper than that. You could both tell, right away, that there was something pulling you together.

A string, tied to your wrist, that led to his. Every moment of your life, as terrible as it had been, leading you here.

To safety. And you know Joel is safe. There are some men who hurt women, and some men who don’t. You know what kind Joel is. Even after everything he’s done. You know.

He brings it up, eventually. It’s late spring, the air is getting so warm now, you can wear shorts instead of jeans and don’t need your woolen hat and mittens every time you walk the streets of Jackson Hole.

The air smells sweet, and the weeds and flowers are blooming.

In the early evening, you and Joel sit on his porch, rocking gently back and forth in companionable silence.

He reaches to the table between you. He’s only reaching for his drink, but he does it a little too quickly.

You flinch. It’s so small. Barely perceptible, but his hand freezes.

“You do that sometimes,” he says after a long, tense pause. His voice is deep, and serious.

“Do what?” you ask, avoiding his eyes.

“Someone reaches for you, or near you, and you act like…”

Finally, you turn to him, your eyes narrowed. “A hit dog.”

All the breath leaves your lungs in a quick, painful exhale.

“Well, that’s quite a way to put it.”

He has the good sense to look ashamed of himself, but he doesn’t look away or back down.

“Is that it? Someone used to hit you?” There’s a hint of a challenge in his voice, but you know it’s not meant for you.

“Yeah. Someone used to hit me.”

Joel doesn’t pry. He sits back in his chair, eyes still on you, his expression wary. The air between you is tense for the first time, and your palms feel clammy.

It’s long minutes before you finally speak, but you can’t look at Joel while you say it. “In the QZ, I… was with this guy. Militia guy. Thought it would keep me safe, it was tough in there. You know. But, he liked to hit women. I was just a target for him. We were together a year. He…” You squeeze your eyes shut, your hands balling into tight fists. “He broke my arm twice, among other things. Until I left. Found my way here.”

It’s quiet again. You can’t say anymore, don’t want to go into details about the things he did to you, the things he forced on you. You’re not sure you’ll ever speak them out loud. It feels scary, but kind of good, to tell Joel a little about it.

“Where is he now?” Joel asks finally.

A sardonic laugh leaves you. “Dead. That’s why I left.”

You dare to look at Joel. He’s tense all over, his brow furrowed, gripping the edges of his chair so hard you fear it’ll splinter.

“You killed him?”

You clasp your shaking fingers in your lap. You can still hear the gunshot, feel that fear and desperation. It was forever ago, but it was yesterday.

“He was gonna kill me.”

Joel’s chair creaks as he rises from it. Your chest sinks as you think at first that he’s leaving, disgusted with you.

Instead, he kneels in front of you, between your knees, and pulls your hands into his. He doesn’t seem to care that they’re sweaty and shaking.

“Good. I’m proud of you for it.”

You haven’t cried over this in a long time. Truly, you feel as if the work you’ve done to move past it and heal yourself has been effective.

But seeing Joel there, kneeling at your feet, looking at you with such a strange mix of anger and awe, the sealed dam breaks again.

You fall forward, pressing your forehead to his, and the tears fall between you.

“I know you’d never do that. I don’t mean to flinch,” you tell him with shaky words. “I just, it’s a reflex I can’t get rid of.”

He squeezes your hands, then wraps his arms around you, pulling your chest to his.

“I’ll be more careful,” he says. His voice is thick with emotion. “Move more slowly. I’m old so it won’t be hard.”

Through your tears, you chuckle, and it helps to break the tension you’re still feeling. It means more than you can express that Joel would do that for you, would try to be so conscious of his movements.

Your face is in his neck, the scent of him filling your nose as he holds you so tight, tighter than he ever has.

“If he wasn’t already dead, I’d kill him,” he whispers, and you grip him tight. You pull away, just a little bit, so you can see him but stay in his arms.

“He died like a bitch. Crying, begging for his life,” you say, and Joel just nods, as if to tell you that was the right thing to do.

He presses his lips to yours, softly, once and then twice, and then urgently, as if to reassure you this way that you’re safe, that you’ll never have to go through that again, so long as you have Joel.

“This ain’t the right time to tell you,” Joel says when he pulls away and leaves you breathless, “but I’m in love with you.”

Your grin is ear to ear, and tears seep out once more. “There’s no wrong time to say that. I love you too.”

His small smile fades into an expression as serious as death. “I’ll never let anyone touch you, not ever again.”

You run your fingers down his cheek, and he leans into your touch.

“I know,” you whisper.

When he rises and extends his hand to you, you don’t flinch.

[missdynamighttt]

can you please write brat tamer!bakugou?? i alwayss think of him as the biggest brat tamer😵‍💫

it started off as a harmless little spat. something stupid. you were being a little bratty, pushing his buttons just to get a reaction out of him.

“oh my god, you’re so dramatic,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes. “you act like the world’s gonna end just ‘cause i forgot to text you back for an hour.”

katsuki snapped his head toward you, scowl deepening. “yeah, well maybe if you weren’t so fuckin’ glued to work all the damn time, you’d remember to answer your goddamn boyfriend.”

“ohhh, i’m sorry,” you drawled sarcastically. “i didn’t realize you were so needy, katsuki.”

“needy?!” his voice dropped an octave, practically growling. “you talk a lotta shit for someone who cries like a fuckin’ whore whenever i make you cum.”

…

the room went dead silent.

your mouth dried instantly. your thighs clenched.

“…what?”

“you heard me.” his tongue clicked, his voice dripping with condescension. “get all high ‘n mighty with me all you want — but the second i’ve got my hand between your legs, you turn into a fuckin’ mess."

your breath hitched. heat flooded your core so fast it was embarrassing.

“…that’s—” you swallowed thickly. “—not true.”

“ohhh, it’s not?” he stepped closer, towering over you. “so you don’t beg me to keep goin’? don’t fuckin’ scream my name like it’s the only word you know?”

your stomach flipped. your body betrayed you, your thighs squeezing together, and of course he noticed.

“…holy fuck.” his laugh was dark, low. “you’re gettin’ wet, aren’t you?”

your face burned. “i—no, i’m not—”

“liar,” he cut you off, tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to look at him. his mouth ghosted over yours, but he didn’t kiss you. “you wanted this, didn’t you?”

you could barely think straight. his hand was already grinding against your core through your shorts, and the friction was making you ache. “i-i didn’t—”

“didn’t what?” he laughed, but it was cruel. “didn’t think i’d put you in your place for talkin’ to me like that?”

his hand slid inside your shorts, two fingers brushing against your soaked panties. “or didn’t think i’d figure out how fuckin’ wet you got when i talked to you like a bitch?"

you whimpered, your body betraying you as you bucked against his hand. “f-fuck—”

he shoved your panties aside, his fingers sliding straight into your dripping cunt. “jesus fuckin’ christ. you’re drippin’.”

his pace was merciless, his fingers curling just right, and you practically screamed. “ain’t no fuckin’ way you’re gonna mouth off to me like that and expect me to be nice about it.”

“k-katsuki—” you gasped, clutching his arm like it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “k-katsuki, fuck—”

katsuki snorted, a low, dark sound. “goddamn, you’re so fuckin’ easy. what, me bein’ a dick gets you this fuckin’ wet?”

your face burned, but you couldn’t deny it. your body betrayed you — the way your thighs squeezed around his hand, the way your hips ground down, desperate for friction.

“answer me, sweetheart,” his fingers pressed harder against you, the heel of his palm grinding into your clit. “you like when i’m a fuckin’ asshole to you, huh?”

you whimpered, arching into his touch. “y-yes…"

“yeah? that why you were runnin’ your fuckin’ mouth earlier?” he leaned in, his breath hot against your ear. “hopin’ i’d snap and put you in your fuckin' place?”

you didn’t even have the strength to deny it anymore. “yes,” you gasped. “fuck, yes."

“filthy fuckin’ girl," his laugh was dangerous. he curled his fingers, dragging them against that spot that made you see stars.

your head fell back, mouth hanging open as his fingers fucked into you at a brutal pace. your legs shook, your body already hurtling toward the edge. his fingers were relentless, pumping in and out of you like he had a point to prove.

his thumb found your clit, rubbing harsh, fast circles. “i’m gonna make you cum so many fuckin’ times you forget how to talk, you hear me?”

“y-yes—oh my god, yes—”

katsuki didn’t even give you a chance to breathe before he was on you. he yanked his fingers out, and you barely had time to whine in protest before you heard the sound of his belt clinking. his belt hit the floor with a loud clang, and he was already ripping your shorts down your legs.

you felt the head of his cock press against your soaked entrance — and then he slammed into you in one brutally slow thrust.

“oh my god—” you screamed, your hands flying up to brace yourself.

katsuki groaned, his forehead pressing against your shoulder. “fuckin’ knew it. knew you were just beggin’ to get fucked stupid.”

katsuki was already balls deep inside you, his hips snapped into you, merciless and unrelenting. “actin’ all tough — but you fall apart the second i get my cock in you."

“f-fuck—katsuki— ohhh my fucking god—” you sobbed, gripping the couch cushion like your life depended on it.

“yeah?” katsuki snarled, his hands digging into your hips as he fucked into you like he hated you. “what happened to all that fuckin’ attitude, huh?”

“i—i’m sorry,” you gasped, your eyes rolling back as he pounded into you mercilessly.

“nah,” he spat, his hand snaking up to fist your hair, yanking your head back. his mouth was at your ear, his tone dripping with condescension. “you weren’t sorry when you were runnin’ your fuckin’ mouth, were you?”

you wailed, body jolting with each brutal thrust. “i—i didn’t mean to—”

“bull-fuckin’-shit,” he growled, slamming into you even harder, making your vision white out. his hand smacked your ass hard, making you scream. “you wanted this. and now look at you. fuckin’ dumb on my cock already.”

“ohhh fuck—” you were drooling, practically melting under him.

“greedy little whore,” he sneered, yanking you up so your back was flush to his chest. one hand was tight around your hair, the other shoved between your legs, rubbing quick, ruthless circles on your clit. “gettin’ this fuckin’ wet—just ‘cause i was mean to you?”

“please, please, please,” you cried, grinding down on his cock. “i need it, i need it so bad—”

“god, you’re so fuckin’ easy,” he laughed, dark and mean. “all i gotta do is treat you like a cheap little fucktoy and you lose your goddamn mind.”

your walls clenched around him hard, and he felt it.

“ohhh, fuck yeah.” he laughed darkly, his other hand smacking your ass so hard you squealed. “you like that shit, don’t you? bein’ treated like a fuckin’ cumdump?”

“please—!” you sobbed, your face burning. “please, please—please don’t stop—”

“yeah? that what you fuckin’ wanted?” his hands bruised your hips as he pounded into you, his thick cock stretching you open mercilessly.

“katsuki—!” you screamed, your legs shaking uncontrollably.

“shut the fuck up,” he snapped, shoving two fingers in your mouth. “bite down if you need to scream, i’m not fuckin’ stoppin’ until you can’t fuckin’ walk.”

your eyes rolled back, your brain melting from the sheer overstimulation.

“fuckin’ slut,” katsuki snarled, his thrusts getting sloppier. his hand slammed down on your ass again, the sound echoing through the room. “you’re so fuckin’ tight, you keep suckin’ me back in, like you don’t want me to leave—”

“don’t—!” you sobbed, voice muffled around his fingers. “don’t leave, don’t stop, please—”

katsuki’s laugh was downright evil. he yanked his fingers out of your mouth, watching the string of drool snap. “beggin’ me like a desperate little bitch. you want me to fill you up, huh? fuckin’ breed you?”

“yes—!” you wailed, tears streaming down your face. “please, please, please—”

he growled, yanking your hair back so your back arched. “all it takes is my fuckin’ cock and you turn into a sloppy, brainless mess, huh?”

“yes, yes, yes—” you sobbed, already a mess. you could feel how wet you were, hear the obscene squelching with every thrust as he ruthlessly railed you into the couch.

your eyes rolled back, drool slipping from your lips as he bullied his cock deeper. you could feel your orgasm barreling toward you again, your thighs shaking uncontrollably. “katsuki, i’m gonna—”

“don’t you fuckin’ dare until i tell you to.” his thrusts slammed into you harder, his hand absolutely abusing your clit. “you wanna cum? you ask for it.”

“please, please, please—” you were sobbing, your body begging for release. “i’ll be good, i’ll be so good—please let me cum, please, please—”

“that’s more fuckin’ like it,” katsuki growled, his own thrusts getting sloppy as he bottomed out inside you over and over again.

and when he finally slammed into you one last time, his hips shuddering as he came deep inside you — you swore you blacked out for a second. your walls milked him so hard he cursed, his hips stuttering as he filled you up, his teeth sinking into your shoulder with a feral growl.

“fuckin’ hell,” he panted, still buried deep inside you.

katsuki let out a heavy breath, his chest heaving against your back as he slowly came down from his high. his arms were still locked tight around your waist, holding you flush against him, as if he wasn’t ready to let you go just yet.

you, on the other hand, were utterly wrecked. your body felt boneless, your brain floating somewhere between the couch cushions and the afterglow. the only thing keeping you from melting into a puddle was the fact that katsuki still had you caged against him, his cock still nestled deep inside you.

“…you alive, sweetheart?” his voice was low, raspy, but there was a teasing lilt to it, the barest hint of a smirk pressing against your shoulder.

you made a noise—somewhere between a whimper and a breathless laugh—because no, you weren’t entirely sure you were alive. “maybe.”

his lips ghosted over the bite mark he’d left on your shoulder, soothing it with a lazy kiss. “tch.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke. his hand ran up and down your back, slow and lazy, while his other hand found your thigh, kneading it absently like he was grounding himself. your breath evened out against his skin, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into a hazy daze.

he pulled out slowly, and you shuddered as his cum dripped down your thighs. katsuki hummed, smug as ever, but the way his hands gently kneaded your hips gave him away.

“lemme see,” he turned you over carefully, his hands bracing you as if you were fragile now. his gaze darkened when he saw the mess between your legs. “shit. you really took it all, huh?”

your face burned as you pouted up at him. “stop looking at me like that.”

he smirked, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “like what? like i wanna go again?”

you groaned, trying to bury your face in the couch, but he only laughed. “alright, alright. c’mere.” he tugged you up and into his arms, carrying you toward the bathroom with ease.

you sighed against his chest, boneless in his grasp. “you’re…really good at that, y’know?”

his chest rumbled as he chuckled. “no shit. i’d hope so after all these years.”

you huffed, but your smile betrayed you. “mhm. still an asshole, though.”

“mhm,” he nudged your forehead with his chin. “i'm your asshole.”

you hummed in agreement, nuzzling closer as he set you down on the counter. he turned to start the bath, and you watched as he tested the water, his usual scowl softened with something almost tender.

“you alright?” he asked, not turning around.

your heart swelled, and you reached for him, tugging on his wrist.

“yeah,” you murmured, pressing a kiss to his palm. “perfect.”

he huffed, cheeks a little pink, but he didn’t pull away. instead, he cupped your cheek, rubbing his thumb over your skin.

“hmph,” he muttered. “better be.”

then-

“you talk a lotta shit for someone who just got turned into a fuckin’ puddle,” katsuki murmured, a smug grin evident in his tone.

you groaned into his chest. “don’t start.”

“oh, i’m startin’,” he snickered, pressing a kiss to your temple. “miss ‘ohhh, i didn’t realize you were so needy, katsuki.’”

you smacked his chest weakly. “shut up.”

“needy, huh?” he mocked, snorting. “that why you were beggin’ me to fill you up?”

your face burned. “katsuki.”

“‘please, please, please, i’ll be so good—’” he mimicked in a high-pitched voice, clearly enjoying himself too much.

“oh my god.” you shoved your face deeper into his chest, willing the counter to swallow you whole.

he chuckled, his fingers tangling in your hair, scratching at your scalp in a way that made you melt despite yourself. “awww, what’s wrong? where’s all that attitude now, sweetheart?”

“i hate you.”

“yeah?” he kissed the top of your head, his voice annoyingly soft now. “too bad i love you, huh?”

“yeah, yeah. needy,” you whispered, just to be a brat.

for a moment, you just lay there, warm and content in his arms. then—

katsuki suddenly scooped you up again, making you squeal as he carried you over to the bathtub. “keep runnin’ your mouth, and i’ll dunk your ass in cold water.”

you clung to his shoulders, giggling. “you wouldn’t dare.”

his smirk was downright evil. “try me.”

you yelped as he pretended to tip you forward, and he snorted at your panicked grip on him.

the water was perfectly warm, steam curling into the air as he slowly lowered you in. the moment your body sank into the heat, you sighed in pure bliss, the tension in your muscles melting away.

katsuki knelt across from you on the tub, watching you with that familiar intensity. his fingers trailed lazily over your arm, tracing invisible patterns along your damp skin.

“you’re staring,” you mumbled, cracking an eye open.

“damn right i am,” he muttered, reaching for a washcloth. “can’t believe you called me needy when you’re sittin’ here all fucked out and clingin’ to me.”

you stuck your tongue out at him, but you didn’t protest when he started running the warm cloth over your skin, taking his time cleaning you up. his touch was firm but careful, sweeping over your shoulders, your arms, your legs. when he reached between your thighs, his jaw clenched at the mess he found there.

“fuck,” he muttered under his breath. “made a goddamn mess of you.”

your face heated instantly. “i can do it myself,” you mumbled, reaching for the cloth, but he swatted your hand away.

“like hell you can. just sit there and let me take care of you.”

you fell silent, lips parting slightly.there was something different about his voice—gruff, sure, but also softer than before. almost reverent.

katsuki never did anything halfway. whether it was fucking you into the couch like he had something to prove, or scrubbing every inch of you with a kind of focused determination like he was doing now—he was always all in.

your heart ached with how much you loved him.

“katsuki.”

he glanced up, raising a brow at your tone.

you reached for him, fingers curling around the back of his neck as you pulled him down into a kiss. it was slow, sweet, completely different from the way his mouth had been on you earlier. he hummed against your lips, the hand holding the washcloth slipping to your waist as he deepened the kiss.

when you finally pulled away, his gaze flickered over your face, then he scoffed, rolling his eyes. but his ears were red as he reached for your shampoo, squirting some into his palm before running his fingers through your hair.

you melted immediately. “god, i love you.”

"tch. i love you more," katsuki grumbled, but you caught the way he pressed his lips to the top of your head. his arms curled tighter around you, holding you close, as if he could keep you there forever.

‎‧₊˚✧[ it's me, kia ! ]✧˚₊‧ ｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ ‎‧₊˚✧[ more of katsuki ! ]✧˚₊‧

[2neaky]

. ۪ ֗ “ 𝑁𝑜—𝐺𝑒𝑡 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑂𝑛𝑒 ”⋆˚🫧

PART 2 • [this fic has been split into two parts]

21k! CONTENT WARNING (MDNI) • phone s*x (mutual m*sturbation), edg*ng, unprotected s*x, p -> v s*x, b*ckshots, squ*rting, choking, c*rvix kissing, rough consensual s*x, dominating male character, possessive behavior/talk, dummification, foot f*tish, minor size k*nk, tummy bulge, heavy use of dirty talk, use of profanity, nicknames (Mami, Mama, Papa, Pa), use of the n-word (all characters & Author are Black) • INSPIRED BY THIS POST • CHARACTER VISUALZ

PART 1 HERE ->

DRAGGING A HEAVY HAND DOWN HIS FACE, Sito releases a long-held sigh.

Parked up outside of the auto body shop, he sits in his car with heavy eyes. His cousin is still inside, in a screaming-match with the mechanic about a change in the previously discussed price.

He could only last about two minutes before he had to leave the confrontation behind for his peace of mind.

With dead eyes, he stares blankly ahead. The sun has long since went down, leaving the sky a dark blue. He should be in bed right now, laid back, watching Cimani go on and on about some random topic plaguing her mind at the moment.

He hopes she didn’t forget his call. 

He kisses his teeth. “Matter fact … ‘cause I know she forgot—“

His fingers move as he speaks to himself, tapping to get to her contact. 

For a minute, the FaceTime call rings out until ultimately going unanswered. His face twists up at that.

So, with an even worse attitude, he calls again. Because, who does she think she is, ignoring his call? That is not what they do.

His phone rings out for some time. His frustration is growing. Just as he’s sure the call is about to drop, the phone chimes as it’s answered.

It’s quiet for a few seconds as the call connects, then he hears her shifting around in bed.

“Hello?”

He looks at the screen, her camera turned off.

“So you forgot you had to call me?”

“No?”

Her voice is soft and quiet.

“Why your voice sound like that? You sound like you just waking up.”

There’s a long delay before she answers. “M’not…”

“Yeah, aight.” He stares at the screen, eyes narrowing in a squint. “Why am I looking at myself? I FaceTimed you. This ain’t no regular call.”

A soft, sound comes from her end of the call. He’s not even sure he could tell what kind of sound it was.

“I don’t wanna t-turn it on.”

He lifts a brow. “You want me to hang up? I’m bothering you or something?”

A short breath leaves her. “You’re n-not bothering me.”

“So turn your camera on.”

“Sito—“

“Yo, quit acting like this before I hang up. Forreal, ‘Mani. You sure you not just waking up?”

“Oh my God … I’m not.” There’s some shifting going on, picked up by the mic. It’s about a minute before her camera finally turns on.

Sito finally sees her in her bonneted-glory. And she’s as barefaced as ever, noting in particular how low her eyes are. 

“What day you booked the lash appointment for?”

“Um… “ Her eyes flutter as she pulls her bottom lip in between her teeth. She exhales. “S-Saturday.” There’s a tiny inflection in her voice.

He expects her to go on a tangent about the style of lashes she’s getting, even complain about how long it takes to get them done—the usual whenever she was about to get them done.

But, his expectations are subverted with her short answer and lack of an explanation.

“Okay?” He says, brows pulled together in confusion. “How much is it?”

“Mh—I don’t … I-I think $120?”

“You think? What you stuttering so much for?”

“M-m’not,” she—whines? Not only that, but her eyes almost kind of … roll?

What’s going on?

“You good?” He asks, more confused than concerned.

“Yes … J-just … tell me about your—um … your errands.” The last few words were breathed out in a rush, like she couldn’t hold them in anymore.

He kissed his teeth, his gaze switching to somewhere out of the window. “Haircut was cool, not much to complain about. Y’know, Ray did his thing,” he smiles. 

But his smile is quickly wiped away by the reminder of his current predicament. “But, Jahmere in there, arguing with the fucking mechanic about the price.”

“Mhm…”

“I’m tryna get the fuck outta here. Granted … the nigga is overcharging him, I’m not even gon’ lie. Like, I’m telling you, ‘Mani, he charged him odee for some crazy ass shit—“

His brows pull together as her breathing grows heavier—louder—in the mic. He has to do a double-take. Nevertheless, he continues with his story.

“Uh, they been screaming in there for about a hour now. I wasn’t even tryna hear all that, forreal. So,” he rubs a hand down his face. “I came in here—“

“Hh—mhm.”

He blinks. Slowly, Sito turns his head to finally look at the screen. Cimani is nowhere in sight. Instead, he’s staring up at her dark ceiling.

He expects a quick apology, an explanation—even a small joke from her about the oddness of her breathing. Yet, for the next few seconds it’s nothing but silence.

That is, until he hears it. 

It’s so quiet, it’s really a miracle that the microphone even picked it up; tiny splishes of water growing, almost drowning out the soft squishes of wet, slippery skin.

He angles his phone away from his face, just so she won’t catch it when he hides his mouth with a closed fist. Because there’s no way…

He presses his lips together, trying to keep a grin at bay. His call had definitely interrupted something.

Slowly, he inhales, trying to settle himself. “So, uh … you sure I’m not bothering you?”

Her exhale is loud, he can tell she had breathed out through her mouth. “Hhm—no.”

“I’m not?”

“No, Sito.”

The frail tremble in her voice does something to him. He inhales deeply.

“Aight, I’ma trust you… When you get your lashes done, get that wispy shit. That’s what you had last time, right?”

“Y-yes—“

A whimper hits his ears. 

“Aight, I’ma send you the money.” He licks his lips, looking at the still screen. It takes him less than a minute to send the Apple Cash. “You got it?”

“I-I don’t know.” Her voice is soft, almost whiny.

“Just check,” he begs softly.

She whispers something, but he doesn’t hear it too well. What he does hear is a slopping sound, and he can imagine her fingers, decorated with acrylic, pushing through the mess she’s created. Running through her lips to rub at her sensitive clit.

There’s a soft mewl this time.

“O-okay,” she pants. The camera is jostled around before he finally sees a peek of her bonnet again. “I got it.” Her voice wavered. “Thank you, Sito.”

He bites at his bottom lip, trying to stop himself from grinning any harder.

“You good, Mami.”

Another whimper. He can tell that she’s trying to keep quiet.

“You know you deserve it.”

Again, he hears what she tries so hard to hide: Plap, plap, plap. Like she had just laid three, hard slaps on her pussy.

He swallows, instantly reminded of the dryness in his own throat. There’s a hidden desire for a taste of something wetter. His heart is pounding in his chest.

“Lemme see your nails.”

“S-Sito—“

“Nah, you didn’t even show me when you got back in the car. Lemme see.”

It’s quiet on the other line for a few seconds. There’s no movement.

“Cimani.”

No answer.

He kisses his teeth. “Quit making me ask so many times.”

“Shit … h-hold on—“

There’s some fumbling with the phone before it’s finally picked up. Apprehensive, she lifts a hand to the camera, showing off her brand new nails. 

And as Sito looks at the deep blue acrylics, he notes how shiny they look. 

Glistening, even. 

Wet.

He can’t help the sick chuckle that leaves him. “Oh my fucking God,” he mumbles into his hand.

“D-do you see you it?”

He licks his lips, enjoying too much the desperation in her voice. “Yeah… I like ‘em.”

The hand disappears shortly after, and the screen goes dark.  It’s quiet once again. Well … almost quiet.

That soft, creamy sound is picked up by the mic again. He can tell her hand is moving slow. Probably rubbing slow circles against her clit.

“You like them?”

“M-mhm … yeah.”

“Knew you would.” He rubs the knuckle of his thumb into his lower lip as he eyes the screen. “Should’a just listened to me when I first told you to get ‘em.”

He wishes she would show him something. Even if it’s just her face.

“But that’s just you being a brat.”

He can hear her breathing pick up. Another minute of silence passes by.

“Your hair.”

“What about it, Mami?”

The broken sound that leaves her makes his dick jump.

“Wanna s-see it.”

Without another word, he clicks on the light for her to see. In the camera, he bows his head to show off the fresh line up.

“It’s good, right?”

“Mhm.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and that creamy sound seems to get a fraction louder.

“L-looks so good, Pa.”

Her words were a soft moan. He knows she didn’t mean for that to slip. She’s caught up in the moment.

And he doesn’t mind one bit, as he’s got a hand gripping on his dick. A quick glance out of the car window ensures him that there isn’t a soul outside to catch him. It’s not like they would see him anyway, not with his tints.

He sits up in his seat, gripping his phone a bit tighter.

“That’s my name now?”

Her breathing is heavy, even if she tries to hide it. “Fuck … s-sorry—“

“Are you?”

No answer.

Softly, he kisses his teeth with the shake of his head. “Stop playing, ‘Mani.”

“W-what?”

“Stop playing with me, Cimani.” 

She’s quiet again.

“Answered my phone call while you playing with your pussy.”

He swears he hears a tiny gasp.

“Least you could do is lemme see it … know it’s mine, anyway.”

“Sito—“

“It was just Pa. What happened?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t get shy on me. You was just playing with her, all loud in the mic,” he chuckles. “Shit was cute, though, I’ll give you that.” 

He doesn’t have a hand in his pants yet, but he’s about two seconds away from doing so. “Put her on camera.”

There’s a bit of shuffling, but it only takes a couple of seconds before he sees her: puffy lips taking up his screen. Freshly done fingers spread her open for him to see pretty, gummy pink walls squeezing in on themselves. 

Her cunt dribbles a cloudy, sticky sap.

He shifts in his seat, feeling on himself through his pants. “She always pretty like this?”

She only moans in response. Her clit jumps with another clench.

“Them long ass nails, bet you can’t even play with her right.”

There’s a whimper. “I can’t,“ she whines.

Finally, Sito unzips his jeans, slowly slipping a hand underneath his boxers. “Lemme see how you been playing with her.”

Her middle finger dips into her honey pot, swiping up a dabble of her pearlescent goo. It’s sticky, stringing between the opening of her lips and the pad of her finger.

As he watches, he runs his hand down his length before holding himself at the head.

“She drooling, baby.”

He sees her other hand pulling a leg back. Hand between her legs, her fingers pull together. This resume a gentle flow as they rub against her clit.

Which is so small. In fact, by the looks of it, she can really cover her whole pussy with just a hand. And as far as he remembers, Cimani’s hands aren’t big at all.

He almost coos, watching her work her little cunt until it sputters out a release from overstimulation.

His hand tightens around his dick as the thought of him stretching her out plays in his mind.

“Couldn’t wait to mess up them nails, huh?” he asks. “Them nails I just paid for.”

“I’m sorry—“

“Nah, you cool, baby. It’s cool. Lemme see how you did ya toes.”

He swipes his tongue over his plump bottom lip just as he passes his fist over himself.

The camera is pushed further back, probably leaned up against the bulk of her sheets. It happens so fast, it’s like he blinks and she’s back in the screen—legs pulled back and spread once more. 

And just above, on either side of her, her toes are curled rather cutely. The fresh acrylic on them is shaped in perfect squares, every last one of them a gentle pink.

“Fuck,” he whispers, twisting a hand over himself as more blood rushes south.

“W-what else, Pa?”

Oh, that got him. Something about that soft voice and her asking him—he’s high off of this fantasy-come-to-life.

“Keep playing with her,” he says, voice ragged.

She listens, no questions asked. As her fingers swipe back and forth over the swollen bud, pushing through puffy lips, he tries his best to mimick the pace at which she goes, on himself.

“You so pretty, Mami. How many times I gotta tell you that?”

The question is rhetorical, his mouth just running as his body breaks down.

His shoulder twitches, he sinks further in his seat. “Pretty ass lil’ pussy.”

With low eyes, he watches her cunt clamp around nothing every few seconds the longer she goes. Her hips twitch as they begin to roll against the air.

“Bet you if was there, I could give her what she really need.”

“Please,” she whines.

“She deserves some good ass dick, don’t she?”

As her fingers flick over herself faster, his hand, too, speeds up.

“Y-yes—“

“How long it’s been? Hm?”

“I … f-fuck—too long,” she hiccups.

Another broken moan falls from her right as her hand freezes. She’s still for a second, before she lays two quick slaps to her clit.

Soft white globs ooze from her, slipping down the terrain of her lips to the stained sheets below.

“U-uh … ffuck!”

She reaches down to scoop up some of her release, spreading it over herself.

Her lips shine like they’ve been glossed, a tantalizing view.

“Keep going for me,” he mumbles, still working himself.

Despite crying out at the overstimulation, she continues. She just keeps rubbing and rubbing.

“Oh, God,” she mewls. Her pussy clenches tighter. “Mh—Sito,” she warns.

“That ain’t my name.”

“I … I—“

She flutters twice, pink walls pushing out for him to see. Then, crystal clear water trickles from her pussy like a water fountain. Her stream gains a bit of height, even hitting the camera as her body bears down.

He can hear the cushioned pattering of her release against the sheets, like rain hitting a roof.

“Shiiit…” He watches in awe. “She get wet like that?” 

A soft, broken moan leaves her as she rides out her high, still rubbing her abused clit until the stream dies down.

When she’s finally done, her soft pants are all picked up by the mic.

“Fuck,” he groans out, a lazy smile on his lips. He’s still got a hand on his dick, having stopped to focus on her.

A gentle silence settles over the call. He looks at the screen. For a moment, everything is still. 

She’s so quiet, he starts to question their connection.

“Yo, ‘Mani,” he calls out.

No answer.

As he opens his mouth to call her again, a soft chime sounds.

She hung up.

Dick in hand, Sito feels like a clown as his face morphs into an expression of confused irritation.

“The fuck?”

ᥫ᭡

HER HEAD REMAINS DOWN as the pads of her middle and pointer fingers press into her temple. There’s a faint pulse there.

As her other hand cradles the cup of tea she prepared for herself, she struggles to even lift the cup to her lips. 

If it isn’t one thing, it’s the next. Last night’s phone call plays over and over in her mind—the second-hand embarrassment paralyzing.

How, in her right mind, could she ever think to do that?

Yeah, he’d caught her at a bad time, but she could’ve hung up. He even asked. 

Why couldn’t she just call him back? What about that felt so thrilling to her that she just had to continue?

He enjoyed it, she’s not stupid enough to ignore that part or even pretend to be oblivious to it. 

Actually, it’s not even all that hard to see that where they stand is as a little more than just friends.

But she hadn’t wanted that to change. Not so soon. Not with everything so unsure in her life right now.

Can she even handle a relationship with Sito? She knows she likes him, the crush has been there for a long time. Hovering in the near-distance. 

Does he feel the same way, is the question.

As she thinks back on how seamlessly he switched up last night, pulling out the dirty talk with no hesitation, it makes her wonder: is this just lust for him?

How seriously does he take her?

Cimani’s never been one to think of Sito as a slut. In fact, the only reason she’ll ever know of a girl he’s talking to or hooking up with is by accident (or snooping). He doesn’t discuss his sexual or romantic life with her, not since high school, honestly.

She can respect that about him, not being a pillow-talker. At the same time, though, Sito doesn’t ever really talk about much that doesn’t pertain to what’s between them.

Even if she can say that she’s known him for years, she doesn’t know everything about Sito. The vagueness scares her.

A heavy sighs leaves her as she finally raises the cup to her lips. The taste of lemon barely touches her tongue when there’s a knock at her door. She freezes up, staring at the door with widened eyes.

She’s not expecting anyone, she never really does.

More knocking.

Carefully, she sets down her cup. On her way to the door, the knocks grow hastened. When she gets close enough, she even hears the faint sound of one kissing their teeth.

The word “fuck” is mouthed quietly.

“Don’t act like you not there. You know we still share locations.”

She throws her head back with a silent groan and the roll of her eyes. Regaining composure, Cimani takes a deep breath before finally unlocking her door and pulling it open.

It’s like coming face to face with your worst nightmare and your greatest dream at the same time.

“I was ‘bout to say, I know you not gonna make me start yelling for you out here.”

She blinks, trying to make sense of the visual before her; Sito stands with an arm at his side while the other is curled around a big bouquet of flowers.

Pink peonies—her favorite.

He’s beaming, solid gold fronts cover his top and bottom row of teeth. And at his feet are several brown bags of groceries. She stares at them for a while. 

The nearest Trader Joe’s is twenty minutes away from her apartment.

She looks back up at him, unable to even process the wide grin on his face.

“Took me like three trips to bring all these bags here. Y’know, I didn’t wanna—“ he pulls the bouquet from the crook of his arm, showing them off. “—crush the flowers.”

She blinks again.

His smile dims a fraction as he looks off to the side. “So … you gonna let me in or…”

Her mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

“Okay, ‘Mani—at least take the flowers.” His face falls with possible rejection. “I’ll take the groceries back if you don’t want ‘em—“

“Sito,” she exhales.

He stands at attention, elated to at least hear her voice.

“W-why … what is this?”

His groomed brows furrow.

“What you mean?” He looks around at all the things he’s bought, before finally looking back to her. “I’m just making sure you good.”

•

She helped him unpack in silence—or, the other way around. Neither of them were able to say much. 

When they had packed the final bag away, Cimani immediately sprung to her electric kettle, starting it to make him a cup of tea.

It’s already half-past eleven, but she needs to keep busy. 

She doesn’t even ask him what kind of tea he wants.

No need. She already knows. Black tea with milk, and two tablespoons of sugar.

As she stirs his cup, he watches her from the other side of her small island. Every single movement she makes, he eyes carefully, studying her.

Her skin feels hot under his stare. Clearing her throat, Cimani slowly passes him the cup. She doesn’t look at him.

“You’ll make me tea, but you won’t say nothing to me.” He scoffs. “C’mon, now.”

Finally, she dares to look him in the eyes.

“Are we gonna talk about—“

“I don’t think last night should’ve happened.”

His face alights with shock, brows raised and mouth open. “Oh?”

Inhaling deeply, her eye contact with him falters. “I-I don’t know why I did that. It was—that was wrong, I shouldn’t have even answered the phone.”

The worlds tumble out of her mouth, clumsy and loose.

“And that was weird, I just—I feel like I crossed a line.” Her face contorts in mild discomfort, her body beginning to fold in on itself. “I’m sorry—“

“Hol’on—wait.” A breathy laughter leaves him as he shakes his head. “‘Mani, you making it seem like you just assaulted me or some shit.”

“I technically did.” She frowns.

“I mean—“ He looks around, trying his best to come with a way to word his thoughts properly. “Did I expect that shit? Hell no. Did I enjoy it?” His gaze locks dead center with hers. 

“Sito—“

“Yes.” He even nods for emphasis. “I enjoyed it a lot. Matter fact, only thing I didn’t enjoy was you cutting that call short.”

Her heart skips a beat, but still her frown deepens. “You don’t get it.”

His head jerks back, confusion clear on his face? “Get what, ‘Mani? What else is there to get?” He scoffs. “You wanted to put on a show, and I wanted to watch—“

“Oh my God, shut the fuck up,” she groans, hiding her face in her hands.

She takes yet another deep breath, gathering herself to prepare the worst to come. She already fucked things up this bad, there’s really no going back after this. Not with the kind of person Sito is, he’ll never let this shit go.

“I … I feel like that didn’t mean anything to you.” Her brows pull in together, and she looks as if she confused by her own words. “Like, I get that it was … whatever the fuck it was, but like—ugh!”

His face contorts with hers, trying to follow along with her words.

“I-If you just wanna fuck after this, Sito, that’s not what I want. Okay? I don’t just wanna use you, or you use me, for a quick thing whenever we need to get some pressure off. I’m sorry if I even gave you that impression—“

“Woah, woah, woah. What are you talking about?”

She squints at him. “What do you mean what am I talking about? I think I’m making myself pretty clear.”

“Uh—not really. ‘Cause honestly, you bringing claims to the table I ain’t never even claimed!”

She blinks, her face dropping. “Huh?”

For the first time in a few minutes, he actually cracks a smile. “Don’t ‘huh’ me. You heard what I said.”

Slowly, he rounds the island, forgetting all about the drink she had made him.

“Who the fuck told you I only ever wanted to fuck? I give you that vibe?” He gestures between the two of them, his expression teeters the line between confusion and offense.

“Somebody that just wanna fuck, gon’ get you all that shit I bought? They gon’ buy you groceries a-and get you flowers?” He takes slow steps towards her. “They gonna offer to give you rent money and pay to keep you pretty?”

By the time he chooses to stop, her back is pressed against the countertop. Her only option is to remain there, staring up at the man who only leaves a few inches of space between them.

“Cimani,” he chuckles. “Told you, you just like to hear yourself talk, forreal—I’on know what fucking impression I gave you, but I just wanna see you be put up.”

She can hardly swallow with his admission.

“I’on know how many times I gotta say that. I ain’t tryna see you stressed out for nothing. Not when I know I could make it easier.”

His eyes bounce back and forth between her own. 

“Do I need to explain myself anymore?”

Chewing at her bottom lip, she tries her hardest to wrestle her facial expressions under control. So far, it’s not working, because he can see the inklings of a smile on her face.

She shakes her head ‘no.’

Peering down at her, his gaze is focused and intense. There really isn’t much of a smile on his anymore.

“Now that we finally got that shit out the way, I’m tryna finish what you started.”

•

“That’s it … that’s all I need you to do,” he pants. “Just need you to take it.”

Her vision clouds as her eyes roll back, before her eyes squeeze shut. A rough groan rips from her chest.

His dick, wide and thick, stretches her out in more ways than one. As he peers down between them, where they connect, his dick twitches from the sight.

Her lips mare fully stretched around him, as she feebly clenches around him. Her body is filled to the brim—stuffed.

“She hugging me tight, huh?” He laughs, holding her open with one hand. “Tryna figure out what to do with all this dick she getting.”

She clenches at his words, earning another chuckle out of him.

It’s not even like she can respond—tell him to shut up … not that she wants to. Stuffing her big, pouting lips are Sito’s big, ringed fingers. Her tongue laves at them.

The only semblance of a response she gives, is a moan.

“Don’t gotta do no more thinking, right?”

“Mm—mmh,” she groans, the sides of her mouth leaking with spit. 

Her eyes flutter, only opening when he begins to drag his dick out of her. Her back was barely able to arch against the countertop, body pressed against the cold, hard surface.

“No more thinking,” he coos. “Not when you got all this—dick in you.”

He slides back in, pushing all of those inches up against her cervix. From the small underside of her stomach that he barely catches, he can see himself pressing against the wall of her stomach.

He repeats: pulling out just to push back in. Every revelation of his dick shows him that he’s covered in her glossy slick.

He’s obsessed.

The hand on her left ass cheek grips the little bit of fat tighter as he starts to pull her back against him. And still, he fucks back.

Wet fingers drag from her leaking mouth, to clutch the chamber of her neck. Each heavy stroke punches a new sound out of her.

“Oh—ffuck! … Aauh,” she shudders as he bounces her against him. Her breathing is tight and shaky.

“Pretty ass lil’ bitch,” he grunts. With each movement, he can feel his tip kiss her spongy walls.

She squeals, somehow tightening around him.

“Don’t know … how I let you think you was some fucking bum.”

She’s getting drunk off of his dick and words. Honestly, she can’t get enough of it.

“Just needed me to come remind you, huh?”

“Ye … yes!” she groans out. 

“Needed me … to come straighten you out … w-when you was being a fucking brat—“

His voice wavers only slightly as he uses more power in his hips. She spasms around him.

“Oh—fuck, stop doing that shit,” he pants. “Stop—doing. That—“

The sound their bodies make when they collide gets louder as he fucks into her with more pressure. She can hardly keep up.

The buckle of his B.B. belt scrapes against the floor, his jeans pooled at his ankles.

She’s screaming out, her body inching up against the counter.

The hand around her neck tightens as it pulls her back. Her back curls into an arch as he leans forward to crash his lips against hers. 

Their kiss is sloppy, lips sliding off of each other’s.  Well, it’s more like he’s kissing her. Her lips are parted, moaning in his mouth, loudly.

The sound of her ass clapping against his dick is louder.

“S-so fucking tight,” he gasps against her mouth. His stomach is clenching.

Both of their bodies are covered in a layer of sweat that makes their brown skin shine.

He can’t get enough of her, going back in for another kiss, even when he feels like he’s going to pass out from not breathing.

When he pulls away, their lips smack. He finally releases her neck as he pulls out.

Her body sags against the counter, her toned legs trembling under her own body weight. As her hands feebly grip the counter’s edge, she peers back at him, looking railed. Her slick back bun is past sweated out, decorated with flyaways and frizz. Even her lips are swollen.

Cimani’s blurred vision, mostly full of tears, tracks to between Sito’s legs. She’s staring at the very thing ruining her, wondering how her friend of almost ten years was carrying all this dick around and she hasn’t even known.

Long, thick, and deep brown, with a left curve as it hangs between his tattooed legs. He is, single-handedly, her demise.

He’s saying something, but she can hardly hear him over her own panting.

“You hear me?”

Slowly, she looks up into his lustful eyes.

“Said I’ma show you something,” he repeats.

Before she can ask, a warm hand grasps her inner thigh of her right leg. The warm touch makes her jolt, she’s sensitive.

Carefully, he lifts. And she’s not too sure where this is going, her brain too exhausted to catch on with ease.

In fact, panic doesn’t set in until her knee is put to rest on the cold countertop, level with her hips. A large, warm hand falls back to the junction of her hip and lifted thigh.

This new stretch, he doesn’t even need to hold her open to see the way her pretty pussy drools. Droplets of her wetness dangle from her slickened heat. The leg she balances on, trembles even more.

“It’s good for you?”

She nods, her head dropped between her hiked shoulders.

“Yeah … already knew that.” 

He takes ahold of himself, passing over his dick with ease as the skin is slippery. He comes to hold himself towards the tip.

“Already knew … you could handle that,” he exhales

She shivers, feeling the heat of his wide tip, kiss at her opening. It’s wet, gently passing through her lips. Tickling as it travels to her clit.

Stretched, her cunt flutters at the feeling, missing how deep he was. Lost in a trance, he plays with her, slapping the head of his dick against her clit over and over. 

Her back barely arches as she tries to push back against him. Holding his dick to her swollen bud, he drags a tight fist up and down himself.

“Shit…”

Slowly, he pulls back to her sopping cunt.

“Know you could take it… Know you could—”

A sharp gasp inflates her chest, body locking up as his dick slides back in with too much ease.

The stretch is greater this time, a stronger burn. She almost taps out.

“Fuck, she squeezing me,” Sito groans out. His fingers grip the fat of her hip tight. “Know you feel that shit,” he hisses.

Her eyes roll back to the whites, feeling him reach even deeper than previous. Before she can even moan out, her head is pushed to counter, held down as she begins to fuck her again.

“This … all I w-was tr-tryna … give you, Mami.”

Her pussy hugs him extra tight at the mention of that name.

“Just some … good. Dick.” Every sentence is punctuated with a sharp thrust. “And … make sure you taken care of.” 

Her mouth opens, but there isn’t a sound leaving it.

As he picks back up to a steady pace, her pussy lets go around him. All of the friction has packs her sticky release into a creamy froth at the base of his dick. 

A sharp smack is laid to her asscheek, his heavy hand gripping the little bit of fat immediately after. 

She doesn’t even have it in her to jump from the rough hit. Instead, she just flutters around him.

“This lil’ shit drive me crazy,” he slurs. “This lil’ ass booty,” he chuckles, breathlessly.

Every time they meet, spurts of her cum splat against his pelvis.

“You’on even know … how—how many times I—“ He presses his hips right up against her. “—times I wanted to fuck ya lil’ ass up—“

Her gasp cuts him off as he straight rolls his hips, digging his dick into her drooling cunt.

“Si—Sito—“

She tries to reach back. She doesn’t even make contact with him; he keeps her wrist against her lower back.

“I know, Mami, I know.”

Slowly, he comes to a stop, pulling out just a few, thick inches. His other hand reaches down to readjust her leg, which had slipped some from the island. He pushes it up higher. 

“I know—”

“Augh—FUUUCK!”

Her voice scratches at her throat.

His shoves back in, hitting her g-spot dead-on. She crumbles against the island, gripping onto its edge with everything left in her.

Her ass jiggles cutely every time his pelvis collides with her, bouncing on him.

“All you gotta do is take it … take this dick, ‘Mani. That’s it.”

He raps a hand around her disheveled bun, yanking her head up.

“Don’t even gotta work for it,” he grunts in her ear.

She can feel it, her pussy creaming all around him. He’s slipping and sliding into her walls effortlessly. Every punch his dick gives to her cervix, knocks the wind out of her.

With how fast her heart is beating, she honestly thinks she’s about the faint.

“Ain’t never gonna make you work for it.”

She’s sniffling, her face a mess of tears.

“‘Long as you don’t give my pussy away.”

She shakes her head, lips parted and eyes squeezed shut.

“No, right?”

“N-no Pap-pa—“

“Huh?”

“No!” She wails out, feeling her standing leg shake under her. “Oooohh—uh! Fuuuck!”

“Yeah,” he smiles wildly, grills undoubtedly shining. “Ain’t no nigga giving it to her like this. Ain’t no nigga that’s—dicking her down like this.”

Following every thrust is a spurt of water, splashing down on the hardwood floor.

“Ain’t no one doing it like Sito, right?”

She cries out, unable to even form words as she twitches around him.

“Gonna stamp my name in this shit,” he swears through gritted teeth.

As sweat drips from his forehead, his braids have even started to frizz up.

All of this pleasure, all of this stimulation makes her toes curl cutely. And he catches it, the square shaped acrylics decorating them.

His hand releases her wrist to hold raised foot. He presses his thumb into the sole, immediately triggering another set of kegels off in her. 

The pressure of his thumb to her sole, and his dick against her cervix, drives her body insane. Like a reaction set off by pushing two buttons at the same time, she cums yet again.

The sound of water pouring against wood makes his ears perk up. She almost collapses from the pleasure.

“Pretty ass toes.”

He slows his strokes his focus zeroes in on her foot. She can’t even say that he’s giving her mercy at this moment, as each languid drag of his dick against her spot makes her bawl out.

“Cute ass lil’ feet.”

His dick jumps within her, a recent memory flashing within his head.

“When you put ‘em in the camera,” he huffs. “Right above this pretty ass pussy … damn near nutted.”

She only shudders. Her body spasms around him as he continues massaging her feet. And with that, his pace picks back up again.

“Fuuuck,” he groans out. “You so pretty, Mama.” 

Releasing her hair, he lets her fall back to the counter, watching how he fucks her deeply. His control is slipping from him, his thrusts getting sloppier by the second.

“This shit all yours,” he pants. “This sh— … shit all yours—f-forrea—uhh—“

He doesn’t even get to prepare for his orgasm, but his body couldn’t hold back anymore. The first few spurts were buried deep in her walls.

His brain buffers before he regains enough sense to pull out, still nutting as he does so.

Laying his dick between her cheeks, it dribbles out the last few drops of cum, softening as he finishes.

“Shit...”

He stares, lost in a trance as he stares down at the beautiful mess they made. Her brown skin glistens with a sheen of sweat and his cum decorating her pussy and cheeks.

But it isn’t until she whimpers that he’s knocked out of it. She doesn’t even have to say anything.

So tired and spent, Cimani barely even registers when she’s placed on her back, her legs wrapped around his waist.

Her eyes are barely open, but Sito is all that she sees. Everything is so hazy. 

He leans down, pressing his chest to hers and he holds her close.

And when he puckers his lips to kiss her, her movement is automatic, immediately kissing him back although weakly. 

Their pecks are soft and sweet, almost too sentimental for what just happened.

And that makes her giggle.

He cracks a smile. “What?”

“My feet, Sito? What the fuck?” she slurs with breathless laughter.

He kisses his teeth, hiding his face in her neck. “C’mon, now.”

“I just didn’t expect you to have that big of a foot fetish!” 

Her giggles are music to his ears, pulling a tired chuckle out of him.

“I don’t ... s’just you,” he mumbles, uncaring of how feindish he sounds. Pulling his body up to look at her, his eyes run over her face. “You knew that, though.”

She hums, a dreamy smile on her lips. But as they stare at each other, her mouth falls into a gentle pout.

“You nutted in me,” she whines.

He pushes her fly-aways off of her face.

“My fault, Mami,” he says softly.

It doesn’t fail to make her pussy flutter again, the action pushing more of his cum out.

“Said I was gonna stamp it, though.”

Her faux pout lightens.

“I’ll get you the Plan B.”

“Thank you,” she smiles.

Before any of them can say more, the ringtone of Cimani’s phone goes off. They jump up at the sound.

“My phone,” she says, sitting up on her elbows.

Reaching over her, Sito grabs it up from its spot on the island, closer to the opposite side. He hands it over to her, carefully.

For a second, confusion takes over her face as she reads the unknown number. 

“Who is it?”

She glances up at him. “I don’t know.”

Nevertheless, she decides to answer anyway.

“H-hello?”

Sito watches with great interest, the focused look on her face—threaded brows pulled together in thought.

“This is her.”

As the call continues, that look bleeds off of her face. It’s replaced with a bright smile.

“Yes, yes—I can come by today.” She sits up more, Sito backing up to give her the space.

“Two?” She looks at him.

Confused, he nods nonetheless.

“Y-yeah, two is good for me.”

“What?” he mouths.

But she only looks away. “Alright … yup, that’s perfect … okay. Okay, bye.”

She pulls the phone away, ending the call.

“Who was that?”

She looks up at him. “That was an apartment locator for that place you found. I-I think things fell through with their first option, so they considered me next. They asked to come by for a tour.”

His brows lift. “You deadass?”

“Yes! Oh my God!”

Throwing her phone down on the counter, she jumps on him, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing tight. Luckily his reflexes are quick enough—he catches her before she falls.

“Oh my God!” she squeals.

She pulls back, staring up at him with wide eyes. “Fuck, what time is it?”

Reaching out with one hand, he double taps her screen to get the time—almost one o’clock.

“How fast you think you could shower?” He asks.

“Fast enough.”

His lips curl upward as he gets an idea. 

“Shit, I think if we both get in, we could save some time.”

This sounds like a bad idea.

She can’t help but to mirror his expression.

“I think so, too.”

PART 1 HERE

TAGLIST • @wintrrxxo @vibewshyla @icanmakethedickstandup @toji-dabi-wife @genea-myers @whoareyouuuo @thegoatedaries @nova2kss @thecoochiefairy @plutobratz @levibabymama @bubblegum-lollipop @junitries @thevelvetwhispers @pussypinkdoll @venusincleo @soupersaldz @synicalslut

BANNERS • @cursed-carmine | @adornedwithlight & @cafekitsune

[fushitoru]

thinking about writing a reincarnated/isekai!gojo and reader series...

you and gojo were married in canon/jjk verse.

you’ve seen his mental health deteriorate because of the higher ups and how he’s perceived as a weapon and is a weapon. satoru’s mental health has been descending for a very long time, and by the end, when you’re soullessly watching his dead body projected by mei mei’s crows, you blankly volunteer to be next (ignoring all of kashmo's protests).

can anyone blame you? your life has no purpose anymore. you and satoru were never able to get the life you deserve. late nights spent waiting in bed for your lover, seeing the love of your life get burdened more and more from the weight of his responsibilities, and, in the end, even witnessing him volunteer his own body as if he were a doll, a weapon. you know damn well you're not going to spend the rest of your life replacing the flowers on his grave and try to reform the society that never even cared about satoru anyways.

you don’t last very long fighting sukuna, and you die, praying to whatever merciless god out there that, in another life, you and satoru get the happy ending you both deserved, that he wouldn't be the one that got away—

you wake up from your dream, gasping. you don’t know why it was so vivid; all you remember is that you were some kind of magician? like winx club? harry potter? hunter x hunter? and you had a husband and he WAS SMOKING HOT. also both of you died and you were kind of sad, because he was hot :(

so—as a college student—you head to your first lecture of the year. you’ve decided to switch majors and have to take this dumb math class that’s a gen ed and is filled with people. so you take one of two empty spots remaining.

the lecture goes on, until professor yaga rolls his eyes and suddenly everyone’s heads is turned towards the door, so you just follow the crowd.

and there he is.

a boy with the most stunning white hair and sheepish blue eyes upholding a charming grin, yelling out something undoubtedly snarky while taking his seat, some people dapping him up as he makes his way to the only seat—-the one next to you.

as he’s setting his stuff down, and he turns to look at you. blinks.

A breathless, “Hi.”

And then, your story begins again.

AHH COMMENT IF you want to be on the taglist <3

this is basically me giving you and gojo the rom com you deserve. does he remember you? did he get the same dream as you? and will he call the police if you chase after him, insisting he's your husband and the love of your life? stay tuned! prepare for angst (hurt/comfort), pining, and ridiculously horny reunion sex (at the end after i make you suffer and yearn, of course)

and to my bridgerton!gojo readers, i promise i will publish the first chapter only after chapter ten/eleven of bridgerton!gojo is out <3

[thescarletfang]

SPINNING OUT [part two]

Here it is! Part two!

Read part one here.

Dr. Jack Abbot x ex!freader

Summary: You left Jack three months ago, convinced he'd given up on your marriage. When you're hit by a drunk driver, you're taken to PTMC, and what was supposed to be an ending gives way to a new beginning.

Word count: ~8k

ALL OF MY WORK IS 18+, MDNI

Warnings: Angst, fluff, car accident, time jumps and flashbacks, therapist reader, widower Jack, dead wife mentioned!, SMUT, nipple worship (lol), death of a child mentioned, vaginal pain mentioned, p in v sex, oral sex, eventual happy ending. Slight age gap (reader is 38, Jack is 49 in present day). If I missed anything, let me know!

taglist (I only tagged you if you have your age in your bio!!! Sorry but I'm a stickler about it, especially when my work contains smut. If you wanna be tagged, add that age in your bio!).

@espressheauxs, @imherefordeanandbones, @ emma8895eb, 

@bitters-n-sweets @absinthe-over-tea, @wowitsafemale, @sophreakingfunny, @abbotjack, @thatcorporategirlie, @grimpowrrs, @telepathay

PART 2 

BEFORE

When you arrive to Jack’s place three evenings after your first date, your entire body is buzzing. 

You’ve texted each other every day. Jack’s called you after all of his shifts, as the sun is cresting over the city skyline and you’re just waking up, loose-limbed and heavy-eyed. It’s been 72 hours since you kissed under the moonlight in front of your home and you itch to be back in his presence. You feel delirious and wild, and you cannot stop thinking about the feeling of his lips on yours, the heat of his body pressed against you. 

You remind yourself there’s no expectation for tonight. You want to sleep with Jack, obviously, but you don’t want to rush him. You don’t even know if he wants that. You feel close to him but the reality is it’s only been three days, so you need to calm the fuck down. 

Now you find yourself standing in Jack’s home, a glass of wine in your hand, taking in this man’s space while he fusses with dinner in the kitchen with a dish towel over his right shoulder. You glance at him as he throws garlic into the pan, lowering the heat as it sizzles in the oil. You thought you’d be nervous when he opened the door, but his crooked grin, his dimples, his entire energy calmed your fluttering heart. 

His condo is simple and clean. There’s not much in the way of personality, but you figure that’s because he practically lives at the hospital. You wander over to the bookshelf in the living room and grin at his collection of Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings.  You also see a few photos. Jack with his sisters and nieces and nephews; this makes you grin. There’s one in particular that you like; it’s Jack with a young (maybe nine or ten), curly-haired girl on his shoulders at what appears to be some sort of backyard birthday. It’s precious. There’s one of Jack from when he was in the army with a few military buddies, leaning against a combat vehicle in the desert. He looks skinny and haunted, and you have a hard time looking at it. Jack and Robby, from a fishing trip you remember vaguely hearing about a few years ago, though it’s funny now to think that the “buddy” Robby was heading to the cabin with was, in fact, this Jack Abbot. 

And then there is a framed photo of Jack and his wife on their wedding day. They can’t be more than 25-years-old in the picture. Jack’s hair is auburn, and his freckles stand out even more with his youthful, round, clean-shaven face. They’re smiling at one another and they look so sweet it makes your heart clench. You’re shocked to find your eyes prickle as you gaze at this photo, but you cannot help it. It is so unfair that she isn’t here anymore and that Jack had to go through that. 

You’re so grateful that this man has invited you into his space, that he hasn’t hid any parts of himself from you. 

You turn to said man now and find him watching you from the kitchen. He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed (ridiculously sexy in his plain, blue t-shirt), and he has this little grin on his scruffy face. You feel yourself warm under his gaze and make your way to him, sipping your wine as you do so. 

“You caught me snooping,” you say lightly, and his eyes light up. 

“I explicitly told you to snoop while I finish this,” he says, uncrossing his arms and taking the dish towel from his shoulder. “Find anything interesting?”

You stop just a few feet from him in his kitchen and smile. “I like your pictures and book collection.”

He studies you and you feel like he’s trying to decipher whether or not you’re teasing him. 

“Yeah?”

You nod. “Also, it is hilarious to me that you and Robby go on fishing trips. Very sweet…and geriatric of you both.”

Jack’s eyes light up at the teasing, scoffing in mock-offense. “Hey now. Fishing trips are cool.”

You laugh. “I didn’t say they weren’t!” A beat. “Just a coupla peepaws catching trout. It’s cute.” 

He grins, dimples showing through, and turns to the stove. “Maybe I won’t feed you after all.”

“Now that’s just rude. I’m famished.”

He shrugs, shoots you a mischievous glance over his shoulder, and it’s so fun and sweet that you can only smile like an idiot in return. 

Jack does, in fact, feed you. And Jack Abbot, MD., is an amazing cook. It’s some sort of risotto with creamy mushrooms and lemon chicken and a ton of herbs and you’re so impressed you have to try and school your features into a poker-face lest you come off as desperate as you feel. Dinner is a relaxed affair, at his little table, and as you both eat you chat about your days, and work. By the time both of your plates are clean, your body is buzzing. 

You sip your half-full glass of wine and Jack sips his and you both kinda just stare at each other for a moment. It’s loaded and you wonder how crazy it would be to crawl into his lap right now, to bracket his hips with both of your thighs, grind yourself on him—

Jesus, you need to get a hold of yourself. A string of bad dates and you’re ready to jump the bones of the first man you meet who’s competent, and handsome, and has a great job, and is in therapy, and can cook—

Jack clears his throat. “Wanna watch a movie or something?” he asks, rubbing a hand along his scruff and breaking through your mile-a-minute thoughts. 

You nod. Jack nods back, and your heart pounds.

You pick something mindless — an old 90s thriller, because those comfort you, and you sit on Jack’s couch which is shockingly cozy and comfortable (you make a mental note to ask him where he got it when your mind isn’t on a loop of Jack Jack Jack). 

Jack sits next to you but not right against you, though you can feel his body heat. You both crack jokes about the movie, and about 30 minutes in you feel his arm go across the back of the couch behind you. Your heart thuds and you move a little closer to him, and then a few minutes later you feel his fingers graze your shoulder and you are now, finally, pressed against his side. You can smell his soap and his detergent and it smells clean and divine and Jesus, are you about to sniff him?

You really, really try to keep your breathing even but when his thumb grazes back and forth on your shoulder, you can’t help it. You both haven’t said anything in a while, and you can hear Jack’s breathing, can feel the heat of him. Your breath picks up just a little bit because you might explode from how badly you just want to touch him. 

Your hand finds his thigh. 

Jack’s sharp intake of breath spurs you on and you look up at him through your lashes and he’s already looking down at you, his jaw clenched and tight like he’s—like he’s holding himself back. 

You bite your lip and Jack actually fucking groans and your hand moves just the slightest bit higher on his leg and Jack swallows. 

“Hi,” you breathe. 

“Hi,” he croaks, voice broken and sacred between you. 

“Movie’s not over,” you whisper. 

Jack’s eyes rove over your face. When he looks at you, it’s like he’s taking in every single feature and rather than make you feel exposed, it makes you feel fucking beautiful. 

“I couldn’t care less about the movie,” Jack tells you and that’s all you need. Your chest rises and expands and Jack’s eyes flicker for a moment down to your chest and then quickly back to lock on your gaze. 

His eyes make you feel bold. 

You sit up, throw a leg over his lap and then you’re straddling him, your hands on his shoulders and Jack’s hands find your waist and you’re so close to him and it feels so fucking good. 

“Kiss me,” you tell him. Jack bites his lip and you think I am going to fuck this man tonight. 

“Yes ma’am,” he breathes before a hand finds the back of your head and he dips you down as he surges up and your lips meet. 

It takes approximately two seconds before you’re licking into each other’s mouths, and it’s messy and so much hotter than the peck you shared when you arrived at his place. You can’t help your hips—they grind down into his lap and you can feel how hard he is, you think he must’ve been hard for the last few minutes at least and the thought drives you insane. 

You’re a little shocked there’s no awkwardness here. It’s all so easy and it makes you feel grateful you met this man at this exact point in your life, when you feel fully formed and clear about what you are looking for, what you want. 

One of his hands dips to get a palmful of your ass and you gasp into the kiss because it feels so good, everything about him feels so perfect. 

He pulls back slightly, breathing heavy, lips spit-slick and red. 

“This okay?” he husks, voice serrated and low. He goes to move his hand off your ass but you grab his wrist and keep it there. You lean forward and bite his bottom lip, tugging it gently between your teeth and Jack groans, the sound rumbling out of his chest. He looks wonderfully devastated. 

“Yes,” you breathe, and suddenly both of Jack’s hands are gripping your ass through your jeans and your lips find his again. You break apart for air and he sucks the pulse point below your jaw. Your right hand finds his curls, your left grips his shoulder, and you grind against his hard, clothed cock and you think you might actually come from dry-humping Jack on his couch. You cannot remember the last time you dry-humped anyone, let anyone have been brought to orgasm from such a thing. You feel like a teenager, hormones raging and lighting you up from within. 

“Jack,” you moan, your hips grinding faster. “I—I might—I think I’m gonna—fuck—”

Jack pulls away from where he’s sucking your neck and looks up at you, his eyes bright and dark at the same time, a look of wonder on his face. 

“Shit, really?” He looks down between you, where you’re moving and he lets out a strangled groan. “You think you can come like this? Yeah?” 

“Yes, yes,” you chant, moving faster, the rough fabric of his jeans against your own creating delicious friction. “It’s so good, Jack, you feel so good—”

Your hand grips his curls a little tighter, the couch begins to smack against the wall from the movement, and Jack moans, his eyes locking onto yours. He looks amazed and it makes you feel powerful. 

“Jesus.” His voice practically breaks on the word. “You can’t be real. You were fuckin’ made from my dreams.”

You’re babbling now because the seam of your jeans against your clit and the feel of his hard cock have you so close. 

“I’m there, I’m there, oh my fucking god—Jack—” You know you’re being loud but you can’t help it because all you can do is focus on coming on this man’s lap. “I’m coming—I’m coming—”

“Fuck, just like that, you look so pretty comin’ on me, take what you fuckin’ need.” Jack’s voice spurs you on and then you’re coming so hard you actually fucking squeal. 

Jack leans his head against the back of the couch and watches you break apart and you can actually feel his cock twitch from under you. You come down from the high of your orgasm, practically melting into his lap, your arms looping around his neck. You lean your forehead against his and you’re both panting into each other’s mouths. 

“Christ,” Jack croaks. He looks absolutely debauched. 

You’re so warm, all over, but an insecurity rushes up inside of you as your breathing begins to slowly even out. You move your forehead away from his, look him in the eyes. 

“Is it insane I want you to fuck me and this is only the second time we’ve hung out?”

Jack’s eyes flash for a moment, his jaw clenching, and then he places a tender hand around your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. 

“I’m followin’ your lead here. I don’t need anything, I—” He swallows. “I’m just really glad you’re here.” 

You smile because you can’t help it. “I’m really glad I’m here, too.” You lick your lips. “And I really, really need you to be inside me.” 

“Fuck.” The word is torn from Jack’s lips, followed by a disbelieving laugh. “Hold on to me.”

Your arms around his neck tighten, and his hands move to hold you just under your ass and he—he picks you up from the couch, stands with you—and you cannot believe he is carrying you right now. 

“M’too heavy,” you say shyly, burying your face in his neck. Jack barks out a laugh as he walks you down the hall and shoulders his way through what you assume is his bedroom door. You wish you had the brain power to look around but you can’t because this sexy motherfucker just carried you into his bedroom. 

“No fuckin’ way,” he tells you lowly, and when he reaches his bed he gently sets you onto it. You fall back, breathing heavy as he leans over you, hands planted on either side of your head. Your hands skate up the thick, corded muscles of his arms and you look into his hazel eyes. You smile at him because you simply cannot help it. 

Jack stares at you, seemingly cataloguing everything he sees. 

“Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you these last few days,” he rasps, a hand coming up to cradle our jaw. You bite your lip and his eyes grow dark as he watches the movement. 

“Me too,” you whisper, and it’s tender between you. He leans down, presses his lips to yours and the kiss goes from sweet to fucking hot in seconds. You bite his bottom lip, pulling on it and Jack moans into your mouth. He pulls back, staring down at you.

“Need you to take your fuckin’ clothes off,” he croaks and you whimper. You nod, sitting up and he kneels on the bed and you both quickly—frantically—undress. Jack reaches behind his head with one hand, pulling off his t-shirt in a swift movement that you internally catalogue as very fucking sexy. You pull your own top over your head, toss it to god-knows-where, and quickly unclasp your bra. Before you can undo your jeans, Jack stills your hand, moving it away from the button. He crowds slowly into you, his eyes flicking up to yours before his lips find the nipple of your left breast. He massages your right one with a large hand and it has you leaning back on your elbows and arching your back so your tit is in his palm and you’re keening. 

“You’re so sexy,” he groans out of the side of his mouth that is still around your nipple and your toes curl, your hands going into his gray curls and holding him to you, fucking latching him onto you—

You might come like this, and the realization has you huffing, “I need us to be naked. Now.”

Jeans are clumsily, messily shed, and then you are in your simple cotton panties and Jack is in his briefs and you look down—

The leg Jack has bent on the edge of the bed is prosthetic. You look up at Jack, who’s watching you closely.

“Uh, another thing I never know how to bring up,” he says and you’re taken aback when you notice he’s blushing. “Lost it overseas during my second tour.”

You feel insane because you are topless and in your underwear and this feels like an important moment. You sit up, cradle his face in your hands. 

“You wanna take it off?” You ask, your thumbs brushing the apples of his cheeks. “Do whatever makes you more comfortable. I want you.”

Jack’s eyes go a little glassy before he kisses you roughly, pushing you back down onto your back. He pulls back enough to mutter, “After,” before he descends on you again. 

The mattress and bedding is cool beneath you as Jack kisses and licks his way down your sternum. He pauses at your breasts, suckling at your nipples for a moment before licking his way down your stomach. He situates himself between your legs.  His hands find the waistband of your underwear and he glances up at you, a question in his eyes. 

“Please,” you answer, and Jack grins crookedly as he peels your underwear down your thighs. He gently drops them over the side of the bed and then Jack is pushing on your knees to open you up to him and your heart is beating so fast you’re pretty sure you can see it beneath your skin. His large hands grip your thighs as he maneuvers your legs over his freckled, broad shoulders and then he breathes you in, his entire face a breath away from your dripping cunt. 

“Fuck, look at you,” he croaks. “Jesus.” His eyes flick up to you. “Can I taste you?”

“Yes, yes—” your words break off when his tongue licks into you and oh, fuck. Fuck. When was the last time you even felt this good? You bizarrely think of the last time you slept with someone — some idiotic man a few months ago, who didn’t even go down on you — and you think this is so good, it’s so good—

“Jack,” you cry, your hands finding his hair and pulling him even closer into your pussy. He moans and you can feel the sound, can feel it down into your very core and you think you want him eating your pussy every single day for the rest of your life. 

He pulls back and licks his lips, looking up at you. “Tell me what you need, I wanna get you there.”

You put a hand to your forehead and your thighs squeeze against his ears, caging him in. 

“This—this, Jack, it’s so good—”

Suddenly Jack’s hands are under your ass and he’s pulling you even closer into his awaiting mouth and you can’t help it — you cry out so loudly you’re worried about Jack’s neighbors, but he doesn’t seem to care because he’s grinding into the mattress as he eats you. His head bobs up and down with how fervently he’s licking your pussy and you feel it but it’s — it’s not enough —

You lean up on your elbows. “Can—can you put a finger in me?”

Jack’s eyes flutter and he pulls back and you almost die when you see how wet his stubble is. He’s drenched in you. 

“Yeah,” he says softly, almost reverently. “I can do that, baby.”

He takes the middle finger of his right hand and gently slides it into you, bites his lip as he watches it go in with little resistance. 

You collapse onto your back again and the glide of his finger in and out of your pussy feels heavenly. Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head. 

“Yes, yes,” you babble. 

Jack kisses the inside of your thigh as he moves his finger in and out. He looks at you, eyes dark. 

“Need another?”

You nod, your hands gripping into the top cover of Jack’s bed because it’s so good when Jack gently slides in his ring finger. It’s tighter than just one but you feel yourself relaxing into the feeling, feel yourself grow even wetter with a mix of Jack’s spit from his mouth and your juices. 

“I’ve—fuck, yes like that—I’ve had some issues with pain in the past—so you—you need to get me—-fuck, Jack—get me ready—-to take you—”

You know you’re babbling but you need Jack to know this; you’ve had too many awful partners in the past who didn’t take their time, who just rammed their dick into you. That kind of pain doesn’t leave your body easily, and you’ve learned how to enjoy sex but you need to communicate this. 

His fingers keep working you but he pats your knee with his free hand. 

“Hey, look at me.”

Jack’s rasp catches your attention and you open your eyes and you look down at him. Your thighs frame his head, his gray curls are a wreck, he’s got two fingers buried deep in your pussy and you try and take a mental snapshot of the image because it’s…it’s lovely. 

“Thank you for telling me,” he says, and the hand that’s not between your legs holds onto your thigh, his thumb caressing the skin. “All I wanna do is make you feel good, okay? Don’t care if that means we take our time, or what. Yeah?”

You nod, feel your eyes prickle despite yourself. Jack kisses your knee. 

“I’m here with you and you’re so fuckin’ gorgeous. You taste so good and if this is all we do, I’ll be a very fuckin’ happy man. You got that?”

You nod, your entire body trembling. Jack crooks his fingers and you gasp.

“Jack,” you whisper. Jack’s eyes crinkle at the edges, softening, and then his thumb starts strumming your clit in a way that sets you on literal fire and you cry out.

“Want you to come all over my fingers,” Jack grouses, and his tongue licks into you again, as his two fingers hook into you and his thumb hits just right. 

“Oh my god,” you moan. You’re sweating properly now, feel it gather on the back of your neck and your hairline and you start to grind into Jack’s face, riding his hand and his tongue at the same damn time. Your tits jiggle with the movement and you feel worshipped in a way you’ve never felt with another man. 

You break when Jack sucks onto your clit, your second orgasm of the night cresting over you with wave after wave of pleasure. You let out a sound that is downright animalistic, and you feel Jack’s own moan all the way to your toes. 

You’re trembling, a sheen of sweat glistens on your skin, and Jack continues to lick and kiss you through it until you put a gentle hand in his curls and pull him off. He looks pussy drunk between your legs, panting and sweating himself. You stare at him. 

“Holy fucking shit,” you articulate like the linguistic genius that you are. Jack’s eyes brighten, a crooked smile dimpling his cheeks as he keeps eye contact with you as he presses a few more kisses into your thighs. 

“Yeah?” he croaks, lips hot on your skin.

You huff a laugh, light and breathy. You’re tingling. 

“Yeah,” you reply, tugging on Jack’s hair. He makes his way up your body, lying next to you. You face each other, and you hook a leg around his waist, cupping his jaw with your hand. 

“How do you make me feel so good?” You ask him because you’re genuinely curious. “Jesus, Jack.”

Jack’s hand finds your naked waist and he gently drags his fingers up and down the curve of your side. “I wanna make you feel good all the time,” he tells you and you believe him. 

You push on his shoulder, getting him flat on his back and you sit up on your knees. He’s still in his briefs and that absolutely needs to change. Your hands find the waistband and you look at Jack, who’s watching you with his chest rising and falling. 

“Can I?” you ask. He lets out a breath. 

“Fuck yes.”

You peel his briefs off of his—his very muscular thighs—and his cock springs free, red and standing proud, already weeping from the tip. Without thinking you wrap a hand around the base of him, your tongue sliding up the side of his cock to lick the precrum that’s dribbled out.

“Fuck!” Jack punches the word out, harsh and from his chest. You hum around him, wanting to keep going, but he gently puts a hand on the back of your neck, gently urging you off. 

“I’m not gonna fuckin’ last if you do that,” he says, voice cracked and ruined. You lift off with a final lick over his tip. You really want to suck this man dry, but Jack’s breath is so shallow you think you need to go a little easy on him. 

“Next time?” you ask, hopeful, and Jack barks out a surprised laugh, more of a huff of a breath, and nods. 

“Yeah, next time. Right now I need to be inside you.”

You quickly sit up, hovering over him. You put your hands on his chest but hesitate. 

“You don’t have any lube, do you?” 

You know you’re wet but still, penetrative sex for you without lube is not that fun. You curse yourself for not bringing your mini bottle in your purse, but you didn’t want to be presumptuous —

“Of course,” Jack says and nods toward his nightstand. “In there. It’s water-based, if that’s okay.”

You stare down at Jack Abbot and you think where the fuck did you come from?

“I really shouldn’t find the sentence, ‘it’s water based, if that’s okay,’ as sexy as I do, but Jesus, who are you?” You ask, leaning over to his nightstand and taking out the bottle. Jack’s hands land on your waist, tightening and he laughs, his ears reddening. 

“I’m 45-years-old,” he tells you, watching as you squirt some into your hand. He gasps when you spread it onto his cock, groans when you give him a squeeze. “And a doctor. I—I know to have lube—fuck, honey, you gotta stop doing that if you don’t want me to embarrass myself.”

You smirk, ceasing your stroking as you line him up at your entrance. “There’s no way you could embarrass yourself after the way you ate me out.”

Jack actually blushes, which is hilarious seeing as you’re both naked and your bare cunt is against his stomach and your hand is wrapped around his length. 

Jack’s hands squeeze your waist once. “You feel good? Ready for me?”

“Yes,” you tell him, before you begin to sink down on his cock. You both gasp, your breaths coming quickly as you take him inch by inch. The stretch hurts a tiny bit at first but you go slowly.

Jack’s head flies back against his pillow and his jaw clenches. His hands make their way to palm your ass as he bottoms out inside you. 

“Jesus, god,” he groans, and you place your hands on his chest, adjusting to the feel of him. “You’re so fuckin’ tight—fuck.”

“Gonna start slow,” you gasp, beginning to grind your hips and Jack’s eyes flick down to where you’re taking him.

“Do whatever you want, you feel so fuckin’ good—”

Your voice is breathy when you ask, “Yeah?”

Jack’s hands dimple the flesh of your ass, and he bites his lip, his eyes seemingly glued to the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy. Your hips begin to move in earnest now.

“Yeah,” he croaks. 

You begin to fuck each other like you mean it. 

And you do. You mean it so much because you know this thing with Jack is special. You grind on his cock and he anchors his hands to your hips and his bedroom is a cacophony of the bed squeaking, and breathy moans, and grunts and yes, yes like that and oh fuck, fuck you feel like heaven. 

Just as your legs start to cramp up, Jack tells you for the second time this evening to hold on, and he flips you so you’re underneath him. You let out a breath as he holds himself above you. 

“Still good?” he asks. 

“Yes, so good,” you moan. Jack grabs your right leg, hitches it around his waist and begins to fuck you like it’s what he was put on this earth to do. The angle hits so good, the headboard starts to slam against the wall, your tits bounce and you claw at his shoulders and his back. 

“Fuck!” you cry when his thrusts begin to hit that sacred spot inside of you.

Jack’s lips find your shoulder, sucking on the flesh there before moving onto your neck. He turns his head where it rests against your collarbone, breathes breath onto your skin as his hips pound into you. 

“You take me so well, baby,” he groans and your hand goes to the back of his head, fisting his gray curls. “You feel unreal—come on—fuck, look at you—”

“Give it to me, Jack,” you reply, and you wrap your other leg around his waist. Your arms grip his shoulders and one of Jack’s hands slams against the headboard, allowing himself to hover above you as he pounds into you. 

“Fucking give it to me,” you moan, delirious with pleasure as his cock—slick with your wetness and the lube—hits deep inside of you over and over. 

You snake a hand between you to play with your clit and Jack groans, watches your finger, mesmerized. 

“God, that’s so hot,” he says, his voice breaking on the last word. “You’re so sexy.” 

You strum your clit and feel yourself grow close. “M’gonna come,” you babble and Jack grits his teeth. 

“Yeah? Jesus, me too baby, I’m so close.” His voice is broken. When he begins to falter in his rhythm, he rasps, “Tell me where you want it.”  

You lock eyes with him as he fucks you to the near brink of delirium. “Inside.”

“Fuck, fuck—fuck.” The mantra falls from his lips as you strum your clit at the exact right moment and you come with a scream. Jack follows a second later with a moan of his own, his head buried in your neck as you feel him coat the inside of your pussy with his come. You keep your legs wrapped around him, both of you gasping for air. Your skin is sticky and wet and you feel on fire. 

Jack gently raises himself up on his arms, looking down at you, and you both burst into laughter. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, and his face is bright red. 

“Wow,” you say back. 

You breathe into each other’s mouths for a moment, letting the comedown wash over you both.

Your eyes grow a little wide at a realization. 

“I’m on birth control. I—I’m sorry, I guess telling you to come inside of me in the heat of the moment wasn't the most responsible. No STIs either.”

Jack leans down, kisses you tenderly before slipping out of you. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t want to. I’m—I also recently got tested. Before our date, so—”

You sit up, still short on breath. You grin at him and he stares back at you like he cannot believe you’re here. 

You wipe some sweat off of your brow. “Gonna pee.” Before you slip out of bed, Jack snakes a hand into your hair and pulls you to his mouth. He kisses you soft, and slow, and it feels like honey. 

“You’re amazing,” Jack mutters against your mouth and you melt into him. 

You are thoroughly fucked, both metaphorically and physcially. 

And you truly believe you have never been happier. 

*** 

Jack moves into your place six months later.

After your first night together, you both decide to be exclusive quickly. You become Jack’s girlfriend, and you fit and mold into each other’s lives in a surprisingly seamless way. Robby is thrilled, of course, and despite Jack’s horrific schedule, you make it work. Sometimes (the rare and blissful times), he will get a few days off in a row, so you make the most of that time together; farmer’s market strolls, going to see a movie, trying out a new recipe together, or simply existing next one another on the couch; you, deep in your latest novel, Jack reading an old medical journal from the ‘90s (“because there’s still good stuff in here!”).

You can’t help but feel taken aback at the easiness of it all, but you refuse to let it scare you. You have spent your entire life waiting for the other shoe to drop, and you do not allow yourself to think that way now. 

So when Jack’s lease is up on his condo, you both mutually come to the decision that it makes sense to meld your lives in this way. He’s practically living at your place anyway — much more than a toothbrush on your counter and a single drawer. He is everywhere in your home; his favorite mug sits on your kitchen shelf, his books have made their way onto your bookcase, and his toiletries are permanently in the shower. You even had a bench installed in there, so he could shower without his prosthetic and be comfortable.

It just makes sense. 

That first night that Jack moves in, you find him in the kitchen, unpacking a few of his beloved stainless steel pots and pans. He looks up at you, hair disheveled, in basketball shorts and a t-shirt, and your heart literally stutters in your chest. He grins, cheeks dimpling, and you walk over to him. 

“We’re not rushing this, right?” You ask it before you can think about it too much; it’s an insecurity of yours that you’re trying to bat away. Six months and living together doesn’t feel rushed for you, but you know it’s different for Jack. 

Jack, who had a marriage before you. Who had his person.

And he didn’t just lose that person. She was brutally ripped away from him in this life and it will never, ever be fair. And you just…you want to make sure that you aren’t overstepping. You would never fucking try to replace her and you love hearing about every single part of his life when he offers it to you, but you just…

You know there is baggage there. No matter how great Jack’s therapist is (and he’s fucking fantastic, you looked him up because duh), no matter how well his SSRI works, no matter how much healing he’s done, no matter how easy his smiles come to him, you can see it. Not just because you yourself are a therapist, but any human being with eyes can see it; when his nightmares wake you up at 3am; when he comes back from a harrowing shift and his eyes are dulled and he’s quiet. 

He’s still haunted. Maybe he always will be.

You know Jack (like everyone) has got his shit. 

But you just want to be…sure.

That Jack is choosing this.

This life. With you.

Jack sets the pan on the stove and turns to you, his expression calm and warm. 

“I don’t think so,” he says softly. He cocks his head slightly, beckoning you over to him. You go easily into his arms, yours snaking around his waist. He kisses your forehead, pushes some of your hair back from your face. 

“Do you?” 

You shake your head. “No. I just wanted to…check.”

Jack grins his crooked grin. “I’m grown. And I know what I want.”

You huff a laugh, feeling some of the doubt and worry slip away. “Yeah? What’dya want, Abbot?”

Jack slides his hands to cradle your jaw, brings his lips to just hover above yours. A hot coil springs loose, low in your belly.

An ember catching fire. 

You look up at him just before he says, “You.”

***

The reservation time has come and gone. 

You walk back home in the quiet evening, the sun hanging low in the sky and you’re not mad. You’re just…sad.

You miss Jack and you know it’s not his fault. And you told him you didn’t need a big deal made out of a one year anniversary, that just being home with him would’ve been enough after two straight weeks of him working every single night. 

You miss your boyfriend.

But Jack insisted on a nice dinner and he made the reservation. He switched shifts with Robby so he’d be out by 7pm (ha). He’d told you to be at the place by 7:30, that he couldn’t wait to see you, etc. etc. 

The plan was to meet at the restaurant; he’d shower and change at PTMC and you’d walk home together. 

You knew the night wasn’t going to go according to plan when a text came in at 6:55, but you were still hopeful. 

Jack Abbot: May be 5 late. 

You: no rush. ☺️

Jack Abbot: Love you. 

You: Love you. 

You didn’t expect to hear from Jack again, and at 7:15 you walked the short walk to the restaurant. They sat you down quickly and you decided to order a wine while you waited, looking over the menu. At 7:35, another text came in. 

Jack Abbot: I’m so sorry, held up. Fucking brutal here. 20 mins, tops. 

You valiantly kept your heart from sinking (seriously, you deserved an award), and took a hefty sip of your wine. You took a breath. Not his fault, you reminded yourself. 

You: Want me to order you a drink to be ready when you get here?

You (foolishly) expected him to text you back immediately, but when the 20 minutes came and went without any text from Jack, you started to feel antsy. You could feel the waiter eying you from the corner but you ignored the stare, determined to just Be Chill. 

You finished your wine at 8. You looked at your phone. 

At 8:15, you asked the waiter for the check. 

At 8:30, you left. 

Not his fault, not his fault plays like a mantra over and over in your head. You chose Jack, and his horrible schedule, and his good fucking heart. You are in love with this man because of who he is at his core, which is a man who doesn’t half-ass things. Who sees things through. Who doesn’t let someone bleed out on his watch because he has something as trivial as a dinner date to get to.

It’s just that—

It hurts, sometimes. 

To feel like the thing that he might not follow through with is you. 

Your phone buzzes as you let yourself in the front door. 

Jack Abbot: Leaving in 15. You order yet?

You scoff, toeing off your heels and hanging up your purse on the hook by the door. It is now 8:40pm. You stare at his text for a moment as you walk over to the kitchen, taking out your favorite wine glass and deciding you’re going to have your second drink in your PJs and on the couch. 

You: I’m home now, so don’t rush or anything. 

You see the three dots appear and then disappear quickly. You watch this happen a few times and you feel a ping of guilt; you’re not angry with Jack. You can’t be. You just wish he could be a little more realistic sometimes; if he hadn’t insisted on this dinner in the first place, you wouldn’t find yourself disappointed. 

Jack Abbot: Baby, I’m so fucking sorry. 

You steady your breath.

You: It’s okay! I completely understand. I’ll see you at home. 

The three dots do their disappearing act again but he doesn’t respond. You sigh, have another drink, and settle in.

Jack does not, in fact, leave PTMC 15 minutes after he sent that text. 

In fact, he doesn’t arrive home until after midnight, when you are curled up in bed, in that liminal space between conscious and unconscious. You feel the bed dip beside you, feel a hand graze your forehead. You smell the sharp scent of antiseptic and sweat and your eyes flutter open. 

Jack…

Jack looks awful. 

You blink sleepily at him and notice the dark circles under his eyes. Notice his pale, waxy complexion. The fatigue is deep in his bones and you hate it so much it feels like a physical ache. 

“Hey,” he croaks. 

“Hi,” you say as you sit up. Jack scoots over but he doesn’t break eye contact with you. This man will be at the absolute end of his rope but one thing about him? He’ll always look you square on and he won’t back down. He dips his head until he knows he’s got your gaze locked onto his.

“I’m so sorry.” It spills out of his mouth in the dark and lies on the bed between you. You shake your head, rub a hand down his back. You feel a little of the tension leave his shoulders but he’s still holding himself so tightly. 

“It’s okay.”

He shakes his head. “No, it’s fuckin’ not. I ruined your night, I ruined our anniversary. It ain’t okay.”

You don’t say anything. The silence stretches between you and Jack looks down at his hands, finally breaking some eye contact and taking a shaky breath.

You keep rubbing his back. 

“You wanna talk about it?”

Jack clenches his jaw and after a moment, he speaks. “Ten-year-old girl. Hit on her bike. Dad was too drunk to realize what happened. A neighbor brought her in. She—” his voice breaks and he rubs his eyes. “She um, she had this wild, curly hair. Like my niece.”

Your heart shatters and you scoot closer to Jack. You lie your head on his back, curling around him. He doesn't have to say that she didn’t make it. You see it and feel it in everything about him now. 

You don’t say I’m sorry. 

You say, “It’s so goddamn unfair. Hope that dad rots in fuckin’ hell.” 

Jack looks up at you, his eyes glassy. You lift your head, run a hand through his curls. “Me too.”

You sit there in shared anger about a stranger. The night hums around you, quietly and softly and it’s a sacred, tender moment. 

You’re no longer tired, so you stand up and offer your hand to Jack. He takes it like he’ll follow you anywhere. You lead him to the bathroom and turn the knobs for the shower.  As steam curls around you, you quietly undress Jack and he quietly undresses you. You help him take off the prosthetic, allow him to lean on you as you both get into the shower. 

He sits down with a groan on the bench under the spray and you don’t say anything for awhile. You simply wash each other in this small, warm place where the two of you are the only two people to exist. When you’ve both rinsed the bubbles from your hair, you go to turn off the water but Jack catches your hand. He pulls you over to where he sits on the bench, and he wraps his arms around your middle. 

Your heart aches and you run your hands through his wet curls. Jack presses his lips to your stomach, makes his way gently to your breasts. Your breath hitches when he wraps his lips around your right nipple, sucking the pebbled flesh there. You feel your core throb and you let out a gasp as he sucks on your tit, like it’s soothing him.

He lets the nipple go with a scrape of his teeth and your fingers tighten in his hair. He moves to your other breast, kissing the flesh before sucking on that one too. You feel his hand gently trail to your core. When his fingers slip through your folds, you tug on his head. 

“Jack,” you say, because you just want to make sure he’s okay. 

His mouth is still sucking on your nipple when he croaks the word, “please” like it’s ripped from his very soul. 

You bite your lip and nod and Jack keeps sucking, keeps fucking self-soothing around your nipple (and it’s so hot, he’s so perfect like this) as he slides a finger into your pussy. You cry out, the sound drowned out from the spray of the shower and Jack gently slides a second finger in and fucks you there under the spray of the water. 

You lose your breath as his thumb strums your clit and he groans against your nipple and when you break, the orgasm rising slow and steady until you’re trembling, Jack finally lifts his mouth from your breast. 

You stare down at him and reach for his aching cock but he shakes his head. 

You understand.

Your pleasure is his penance. You allow him this for tonight. 

When you’re both clean and cozy, back under the sheets, Jack draws you into his arms. You face each other and he cups your cheek, thumb stroking back and forth in a way that makes your eyes flutter. You’re drifting off, finally calm and relaxed and sated. 

“Marry me.”

Your eyes fly open and Jack is staring at you, clear as if it’s a new day. You frown, your mouth falling open.

“What?”

Jack’s eyes flit back and forth between both of yours and at one in the morning after standing you up (albeit, not his fault!), he says it again.

“Marry me.”

You freeze and you’re not sure if you’re dreaming. “Jack, you’ve—it’s been a long night—”

Jack turns over, opens the nightstand, and when he comes back to you he’s holding a simple gold ring with a sparkling solitaire diamond. You gape and bolt up.

“What!”

Jack slowly sits up, still holding the ring between you. “Was gonna do it at dinner. Had a whole—a whole fuckin’ speech planned.”

Your hands go to your face and your heart won’t stop beating as fast as a damn hummingbird, and you cannot believe this is happening right now, right in this moment. 

You look up at him and he’s staring at you. You feel your eyes prick. 

“You sure?” You ask him. 

Jack nods, lets out a breath. “Never been more sure about anything.”

You swallow. “It’s not—you don’t think?--we’re not—”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is raspy when he says, “It’s not too fast. I love you. Want you to be my wife.” 

You slowly take your hands away from your cheeks, which are now wet, because you are crying. “Jack.”

Jack lets out a disbelieving little laugh. “Can’t believe I met you. Never…never thought I’d have this again. Can’t believe you’re…mine.” He pauses. “If—if you’ll have me. Forever.”

“Yes.”

Jack lets out a breath that sounds more like a groan. His eyes shine. “Yeah?”

You nod, smiling and crying and it’s one in the morning and Jack is asking you to marry him. 

“Yeah, Abbot. I’ll have you. Forever.”

The smile Jack gives you puts the fuckin’ moon to shame. 

***

NOW

You aren’t awake and they cut your engagement ring and wedding band off of your finger when you went in for surgery. 

Both sit broken in a little plastic bag on a table beside your unconscious form. 

Jack sits in a chair beside you, elbows on his knees, staring at you with bloodshot eyes and praying to a God he long stopped believing in. 

He is trying to process the fact that you still wear your wedding rings, that you had them on when you were hit by that fucking drunk driver who he hopes didn’t make it and is flatlining somewhere in PTMC. He never takes his own wedding band off but he was sure you kept yours in a drawer somewhere and he doesn’t fucking know what to do if you don’t wake up.

You don’t look like yourself and he can’t equate the vibrant woman you are with this body in the bed before him. 

Robby came in earlier, tried to get Jack to leave and take a shower, eat something, drink water instead of coffee. But Jack refused. 

“I’ll watch over her, brother. You need a break.”

Jack had stared at Robby hard. “This is all my fuckin’ fault, man. I—”

Robby had stepped right up to Jack at that moment, putting a large hand on his friend’s shoulder and looking into his eyes, big brown meeting hazel. “You can’t fuckin’ think that way, Jack. It’s not true and it’s not your fault—”

“I let her go, man,” Jack croaks, eyes wet. “I pushed her away because I don’t deserve her, never did, and this—she shouldn’t—I should’ve been with her or, fuck, I don’t know—-”

Jack’s words had broken off and he’d buried his face in his hands. 

“We’re not gonna let her go this time,” Robby said, his voice cracked with pain. “She’s like my fuckin’ sister and I’m not — we’re not letting her go. We protect the hive, remember?”

When Jack didn’t answer, Robby remained silent but there, a hand on his shoulder. A steady, constant weight in this fucking nightmare Jack found himself in.

Jack now sits alone. Robby had needed to close out his cases, promising he’d be up again as soon as he was done. 

Jack doesn’t know what time it is. Can’t even remember the day of the week.

Jack aches and hurts and he deserves this pain and he just wants you to wake up. 

“Please,” he croaks into the quiet room. “Please come back to me, baby. Please.”

The steady beeping in your cold hospital room is the only answer he gets. 

It’s the only one he deserves. 

[eraserbread]

go as a dream, pt. 2 ft. ex-husband satoru gojo✧

୨୧ - ten years together, five years married -- it's a long time. too long to be running on borrowed time glued together by the past. leaving is easy, but staying away turns out to be impossible. → afab!reader, modern/no curses!au, long-established relationship, mutual pining, smoking, heavy angst, toxic relationship dynamics, mention of pregnancy/failure to conceive, rough sex, drinking, verbal outbursts, mentions of body and relationship insecurity, emotional sex, spitting, dub-con (?), masturbation, oral m!receiving, face-slapping, unhealthy possessiveness, slight sub-drop, mentions of readers relative hair length in contrast to gojo's, mentions of readers mother, nsfw → w.c. - 18.9k {1.45 hour reading time}

a/n: honestly, i don't know what to say anymore. this chapter ruled my life, and it only took me two weeks to complete -- I was just so invested and emotional. thank u all for the love on part one, which you can re-read here :)) again, sit with this for awhile. it's a lot of words to ingest and a lot of emotions to feel, but I think they're good ones. don't be too afraid to keep reading <3 ily! -elly

listen to the soundtrack (updated for pt.2), revisit part 1 <3

A cigarette passes through the warmth of the summer air, mid-morning rays bleaching the burning tip an eye-squinting shade of red. 

Shoko brings it to her lips, tongue in cheek as she stares past Suguru’s head. Perched at the back entrance to the Science building, the small expanse of cars parked neatly under sun covers distracts her piercing gaze. She shakes her head, lowering the smoke to ash it quickly, then reaches to take a drag. 

“You don’t think it’s gonna affect us?” She continues, growling something of a sigh into the openness. It’s clear as day, Shoko is not having a good morning. You were supposed to return today, but so is Satoru. This divorce wasn’t even her problem, but the entire staff base was going to feel the ripples. Every single one of the 120 faculty members was aware of the marriage. Satoru is everyone’s favorite – you were his rock. 

“Only if you allow it to.” Suguru crosses his arms at his chest, squinting as he peeks behind him. The crunch of tires pulls his attention just like it pulled Shoko’s. “Look, I texted him the other night, didn’t get a response, and moved on with my life.” He shrugs, sharp shoulders soft against the blur of harsh light. “Satoru’s so easy to read that it’s shameful. He wants to be alone – needs it, too. It’s like he’s allergic.” 

Shoko hums, pursing her lips around another drag before handing it off to Suguru. She’s looking past his head again, thinking she recognizes the sleek, black car that pulls in behind the school. 

She does. It’s Satoru’s. 

“Speak of the devil,” She mentions, glancing up at Suguru when he peeks over his shoulder again. “That’s probably Jo.” 

“Oh-” Suguru shoves the cigarette between his lips, cheeks hollowing around the drag he sucks out. If Shoko was right, Satoru hated the smell of smoke – he’d complain with the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. It’s a habit; there’s a jump behind Suguru’s step as he walks to meet Satoru halfway. Shoko’s standing up like she’s about to head inside, light eyes squinted as she watches him shrink with distance. “Oh, shit.” 

“Whaaaat?” Shoko springs up, hand latched onto the metal. Suguru halts in his tracks at the end of the ramp, grip tightening against the rail. She can just see the look on his face in her mind; he doesn’t have to be looking over for her to know. 

“They’re getting a divorce, right?” 

“What do you mean – yeah.” 

“Okay, well, they don’t look very separated to me.” Suguru’s pushed out of the way as Shoko stumbles over her feet for a good vantage point. He’s not lying; you and Satoru are together. It’s just like things always were; he holds the door open for you, gaze dead ahead as he waits for you to slip out. That poor door slams shut – his body so packed full of hot tension they could feel it from so far away. 

You aren’t looking at him either, wary with a short peek over your shoulder when you emerge. Satoru is wearing a tight, dark, long-sleeved shirt in the peak of this heat – you’re wearing long, dark pants. 

Everything is right – normal. Why does it feel so wrong? Something is off.

“Go – go, we have to hide.” 

“What? No, I want to know what’s going on-

“Oh, he looks so pissed.” Shoko gasps behind her hand. “He’s wearing the glasses – Geto, the glasses.” 

“I see the glasses. Come on.” The cool air from inside the building soothes Shoko’s back like a thick, welcome blanket. Sure, inside would lead to hours of emotionally uncompelling work, but it’d be better than second-hand embarrassment. She’s wise enough to deduce that nothing good will come from this situation. 

Shoko ducks out, sliding under Suguru’s stretched arm, keeping the door propped. They both dart from the entrance.

“What a shit show. Someone is lying.” Shoko’s nearly running down the hallway, breath heavy in her throat. It’s still too early for students to be in yet, but a scattered few roam the halls, breaking their necks when the pair rushes hot past them. 

“Don’t bring it up; just act normal,” Suguru mutters, pushing the door to the staff room open for Shoko to step into. They know it's where you two would stop once you arrived – it’s where everyone is gathered. 

At least three heads turn at the dramatic entrance. 

Utahime stands up from her spot at the head of the table, a thick, leather-bound book open towards the end that she entirely disregards. “Shoko!” 

“Gojo’s are coming.” 

Two seats down from Utahime, back as straight as a pen, Mei annotates paper assignments, nails as red as the ink on the page. She hums – slow, controlled. “Didn’t you say they broke up?” 

“That’s the issue, just be normal.” 

They don’t have to tell Nanami twice – he takes his coffee, drops his conversation, and leaves the room like he was never there. Takuma watches him walk out on their discussion, sputtering like a fish out of water. 

“What is happening?” He turns around, eyes blown wide. “Suguru?” 

“Sit. Be normal.” Suguru snatches his shoulders, pushing him into the empty seat opposite Mei. His heavy touch lingers, and one hand fumbles in his back pocket for his phone. 

“Don’t say anything about the divorce, or I’ll strangle you,” Shoko speaks through gritted teeth, holding her hand in a tense claw in Takuma’s relative direction. He slumps down like he’s guilty, letting Suguru’s weight sink in. 

“I didn’t even know they were getting divorced…” He trails off, voice light as a feather. 

“Shut up,” Shoko and Suguru hiss at the same time, wary of the shadows that pass the covered windows every time one appears. She’s keeping an eye out for a pair of them – intertwined by the arms like you and Satoru always do. 

It never comes. 

The door clicks, creaks, then settles. You walk inside, your head heavy and your gaze low. Shoko gives a breath of relief. 

“Hi, stranger.” Suguru purrs. 

“Oh my God – you didn’t sleep?” Shoko clicks her teeth, turning on her feet, and she crowds you at the door. You feel pitiful standing in the way, arms crossed over your sensitive frame, still singing and sore from last night. There’s a crip in your walk – a numbness in your eyes. 

“Oh, Gojo.” Utahime pouts, standing to greet you, hiding no pity behind her words. It’s all over your face, you feel like shit. 

“Don’t call her tha-

“Whatever, it’s fine.” You cut Suguru off, knowing he has good intentions but belittled by the air of it all. Utahime goes in to hug you – your chest aches as she cradles it. “I guess it’s nice that everyone knows. I don’t have anything to hide.” You smile when she pulls away, avoiding eye contact so she can’t see the lie in your gaze. It’s bad enough you can’t even hide it in your tone. 

Shoko is chewing her bottom lip raw, poking and squeezing at it with manicured fingers. She wants to say more – wants to point out the stumble in your step and the drowsiness in your eyes. She wants to point out the fact that you came here with him, but knows it's inappropriate. After all, you and Satoru live together and share a car – it’s not unheard of that you two are still around each other. She just worries about the headspace it’d lower you into. 

Satoru, when he’s upset, is an entirely different person. Every ounce of heat in his soul drops, leaving icy lakes where his heart should be. He jokes through it all, making sly digs at Shoko’s unhealthy habits or how useless he thinks she is as a friend. Always, he’d laugh it off, then drop his expression like it was never there. He’s too good at being an asshole – it’s why she’s so wary. 

“You sure you’re good to be back?” 

You ignore her. “Hi Mei, Takuma.” 

“Hi, beautiful. Long time no see, hm?” 

“Good to see you, Gojo.” 

“Stop-” You reach for Shoko’s shoulder as she whips around to scold him. “I don’t care. I’m not changing my name.” 

She turns back to you, eyes wide with worry. You can hear the unsaid words vibrating off of her bare lips. They wash over you with the weight of the world. Everyone is staring. 

Utahime crosses her hands at her waist, clearing her throat as the dust settles in the room. Takuma peeks up at Suguru as he steps away, wanting to say more but far too conscious of the space they found themselves in. 

“Smart.” Mei hums, not having looked up from her work since you entered. She tilts her head, light, loose hair falling over the pressed, blue blazer over her shoulder. “Don’t let one bad Gojo ruin the name for you.” 

“You know you’re not helping, right?” 

“Bye, Ieiri. Your abrasiveness would be endearing if she were actually a child who needed support.” Though she threatens to walk away, Mei doesn’t move. She doesn’t even reciprocate the hazel daggers Shoko is sending her. “It seems this conversation is a bit suffocating. Why don’t you move it outside.” 

“Is that a suggestion?” 

“Let’s just-” Suguru jumps into action, peeling his dark eyes from his glaring white phone screen. “Come on – she’s right.” 

“We don’t have to talk about it at all.” You scoff as Suguru nudges both of you out of the frosted glass door. “You two are making this into a spectacle.” 

“Oh, I guess it’s fuck me then? Okay.” 

Suguru scoffs once the door closes on the rest of his colleagues.“Sho- are you just incapable of calm?” 

“I need a cigarette.” She decides, turning on the ball of her flat shoes. In one fluid, flustered stroke, she’s pulling out her pack and her phone, grumbling something likely aimed at Suguru that you couldn’t catch onto. 

“Is she serious?” You scoff, eyes burning a bit at the rush of emotion so early in the day. You’re still incredibly fragile from a silent, ugly morning with Satoru, facing his glaring and silent treatment all the way here. You felt worthless in his bed, in his car, and now you’re an outsider at work. 

Suguru stands with his hands stuffed in his front pockets, his knee jutted as the back entrance rushes open and slams shut. He squints against the light, bangs reacting to the breeze. “She’s just overwhelmed with the change of workload. She’s fine.” 

“Have you heard from Satoru?” 

“Oh.” Suguru flips his phone around in his pocket, biting over his lip as he feels your short stare burn the side of his face. “Texted a few minutes ago. He just said he was on campus – came in through the front.” 

“Like he’s avoiding me.” You sigh, gaze falling as you turn back to the hallway. Sugu’s close behind in every one of your movements, head tilting like a confused puppy. He knows you two drove together… Toru’s doing a pretty shitty job at avoidance, then. 

“You don’t even have to be in the same vicinity as him today. Don’t let it bother you.” 

You suck your cheek, hoisting your bag further up your shoulder as you weigh your options. You could go back to the break room and kill ten minutes before the day started, or you could duck into the bathroom and cry this energy out. Right now, the latter is the best option. 

“You understand, don’t you?” You turn around, peeking over your shoulder at his hunched frame. Your lips are shaking with a familiar rush of emotion. Yeah – you’re about to cry. “It’s so hard to see when you’ve lost your light.” 

Suguru stares at you like an emotionless, gutted fish. Lips parting to bring you back as you start to walk away. You take a few steps, then turn into the bathroom hallway, face beet-red as tears start down your face before you can hide. 

Your languid pace turns into flustered steps, hiding your running nose behind your fist. Through your peripheral, Suguru locks eyes with you just before you disappear. He feels backed into a corner – broad shoulders weighed down by bricks he didn’t place. 

Suguru sighs, eyes rolling in his skull as he turns back to the break room. Mei finally looks up when he pushes back inside, but he doesn’t care to notice. He needed to tell Toru what was on his mind. 

To: Satoru Gojo I actually want to die a little inside. I’ve never seen her cry before, please let this be the last time Oh, i’m so sick From: Satoru Gojo Wdym?  Are you talking about Gojo? She’s a literal train wreck, just avoid her

Satoru looks up from his phone, pulling his square-framed glasses from his face as he steps inside the building. For some reason, he finds a smile crossing his lips at the feeling of being back – he’s riding on a dangerous high, eyes flickering the white fluorescent lights. On his phone, he can see the three dots undulate across the bottom of his screen as Suguru responds, but he tucks it away just as the message appears on his screen. He wouldn’t be distracted right now – today was a big day. 

It’s the day every student waits for – the day when Satoru takes over office hours. In charge like that, he’s gentle and enthusiastic. Scarily good at his job, too. A small cult following had bloomed around him – girls even opting to take Nanami’s course so that they could sit a little closer to their beloved Gojo.

He feels on top of the world when he lets himself lead. It’s still unknown as to why he’s still just an aide, but you know why. Satoru is as straight-backed as they come. He doesn’t drink, do drugs, lie, or steal. He hardly cusses – never, ever getting mad… unless he’s around you. Their beloved Gojo becomes Satoru when 5 o’clock hits.

He’s grown up as the wonder boy, always wanting to do things by the book. He went to school and immersed himself in his studies to escape from his family, devoting all his energy and sanity to it. That’s why he graduated early – taking that first opportunity at freedom and education by the horns and riding off with it. It only took him two years of schooling to get his first career line as an aide at Tokyo-U, and he’s still there nearly eleven years later, hanging off of Nanami’s bootstraps – aging him twice as fast. 

 Satoru absorbs Nanami’s information like a dehydrated sponge, coming back to life every time a new nugget of knowledge plants itself inside of him. It’s all he lived for before he met you, and loving you wasn’t even the end goal. He never wanted to get married but couldn’t stand the thought of seeing you with another man. Even now, moping about the science hall, the thought bubbles in his throat like he needs to expel it. 

No, he wouldn’t think about you now. He needs to swallow it down. 

Then, the perfect distraction presents itself at the crossroads in front of him – Nanami and his beloved protégé, Yuji Itadori. He’s one of Satoru’s favorites, too – the only one who can carry his humor in non-humorous spaces. 

“Sir, I’m really excited about all the stories you’ll have to teach when you come back! Please bring us souvenirs.” Itadori is begging with his arms clasped, dangerously close to Nanami’s footpath. The older man cradles the coffee he brought from the break room, golden eyes flickering from the steam he’s nursing to his peer. 

“It’s much more than a pleasure trip, Itadori. I will be in and out of various Universities doing guest lectures with little time to rest or sight-see.” Nanami is typical, just as straight-edged as Satoru, albeit in a stricter sense. Nanami didn’t need anyone around him – Satoru needed everything. 

He needs this twenty-two-year-old kid to like him, which is why he approaches him as if they’re friends, not a teacher and peer. 

“Itadori!” Satoru rushes to the scene, sticking a hand in Itadori’s light locks and ruffling them unkempt. “What are you doing here, kid? Did you sign up for my office hours?” 

“I was the first person who put the request in! Kugisaki told me they were all full two minutes later… she had to settle for Nanami’s after his break.” 

“Settle?” 

“Ah – don’t take it personally, Nanamin.” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

The pair break out in devious laughter. Nanami rolls his eyes, ready to walk away and find peace in his empty lecture hall. Something stops him – it’s the way Toru looks at him with his long arm slung across Itadori’s shoulders. They’re nearly twins like this once their outward appearances fade away. They’re just two smirking idiots burning holes in Nanami’s aging face, not saying a thing. 

“I heard you two talking about Malaysia. I know you’re excited, and so am I.” 

“Mm, because you can pretend to be me for a full month – I know.” 

“I’m excited, too! Inumaki mentioned sneaking into the lecture in my place next Thursday… and I told him no.” 

“Good. Respectful.” Satoru mentions. Nanami sighs again. 

“Please don’t sneak students in while I am gone.” 

“I’ll make sure he won’t.” Satoru smiles like an elated child, pearly white teeth on full display. Bells don’t ring early in the morning like this, but at the turn of the hour, Itadori notices immediately and shrugs from Toru’s grip. 

“Sir! I will see you this afternoon.” He bows deep enough to show he respects the pair with his life, but not enough to make it odd or showy. Nanami nods him away, and then Itadori turns to Satoru. He goes in for a hug. 

“Do good work today.” 

“Yes, sir.” He nods, so sure of himself and glistening with the only praise he needs. “Goodbye Nanamin! Bye, Gojo!” 

Once they’re alone and Nanami tries to flee, Satoru finds a way to hook his attention once more. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and smirks, “You know, I’ve been meaning to congratulate you.” 

“For what?” 

“Well, isn’t your dream coming true? You know, any school in Malaysia would hire you without question. Japanese is so highly sought after there. So is science – especially mind science. You could get your hands on some cool research material. Everyone's willing to have their mind poked for a little bit of money” 

“You just know this course will be handed to you on a platter. Not that I’d have it any other way, of course. You spent the last decade fleshing out these units with me.” 

“Your encouragement means more than you know.” 

“I respect you, Gojo.” He nods, finally taking a sip of the coffee he’s letting get a bit too cool. “I won’t be your friend, but I respect your relationship with your students as well as your colleagues. You’re more fitted to be a Professor than a lot of them already here.” 

“But the system-

“Ah, the system.” Nanami rolls his eyes, hyper-aware of the time ticking away. He needed his dark, quiet time, and Gojo was pulling that from him with every chatty second. “Systems are made to be dismantled, aren’t they?” 

That’s what he leaves Satoru with, and the lingering smell of his shower from this morning. It makes him think for a moment – about his boss, or Nanami’s boss. The way they judge scores and hand out punishments when grades drop, and students drop out. To a high degree, they have nothing to do with lazy pupils or people who make poor decisions about their majors, but when they do fall short, it consumes them. There’s no need to rub salt in the wound, but it's common practice when teaching. 

Control is so fragile in this field – when you’re nurturing new minds. 

Toru slams the door shut on you with the same vigor he showed this morning. You two waited three hours after the day ended to shrug off back home together. The sun is setting in the warm sky – you’re quiet and nervous. Today had been shitty, but freeing in its own way. It gave you time and space, free from Satoru and his seedy, strict ways. You’re talking to people that you haven’t seen in a month, and the normalcy is sparkling off of you. 

What a shame that one look at Satoru’s covered eyes and you’re slinking back into insecurity. He was just so cold. 

He’s an iceberg personified – a walking flurry of winter snow that keeps flying under your jacket, making your skin sticky and wet. You hate it – you hate him, right now. 

Yet, you stay. You let him treat you like this because you’re the idiot. A flustered, selfless idiot who uses her body as ransom for a love it’ll never feel again. You wish you could go back in time and bottle the feeling of the last night you and Toru actually made love. If you close your eyes, you’re back there – back pressed into his sheets, his sweet name on your lips, and the climax just seconds away. He told you he loved you on a loop. Yes, he wanted you swollen with his babies, but that’s nothing abnormal in the heat of the moment. He made sure you knew just how much he loved you. 

When he gets back in the car, you’re rudely jolted from your head, numb to the noise but nervous about what would transpire once he settles so close. You know he doesn’t want to talk to you – he’s said it on multiple occasions on the way here, but that won’t stop you. You still pine for him – still yearning for a shred of attention, even if it’s platonic. You just don’t want him to hate you… never, ever. 

As stupid as it sounds, all you wanted was yourself back. If living a life known as only Satoru Gojo’s wife was your destiny, you’d kill yourself trying to run away from it but would stumble two steps back just to feel him again. 

What a cruel existence… you let your head fall into your open palm. 

Just like he promised, Toru doesn’t speak a word to you as he pulls off, glasses sitting over his hair so he can squint at the road. With both hands on the wheel, you can peek over and see just how tense he is. Thick veins protrude against his pale skin, leaving purpley streaks and tinges against the ocean. Of course, you’d only notice this. Your throat burns. 

“I… I ordered my new bed today.” 

“Will it be here today?” 

You pause, unsure of his tone. He just seems transactional – as if all the life had been sucked from his soul. “No,” You reply, soft as a whisper. It’s lost against the rush of the road. 

“Speak up, or don’t speak to me at all.” 

“You don’t have to be so mean.” 

“And you don’t have to be so goddamn pathetic, but here we are!” He explodes, finally free after holding in anger all day. He used to hate lashing out at you like this – he never really did, but you were the bane of his existence right now, pestering at his ear like an angry fly. “You cried in front of Suguru today. Do you see how terrible that makes me look? I can’t even pretend to care through text, and I shouldn't feel like the bad person, but that’s how it looks, doesn’t it?” 

“I-I didn’t cry-

“You’re gonna call him a liar?” He whips his head around, blue eyes wide and crazy. You can always nail down how he’s feeling with the glint of his eyes. They’re blown and dull – he’s mad. They’re bland and sparkling – he’s endeared. It hurts to know him so well. “You’re seriously going to sit here and call Suguru a liar to my face? Are you dense?” 

“Satoru, I’m sor-

“No! No, you don’t get to be sorry.” His grip tightens. He rolls his shoulders back, so tense that it’s almost painful. “You don’t get to be sorry… not when you’re the one that left. I’ve never felt hurt like that before – it tore me apart.” 

You’re crying now. You can’t help it – the emotion in this tiny car is so thick and hot that you feel suffocated. He’s always been one to swallow his pain or just ignore it through and through. He hates his family but visits them every year. He hates the commercials that interrupt his favorite show but will sit through each one willingly. He hates loud, sudden noises but doesn’t flinch at them. He hates you but loves you. He wants to hurt you, then turn around and heal it brand new. 

Right now, all he wants to really do is yell. It’d make him feel brand-new. 

So, that car ride home is the worst thing you’ve ever put yourself through. It’s constant – belittling, nasty, and loveless. He doesn’t stop. 

“I think it’s so funny – you’re the one telling me to be kinder, when I used to beg for that. Do you understand just how much I begged for you when you were already emotionally checked out? Nobody deserves that.” 

“I-I didn’t-

“You don’t get to speak – you get to listen.” He pauses, taking a breath, then starts again. “You didn’t even spare me a stupid meal – not unless I forced you. I had the swallow back the urge to call you a cold bitch because I felt some type of dedication to you. Call it respect – but it’s all gone now.” Another pause – he has to catch his breath.“You just make me sick. Truly… And when you crawl into my bed feeling lonely tonight,  I want you to feel as disgusting as I felt this last year.” 

Satoru has to stop again. He has to give it to you. “I don’t know… it just feels so good not having to worry about upsetting my wife.” He lifts his hands from the wheel, adding fitting air quotes around the phrase he lost access to a month ago. “I can fuck every person that looks my way, come home smelling like it, and always count on you to open your legs. Are you not ashamed?” He finally spares you a look, not even reacting to the silent, shaking sobs you’re trying to stifle. 

“I’m just so exhausted with being good for you. I’m exhausted with holding your hand and kissing it better when you never did the same for me. You’re cold, calculated, and cruel. So fucking cruel, and I want you to feel it.” Staring you down again, it feels like knives in your back. “Do you feel it? How much I hate you right now? I want it to hurt.” 

“Fucking classic. Pathetic, sad coward. I hate you. I hate what we have.” 

Somewhere, buried in the deepest part of yourself, you conjure up something to defend yourself. “I don’t want to be with you. Look at how you’re speaking to me!” 

“Oh, fuck me! For years, you’ve called me useless, pathetic, and annoying – years! Isn’t that your favorite term, “Stop annoying me, Satoru”? Huh? Am I annoying you right now? Well, I’m not sorry.” He’s flailing like a polite maniac, hair ruffled and disheveled as he nervously runs a hand through it, trying to use the road to balance out his emotions. His heart is beating so fast, you’re crying in his ear, and he’s numb to the core. “I’m not fucking sorry because you’re an entitled brat. My family took you in last time, and you were worried about them thinking you’re fat – they just wanted to cherish you!” 

Your jaw hangs open – those arrows hitting a deeper part of you. “That’s not what happen-

“I’m doing the talking – me!” He whips over at you, swapping hands on the wheel so he can dig a finger in his chest. “How ungrateful, and you still have the nerve to walk around with that Gojo crest on your skin.” 

“J-just stop!” You’re sobbing, trying to hide behind your hands as they cover your face. You’re pushed all the way to the door, cowering in on yourself to dodge his bullets. You’ve never seen him like this, and you never want to see him like this again. The Toru sitting to your right was not the same boy you married. “Stop, okay?! I get it!” 

“If you get it, you’ll get a hotel. You’d sleep on the bare floor and shiver all night, but I know you better than that. You want to be touched – you need to feel real, satiated, and wanted, right? What if I said I didn’t want you anymore? That your body disgusts me, and I’d rather use my hands?” Satoru doesn’t think he means what he says, but he speaks it like he does. If it hurts you, good. It can’t hold a flame to the years of emotional neglect you put him through. “Silence. That’s what I thought.” 

You’re a shell of yourself, existing with holes riddled through your exhausted body from his shots. It feels like once it’s over… It’s over. He’s done, finally empty from the thoughts making him manic. You know he hates you, now. He made it clear that you’re the reason he hates you, and it just makes your decision feel even more right. 

Your husband is gone. 

You sob while he calms down, heavy breathing morphing into contented sighs and occasional head shakes. You feel like a disobedient child after being scolded, ashamed, and wanting to melt away. You never wanted to speak to him again, but you’re so close. You let your eyes slip shut. 

Minutes pass — however many needed to until you’re back home. Toru doesn’t say much, but he is chewing his lip when he parks. “I’m sorry.” 

You scoff. “Now I really don’t wanna talk about it.” 

He huffs out a defiant breath, slamming that fucking car door again just like he’s been doing all day. Still, he makes the time to get out and open yours for you. 

“I didn’t mean that stuff I said about my parents.” He whispers, leaning against the doorframe, eyes lost somewhere in the deepening horizon. “Yes, I think you’re crazy… But so am I, then. I think it’s the fact that you bring it out of me.”

“Satoru, do not speak to me.” 

He thrusts his hand towards you, putting your coolness on display. “Look at you – cold as ice.”

“Are you fuck- Are you serious? You just called me every name in the book, then you try to lighten things up with your shitty sayings?” You reach past him, using the side of the car to stand up and not his outstretched hand. “Nothing is funny right now, Satoru. If you want to hate me, how about you hate me completely?” 

“If you want to leave, how about you leave me completely?” 

You shoulder past him, unable to hide that look on your face, he can’t see. Then, there are people around, and you two have to put a lid on your boiling emotions. Your lips snap shut. 

You two play the role of the emotionally detached young couple too well — you don’t even glance at each other in the lobby or in the elevator. He’ll peek over at you sometimes, wondering if you’ll be looking back. There’s nothing. 

He unlocks the apartment door when you step beside it. As the lock turns, words bubble in your throat. You swallow them down, Satoru lets you in first, thoughtful even in the thick of this seismic rift.

“I have some work to do, so you can figure out dinner.” He starts, key clinking on the hard countertop as the door draws shut. 

“I’m not cooking for you.” 

“Then, there’s plenty of laundry to do.” 

“Just shut up — do you hear how demeaning you sound right now?” You scoff, kicking your black loafers in the corner by the door for him to pick up. 

“What else do you do when we’re at home?” He’s mad, too, wanting to jump down your back for painting him into someone he’s not. “You don’t work from home, I do. I work from home after eight hours on campus — you make sure the home is neat and dinner is made! Why are you so hellbent on fighting me all the time?!” 

Desperate for a shred of control, you fight back. “I work from home, too!” 

“What are you so desperate to prove?!” 

“That I’m not your wife anymore, Satoru! I signed it away, it’s not who I am!” 

“Tell me, Gojo.” He lets himself calm down — two deep breaths, and he leans a propped arm against the countertop. “Who are you, then? Do you even know?” 

He wants a reaction so bad, calling you that name. You won’t give in, you spit venom and then turn your back. “I hate you.” 

“Yes, but answer the question.” 

“You stole every single chance of self-discovery I had.” You don’t know why, but you’re storming off to the spare room in hopes of peace. You know he’ll follow you, and he does, but he’d never undermine you and open the locked door when you don’t want him to. Not even after saying all that to you. He’ll let the lightness of his hair rush in the heavy breeze from the slam, blinking when that lock turns and the thump of your bag hits the floor. 

Still, he reaches for the knob, giving it one little shake. “You know, I really am sorry. There were better ways to air my frustrations out without resorting to name-calling and accusations.” 

“Fuck off Satoru.” You deadpan, absolutely no emotion behind your tone as you unbutton your blouse in the bedroom mirror. He heavy-sighs against the wood. 

“I’m gonna work for a few hours, then grab some takeout. I’ll let you know when it's here.” 

“Don’t bother.” 

Biting down on you is like crunching through ice, and Toru’s teeth are chipped and sensitive. He doesn’t fully realize that you’re retaliating in the one way he hates – by ignoring him. 

There is absolutely nothing Satoru Gojo hates quite like the silent treatment. Fittingly, nobody can dish it up like him either. There were times when you were clawing your skin bloody for an ounce of verbal support, all for him to turn his nose up at you and walk the other way. 

It’s what you have to dig out every time you think you want him back – that cruel existence when he’s too fed up to speak and the venomous words he thinks he can speak to you. Now, you have more material to hate him with. 

However, he does leave you alone for a few hours. It’s wholly welcomed – you’re able to get ahead in some work you’d have to finish tomorrow, kicked up with your laptop on your knees in bed. You have the windows wide open, using the sun as your clock to measure the time before you’d have to take a shower and resort to bed. 

Sometime before the sun fully sets, you can hear Satoru move about the hallway and inevitably shut and lock the front door behind him. You take that time to sit up in bed, rubbing your skin raw in the shower in less than five minutes, and melt into the couch with your current read tucked under your arm. Freedom like this in the space you developed is so serene and exactly what you needed. Satoru never lit candles, so when you sat up to light them, the wick crackled with unuse. Lighting fills the air – the softness of lavender spinning from the smoke like ribbons you can’t make out with the naked eye. 

You’re only wearing socks, wrapped in loose linen shorts and a patterned sleep top that leaves little to the imagination. Not wearing undergarments to sleep is just routine – you don’t know why you feel so naked under the soft, golden light. Perhaps it's the fact that Satoru is due to arrive at any moment. You couldn’t check his location, but when that lock clicks, you’ll be running back to the bedroom with the linger of your smell clinging onto the furniture. 

Or, maybe you wouldn’t run. Maybe you’d eat with Satoru and not pull away when his hand slips—your core trembles at the thought. You quickly open your book to will those thoughts away. 

When that dreaded lock clicks, you’re flying up from your spot, book slamming and heart racing. You have every mind to run for the hills – to curl up on yourself and will the night away with dreams, but you don’t move. You’re too late. That’s what you tell yourself. 

Satoru is slinking back into the apartment, wearing a dark hat over his hair and glasses hanging from the front of his shirt, which he pulls off and places next to his paper bag of takeout. He notices your head over the back of the couch, smiling softly when you turn to him with an unreadable look on your face. 

“I got Thai food, I know it’s one of your favorites.” 

You don’t respond. His smile fades into grey. 

“Food from Thailand-” He starts, unveiling the carry-out boxes hidden in their outer packaging. There’s a separate plastic bag he unveils, setting it next to it. “-And drinks from Japan. I got cold green tea – your favorite.” 

“I’m not hungry for anything provided by you, unfortunately.” 

“Unfortunately?” He scoffs, eyebrow raised as he moves about the kitchen, not bothering to plate the food, but opting for real chopsticks. It’s a stainless steel pair you got for his birthday – his favorite. “Don’t be hard-headed. Come and eat this.” 

You stare at him blankly, blinking once before turning back to your book. In your rush, you absolutely lost your page, and it was one of your final straws. You can feel the frustration start to build in your bones. 

Satoru closes in on you from behind, gaping mouth and disheveled, hatless hair everywhere as he takes a noisy bite of his rice noodles. He crunches on his broccoli in that savage way you despise, exhaling loudly as he slams into the couch next to you. 

Pulling your limbs close and turning your nose up at him, you scoot to the edge, begging for distraction from the words you’ve already read in front of you. You still couldn’t find your page. 

“Don’t be like that.” He mutters around a bite, manners completely thrown out the window when he’s next to you. 

“How about you don’t be like that.” 

“Like what? Cold? Cause that’s what you’re being.” Two seconds after his last, Toru shovels another loaded bite into his mouth, chewing quickly. “I like that sleep set on you. Reminds me of our first anniversary.” 

Satoru can never be vague – the entire idea is lost on him. It wasn’t in your head when you pulled this set out of your bag; it’s just what you packed to sleep in. Your options are so limited, and now you feel like you can’t run from them. 

“Close your eyes, then.” You cross your knees, trying to shrink yourself further so you don’t fall victim to his man-spread. He’s taking over the couch with his long limbs like he always has. Years ago, you didn’t care because it was just an excuse to be touching him all the time. Now, you’re running from it. 

Caving and leaning forward to put his meal down, he gives you a look over his shoulder – one that pulls your attention from the turn of a new chapter. “Don’t be like that,” he repeats, then his knee bumps your thigh. You suck in a breath. 

It feels like the end closing in again – dreaded but so familiar. 

Satoru blinks once, then licks over his lips. Your finger twitches as it washes over you again. 

Then, he turns around, wrapping a thick hand over your throat. You react with claws, reaching up to tug at his wrist. He’s not being gentle – your breathing is uneven and scared. Knees pressing to the couch to crowd you, Toru lets your book tumble off your lap when he pins you down. 

Your hands are shaking, eyes screwed shut, but completely unable to speak. He’s got you so vulnerable like always – reduced to a thing manufactured for his pleasure who would never, ever say no. 

After all, what’s a man to do? This was customary during the marriage, and if you’re willing to give it, Toru is more than willing to take it. He can read you well enough to know this is what you need – him. 

As he crawls over you, both knees pressed close to your thighs, his weight shifts back, and your legs quiver. He’s got your arms tied up, legs pinned, and body becoming one with the cushions. If you’d look, you’d see the tent in his grey sweatpants standing at full attention as he dominates you into wordless, fightless putty. 

You only need one more thing to seal the deal – that mature, deep, reassuring voice scorching you like fire on mealy stones. 

“Gonna give it to me?” He whispers, free fingers pushing through his lips into the warmth of his mouth. He’s wetting them over, unsure what to expect when he dips his hand into your shorts. Your eyes are squeezed shut, and that’s as good a sign as any to let him know you wouldn’t be an overactive sprinkler system down there. 

You don’t answer him right away – those two fingers twirl around his digits like he’s making out with them. 

Under this dull, shadowed light, you crack open your eyes and die at the sight hovering over you. 

Toru’s light hair hanging over his blinding eyes, the way the shadows dip in the sucked hollows of his cheeks and bounces off the strength in his hand. A small, silver bracelet rolls down his arm, hanging from pale skin so delicately that your insides tremble and shake. 

You squeeze them shut again. “Oh, my God.” 

“Well, Gojo, I’m not God.” He mutters, wet fingers falling from his lips. He trails them down past your waistline, using his instincts to push them right to your warm, waiting cunt. Easing you apart, he raises an eyebrow at the slickness that pools around his fingers, but his heart is pounding. You’re wet for him – growing wetter by the second, and he’s drinking it up like a greedy child, tongue darting over his lips again. “But it feels like you want it.” 

“Don’t wanna talk-

“Well, I do-” He cuts you off with a bite of his tongue. He gives you no warning, but you can feel his fingers start to slip lower, completely disregarding your pleasure and focusing on intrusion. Your breath picks up when his fingers slip inside. “-Wanna talk about it. It’s impossible to get off when you’re keeping your filthy mouth shut.” Punctuating his point, that finger inside of you curls mean against your shivering walls, hooking you like prey. 

“Ugh – God, Satoru.” 

“Yeah, let me hear it.” He eggs you on with a deep voice, sliding another finger inside of you. He waits a moment, grip tightening uncomfortably over your neck, before he’s fucking you on them – no mercy. He’s not tender with anything anymore. “God, Satoru, Jo, Toru, Gojo – I don’t care. Just say my name.” 

“Ugh – I hate you.” 

He leans down, lips hovering over yours as you slowly blink your eyes open. It’s startling… looking right into his pearlescent gaze, but it's so familiar that you could die. Then, he kisses you like everything is okay. You kiss him back. 

“I love you – Mm, I love you, baby.” He’s rejoicing on your lips, the lines between marriage and separation blurring in his hazed mind. “Love when we fight ‘cause it shows that you still care.” 

“Higher… H-higher, I wanna com-

“No, it has to be on my cock.” He cuts you off with little thought, thumb only barely lifting to ghost across your shivering wet clit. It shocks you from the blood, back arching painfully over the soft couch. “Just wanted to get you wet for me first.” 

If it were anybody else, you’d be cringing with the language Toru so easily lets melt off his tongue, but it drives you deeper. His hand on your throat – his voice in your ear. Yeah, this is why you married him. It’s just too good. 

You want more. 

“Then give it to me.” You growl, finally ready to be his again. You’re ready to hear your old pet names – you’d be good enough to hear them. If he just keeps this up… if he lowers you deep enough, then pulls you back up for air, you’re sure it’d be the one thing that reels you back. 

“Fuck – I love you. I love that I can hate you. I love that I can love you. I love that I can fuck you.” He sits up, face flushed from your presence. His thumb is back at his lips, studying the taste of your chapstick on his tongue. He looks so manic, like he’s entirely taken with your dark expression. 

Finally, that hand around your throat unravels, and you’re taking a deep, reassuring breath. “Don’t say that. Not right now.” 

“No, I know you want it hard.” He mentions if it was a fact, like he knows how repressed you are from a too-sweet marriage. The main thing Satoru adopted when you took his surname, was the absolute definition of love and gentleness. During sex, he never squeezed you too hard. During arguments, he’d nod and let you win. There is something there – something that drove that part of love out of your life. You’re just too blind to see it. 

“You don’t have to say it, I know you feel ashamed.” 

“C-can you just…” 

“Can I what?” 

“Get on with it.” You whine, hips bucking up into his pelvis. He loves trapping you like this, chests kissing when you take a deep enough breath. “I don’t want— don’t wanna talk about it.” 

His hand closes around the underside of your jaw, yanking your head to force eye contact. You’re like a puppet – pliable and jelly in his grip. You can’t fight back against his strength. 

“You don’t get to rush this. Not like before.” His voice simmers out, getting lost in his chest all gravelly and hard. His fingers dig into your jawline, leaving wells against the sensitive muscle. Your face twitches, eyes shut and burning. 

Then, he slaps you for some reason – on the face. 

Your lips part, eyes flying open as you suck in a breath. Your body is rolling under him, shivering with generational need for him to bury himself inside of you. “Ohh, God. Toru–

“Knew you’d like that–” another slap. You bare your teeth. “-Fucking shameless.” 

“D-don’t wanna hurt,” 

“Ye, you do.” He slaps you the other way, gentler on his backhand but strong enough to leave a sting. You’re wiggling from his grasp – his hot fingers tighten. “You were shaking in the car when I was demeaning you. You know, that’s what I was doing – demeaning you just like you do to yourself. If it didn’t feel good, you’d have burned my number the second you left.” 

“S-so mean…” 

“Didn’t mean all of it, but I meant most of it.” He leans real close again like he’s trying to push words into your gasping mouth. “Respect is earned, lust is given. You’ve gotta give it to me really good for me to even glance at you outside of these walls again.” 

Toru sits up, letting you free as both hands work at his waistband. He’s not stalling, and he’s so hard that his cock whips out with one tug at the crotch. He hisses as cool air hits too-hot skin. “Tell me what you told Mama, baby. ‘Toru is so cold, he ignores me’? What about, ‘He watches my every move, even my bank account’?” 

You don’t really understand what he’s trying to say; all you’re focused on is the pure, shiny white pearl falling over his fist as he works himself in front of you. You’re trying to look him in the eye – his shirt is between his teeth, now. He’s the perfect reflection of the lust you keep buried deep inside of you. 

“Bet you didn’t tell her about how I peeled the underwear from your skin and sucked them clean right in front of you on our wedding night,” his neck tenses as pleasure builds white-hot in the core of his hard body. “Or how I obsessed over that green tea you told me you liked on our first date – the green tea sitting in that bag over there you didn’t touch. Remember how I wiped the shelves of it and surprised you with a fully packed fridge? Or your ring, I had resized six times just because it kept falling off during sex, and I’d have to stop and put it back on? Hm… there’s that time I missed finals because I was hungover in a hotel room with you in Shibuya. The last time I drank, I drank for you.” 

You’re crying now. It’s a feeling you’re used to – crying at the thought of him and everything he’s done. The ring now sits beautifully on your finger. It’s so embedded into your being that you don’t notice you haven’t taken it off. 

“Yeah, how can you ignore that? It’s true love, I don’t care what made you run so afraid, but my love never faltered.” 

“If that’s all you want to see, fine.” The tears are making you angry – you’re frustrated by the build-up, horny and tense. Your face burns from his palms. “But I see the times you purposefully didn’t make me finish, how you told your family I was crazy for not wanting them to comment on my body, and the weeks of silence you gave me after.” 

“Insignificant things, sure.” 

“You’re not denying it.” 

“Because I did it, so what?” Toru’s starting to get himself there – scarily close to finishing from the flustered sound of your voice and the quickness of his fist. He quirks his neck, finally pulling open his eyes. “Ugh – what about when you told your friends how I wasn’t good in bed? The same friends I have to see every day?” 

“None of my friends are going to stroke your ego. You don’t like how I describe you? Fix it.” 

That cold look in his eyes burns as he hoists your hips up with one arm. There’s no real way to fuck you comfortably like this, so he’ll maximize his own pleasure, knowing you’ll cry and come for him at the drop of a coin, and the pain will only make you hotter. 

One long leg swings over the side of the couch, foot planted just the way he needs to keep his balance as he watches his cock disappear inside of you. You’re stretching so filthily around him – opening up to everything he has to give. You’re already blooming that delicious pink-red shade he loves so much. He’s so focused on the sight that he doesn’t notice the line of drool that slips from his shiny lips. 

“Put me down– this angle.” You’re whining, fingertips digging into the side and back of the couch like you’re trying to run away. He has your body pressed in a sick seventy-degree angle, your thighs burning and singing with pain at the awkwardness. 

“-is so hot, I know.” Satoru throws his head back when he’s buried all the way inside of you. He focused on this feeling right now – filing it away as one of his favorites. He feels so safe and surrounded like this – loved from the core of his being, even when you’re deadset against him. “Baby, you’re so flexible.” 

You’re sweating now, tears sliding hotter down your flushed cheeks. He’s rolling his hips, staring off into space as he brushes your cervix. Your hand flies up to push at his chest – you fall short. “S-stop! God, you know I hate that.” 

Toru finally looks down at you, gaze sparkling in turquoise hues as he watches you flail for mercy. “Feel good?” He rolls his hips again, breathing so delicately like he’s in heaven. “You’re so wet. Gonna make you feel me tomorrow.” 

It’s the last thing he truly says to you before pulling out halfway – mind on a mission as he fucks you so hard you’re seeing stars. All the blood is rushing to your heart and head – eyes rolled back like you’re on the verge of death as his thrusts send you deeper and deeper. He’s pushing you into the cracks of the couch, uncaring of how your neck is straining and face reddening. He’s fucking you with his eyes shut – perhaps imagining someone else, yet hopelessly in love with you. 

Your body is trembling as he continues the assault on your poor cervix – his eye twitching every time he slams into that soft little barrier. 

Toru has a sad affinity for this – being so deep inside of you that if he were any deeper, he’d be playing in your womb. He’s so obsessed with your body – he can’t help it. He loves your taste, and the way you sound, look, and feel. Every one of his five senses is wholly devoted to you, and still, you found a reason to leave him. 

He lays you down so well every night, and still you tell your friends he can’t make you come… To him, it sounds like a personal problem. He won’t let you fuck with him like that – not again. He’ll just fuck the devotion right back into you as hard as he can. 

Toru’s sweating now, too. It’s dripping off the hair sticking to his forehead – hips moving so fast they’re blurred with speed to the naked eye. Combined wetness makes those lewd squelches so much louder, and you’re deafened by your own desire. 

Sanity is starting to slip away from you. Satoru notices immediately. You’re not tearing at the couch as hard as you usually would – your grip falls loose. 

“Look at me, beautiful. Look at how well you’re taking me.” He grunts, taking breaths between each deep word. His voice is so lost – so wrecked, and it wrecks you. A whine punches from your throat. 

Toru gulps and starts again. “Hey, c’mon. Gonna be a good girl and stay with me?” 

“Too- It’s too-

“Shh, shh… Don’t talk, honey. Let me take care of you.” It might be a bad idea, but Toru has you completely mindless. He reaches for your clit and pinches it whisper-soft between his thick fingers just to elicit a different reaction from you. He smiles when your eyes fly open. Your whines are the only thing he can hear. “Do you know how good you feel – how good you’re making me feel?” 

“Mm, yeah. T-tell me.” 

“It’s so hot.” He starts. Moving both big hands to your waist when you start to slip. The sweat against your silk, all streaky and stained, is so slippery, Toru wishes he can rip it off. “You’re squeezing me so tight, it feels like home – God, it’s just so hot.” 

You’re crying even harder if that’s possible. The onslaught of his deep, precious voice during this rush of physical and mental stimulation is just too much. It feels like you love him so much – like you want to open up and give him babies, be his forever, but you can’t. 

You’re not even his anymore. 

Then it hits you like a cruel joke without a punchline – your orgasm, right to the face. 

At that very moment, all life is pushed from your bones. You go completely limp in Toru’s grip, dragging him down like dead weight. He scrambles, letting your hips fall as your body shakes and seizes with release. 

It’s never hit you this hard before. It’s never come to you so unexpectedly. 

You’re obsessed. 

“Oh, my God… Shit, you should see your face.” Satoru’s voice carries you through the mindlessness. He’s sitting between your thighs, pulling his leg behind him to finish you off in missionary. Your legs are too weak – they fall open and expose you like you’re a prize to be bid on. “So pretty… So beautiful; my perfect wife.”

“N-

“Yeah, I’m gonna cum so fucking hard. It’s coming – shit, ah-

Toru can only roll his hips because the expression of pure mindlessness you’re making is better than the ruthless way he’s screwing you. Seeing your strict demeanor crumble and burn with the feeling of him makes him so fucking cocky. He knows you now – has never seen this before, but will do anything to see it again. 

When he comes, he buries his face in your neck, getting drunk off your scent as he ruts into you weakly. He can feel himself flood and pool around his cock – leaving a sickly, shiny layer on him once he pulls out. It falls limp against your thigh, and for a moment, Satoru collapses into you. He holds you like a prize. 

You two must’ve stayed like that for hours – days have passed in your mind. You’re not worried about his crushing weight or his soft breath; you’re worried about what your friends will think when you tell them Satoru just gave me the best sex of my life. 

Shoko will laugh – Utahime will take pity. Yeah, you have to tell them. 

When he’s finally sitting up, it feels like your skin is being pulled from your body. You two are interconnected; he has to sit up slowly so your soul doesn’t detach, too. His hair is a mess – it’s the first thing you see when you creak open your eyes, feeling high off of something you couldn’t pinpoint. Maybe it was him – how you couldn’t get enough of that savory, sex-filled scent that wafts off his godly body and settles in your skin. 

This feeling —lost in a rose-colored daze —feels like love. 

“If you can sit up, I’ll grab you some tea.” He sits back, sliding his pants over his filthy skin. Of course, he has plans to shower later, but he’s hungry. That always comes first. “You want some Pad See Ew, baby?” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

He rolls his eyes, and finally, you two feel like yourselves again. You’re rolling over on your side, positioning your shorts back over the mess between your thighs – shoving your chest back in its constraints. 

“Will you cut it loose? You know how hard I just made you come? I swear, you saw Jesus.” 

“Shut up.” You bite. “No, I didn’t.” 

Satoru sucks his teeth, kicking his legs back up as he takes his cool noodles back in his grip. He’s eating like nothing just transpired – hair sticky with sweat, come drying on his skin. You feel just as dirty, and when you move to kick your feet off the edge of the couch, your core cramps and tightens. Your hands fly there to cradle it. 

“Ah- fuck.” 

“You okay?” 

“No!” You snap, overcome, and pissed because you told him you didn’t like when he targeted your cervix like that. It didn’t take a genius to know it’d be bruised for these next few days. “I don’t know if you know, Satoru, but you can’t fuck yourself into my womb, so you need to stop trying.” 

You’re not trying to be funny, but Toru chokes on his food with a laugh. He’s coughing – laughing. You’re glaring. 

“But I know it’s so warm and safe in there, baby.” He sighs, pushing your overwhelming strictness off his shoulders like he always has. Yes, he knows about your cervix aversion. No, he wouldn’t fuck you halfway – there’s no point. He needs to be buried inside of you, all the way to the hilt, or it’d kill him. 

“You have no respect.” 

“I don’t.” He mumbles, taking another bite once his breath evens out. Sharp canines scrape against pristine metal. You glance over at his striking side profile. “But seeing you so beautiful and willing to let go like that might be bringing some back.” 

“How about you keep it?” You’re trying so hard not to let him in again – so hard. His voice is sweet like honey, and his movements are endearing, but you know it’s that post-sex ovulation-thick way your thoughts twist and twirl everything into something it’s not. You can only hope that the feeling of absolute detachment you experienced a month ago will return and bring you to your senses, as Satoru did. 

Unfortunately, you’re leaning into his strong frame when he fishes for a vegetable-heavy bite for you, mentioning, “Open wide.” As he pushes it between your lips. 

Sauce dribbles across them; Toru reaches to wipe it away, then leans in to lick them clean. 

That lick turns into a kiss – his hand pressed to the side of your head, chopsticks digging into your hair as his tongue licks forward into your mouth. He wants something else out of you now – your devotion. Perhaps that umami taste on your tongue that he’s so addicted to. Either way, you’re making out with him like you love him, and that’s all he could ever ask for. 

Toru is just so in awe of how sexy and mindless you look right now. He wants to make a mess of you again. “On a scale of one to go rot in Hell, pervert – how pissed would you be if I said I was hard for you again?” He whispers against your lips, serious as hell, but moreso focused on never letting up on yours. 

“Go rot in Hell, pervert.” 

Midnight has ticked by – forgotten takeout containers litter the table. You’re standing in the dark, legs trembling in the shower as the throbbing in your stomach makes it hard to keep steady. 

You’ve been here many times before, losing your mind against the rush of clear water. Moments like these give you time to think – to want, to yearn. 

Now, you’re yearning for Satoru. 

You want him to bust the door open and press his naked, wet body into yours until you become him. You want his hair in your mouth – his blood on your skin, his touch on your bare, shivering flesh. No skin, no boundaries. 

Your shame spans countries – continents. You hate yourself. 

Reaching between your thighs, you cup your hand against your core, absorbing the flaky traces of him before the water washes them away. Once, it was so thick – so soft against the heat of your legs. Then, it felt like lava pouring into your soul. Now, Toru’s old finish feels like a stain on your skin. You sigh. 

Satoru loves showering with you, so it doesn’t take him long to come slinking in, welcome as ever. He’s still wearing those tired, terribly attractive grey sweatpants, hair wild from constantly running fingers through it. The sweat’s got the strands sitting on a different gravitational field – they’re everywhere. 

“You can tell me to go die, but I swear it’s just gonna make me stay longer.” He whispers, stepping inside with you like he always has. This is such a familiar maneuver – so familiar it makes you smile. His hand on your wet shoulder, his toned stomach melting into your back. You sigh against him, nodding slowly. 

You don’t know what to say. “Hi.” You reply, rolling your head back on his sturdiness. Toru breathes out a short laugh. 

“Hi, my love.” He kisses the top of your head, taking this moment as his. Nothing can ruin this right now. 

One more kiss – a few seconds to linger, then he turns you around. His hands trap your arms, and his tall reflection feels like home as he gazes down at you. You’re being stared down like headlights in the dark – blinding and cruel. You blink up at him. 

One arm falls, reaching between your pressed bodies, and your thighs part as they know. Except his fingers concentrate under your belly button, smoothing out before pressing softly. You suck in a breath. 

“It feels good to leave my mark like that, though it hurts you.” He’s mumbling, so the mood isn’t lost or twisted. Satoru is in here because he knows one more round will do him in perfectly. So, he pushes you to your knees, keeping his arm strong and stiff to guide you as you fall. 

You do so without saying a word, ignoring the singing in your pelvis and the shame on your cheeks. He knows what he wants – you know what he wants, so you don’t waste time. 

Rescinding all control, you lean forward and press your lips to his heavy-hanging cock, breath so hot and painful in your throat. His thighs smell like him – the tuft of hair around him being the absolute goldmine of his body. A beautiful head of hair falling into a gorgeous face, body, and crotch – all dripping like a waterfall to his long fingers, strong legs, and wide feet. Every part of him was crafted with so much care and precision; it’s your job to worship it. 

Satoru reaches down, grabbing his cock by the base. He palms it to the side, letting it linger on his thigh as he presses your face to the swell of his sack. You whine, tongue darting out to catch the water that streams against the soft skin. Satoru tastes so much like himself as you suffocate between his legs, but it’s a taste so salty and loving that if you could bottle it for a high, you would.

He holds you close for a moment, letting you kiss and lick at him like a needy kitten. His thick fingers trail across your chin, sending down little breaths and moans to make your blood hotter. You reach up and bury your fingertips in his thighs. 

Satoru pushes you away once he’s hard enough. His blood is rushing again, thick cock painted in a hue of crimson. It almost matches the palm of his hands – as soft as them, too. Shiny and pink like his lips. 

“Open your mouth.” He demands.

You do. 

Water attacks your gaze when you try to open your eyes, but he notices and shifts just for you, letting the water pelt his shoulder blades. With a curl of the lip – a suck of the cheek, he gathers spit on his tongue and lets it fall right into your waiting mouth. 

Your lips snap shut. His cock eases against your jaw, sliding delicately across your wet skin. He pushes your head back, water falling on your skin as he rubs his length over your cheek, brushing your nose, poking at your eyelid. 

He’s guiding himself with his thumb, making sure he’s pressed close enough to feel something. The rest of his fingers tangle in the hair behind your ear, caressing you like a porcelain doll. 

Satoru knows he has you again. It’s a feeling he can’t see but can pinpoint in the darkest of hallways. It’s the sound of your voice – your obedience, your care for his jokes. He knows. 

You’re right back where he wants you. 

At the end of the night, you crawl into his bed. All the lights are off, and the bathroom door is cracked – soft light from your shower spilling into the void. You think Satoru is asleep on his side of the bed – his soft snoring is familiar. 

You’re half asleep, throat on fire, stomach in knots when you crawl over him. 

Your knee presses into his side, body sliding over his arms as you make your way. He ruined your set, and now you’re wearing his clothes to bed. You don’t mind. Satoru surely doesn’t mind when he blinks awake, and it’s the only thing he sees. 

You settle against his back, slipping an arm under him – winding one over his broad shoulder. He’s the little spoon, rolling back into the touch like he’s never been without it. You used to hold him like this when you called him your husband, sneaking little ear kisses and wandering fingertips as the night dragged on. 

Now, he knows you’re awake. He’s awake. 

His voice hits so genuinely, you think it might kill you. “We don’t have to be married if you don’t want to be… but I think we’re good enough to start over.” 

“Satoru…” You whisper, voice broken with the ghost of him scrubbing your throat raw. “I’m scared.” 

“So am I, but it’s a good feeling.” He reassures, giving you that sweet, low voice he knows you can’t say no to. “If this weightlessness isn’t gone by tomorrow, we’ll know, and I’ll give you your divorce.” 

It’s been a week since you’ve been moved into your apartment. You and Satoru have had sex two more times since that night, but you two don’t bring up the obvious. 

You’re staring in the floor-length bedroom mirror, fingers at the blouse you’re buttoning to your skin. Like always — it’s your friend's idea. You’re impartial to karaoke, but they’re desperate to see you again, chalking up the weekend outing to a housewarming. 

It’s been too many times that you’ve blown them off; now you have to show up. 

You straighten out your hair in the reflection, avoiding your eyes and the darkness that just won’t fade. Your phone rings — exercising bad habits, you reach for your side table to answer it without checking the caller. 

“Hello?” 

Your mom is on the other line — her voice is warm. ‘Hi, dear. We haven’t heard from you since you visited. How’s Tokyo?’

You sigh, stepping back to sit on the edge of your bed. “Um… I know. It’s just been a lot. Tokyo is good… It’s good for me to be back here.” 

‘Settling into your new place, still?’

“Unfortunately.” You’re ripe with shame for some reason, fingers twisting in the strings hanging from your thin skirt. “Had a friend help me move the last of my new furniture today. It’s good to actually have stuff.” 

She hums — you know she wants to say more. ‘And… is it okay if I ask about him?’ 

You close your eyes, the sound of her gentle voice making you cry only the way a mother can. “Satoru? Mhm. I put in for divorce yesterday. Just waiting on the proceedings to be shipped to me.” 

‘That’s good. I’m proud of you for taking that step. I know it’s hard.’

“Really, really hard.” You’re crying now, unable to hide the sound of it in your voice. Over the line, she hears, giving you a sad little hum. You feel so pathetic - reaching up to cover your eyes to hide from yourself. “Mama, I’m so scared.” 

‘Darling, you have no idea just how strong you are and just how strong I think you are. No matter your reasons for leaving, I understand and support them. Satoru was an important person in your life — there’s no doubt about it, but even the closest of relationships aren’t meant to last forever. God has something better for you, you know that.’ 

“Have you ever felt like this? Like you’re standing so close to the edge, but you just… can’t?” 

‘Well, what made you leave him?’ 

Your throat clicks, stopping the words before they’re even thought of. If you cared, you’d give her a laundry list right now, but you can’t. “I- I can’t. I’m ashamed.” 

That’s all you need to tell her. It clicks. ‘It’s not the sex, is it? Dear, if you’re not satisfied, have you told him?’ 

“It’s-” You pull the phone from your ear, chest tightening as tears rush. “It’s not that, it’s the opposite. We can’t stay away from each other.” 

‘Oh,’ she pauses, unsure of where to step. You two always had a good enough relationship to talk about these things, but the conversations were few and far between. You hardly talk about Satoru when you're at home, which is why the divorce doesn’t surprise her. ‘How many times… have you two been together since the split?’

“Four or five times.” You’re beet red in shame, sniffling into your hands as you try to muster up words. “It’s so bad, I know.” 

‘Nobody can blame you for going back to what you know. After so long with your father, I don’t even know if there’s a man out there who can even make me feel anything anymore. You’ve been with Satoru for years — he’s all you know. Don’t feel guilty.’ 

“Thank you.” You cry, snotting into your hand, ruining the makeup you painted so precisely just minutes ago. “It’s just – the sex is good, but everything else is so terrible with him.” 

‘Then, you’re making the right decision. Trust it.’ She pauses for a moment, offering you the rustle of movement to fill the silence. ‘I don’t dare overstep, but if all he can offer you is pleasure, why don’t you just find another outlet?’ 

“What do you mean?” 

‘Going to the gym regularly could help you balance out some of that need. Or, you could derive pleasure from other sources. I know it won’t be the same, but toy-

“Mom.” 

‘I know – you don’t want to hear it from me.’ 

“No, I don’t.” 

‘Then pretend like I’m a friend.’ She doubles down, evening out her voice as she repeats. ‘It won’t kill you to just try. It can’t be worse than going back to him, can it?’ 

And that’s what you tell yourself as you crawl back in bed, breath heavy and hot in your lungs. The conversation ended long ago – you had to sit with yourself for a bit afterward, letting her wisdom set you straight. It feels better to know that you’re not a touch-starved slut, and it makes sense that you keep going back because it’s all you know. Change is uncomfortable. That’s what she left you with.

Now, you’re lying on your back against the rustle of sheets, staring at the ceiling, trying to work up the nerve. Proudly, you don’t own any sex toys – your husband was a walking one with a voice and touch that drove you mad. It’s what you’re trying to lose as you part your knees, hand reaching down to pull your panties to the side. Under your skirt, it’s so easy to get where you need to go – Satoru always loved you in them, and always found the perfect excuse to be under it come nightfall. 

You’re thinking about one of those nights – skin to skin, your voice melting off of his tongue as you slowly approach your core. Your fingers concentrate at your slit, completely bone-dry save for naturality. You breathe out a soft breath, working up the nerve to dip your finger a little closer to your most sensitive area. 

You can’t find the nerve. 

“Fuck.” You bite, angry at yourself as you hesitate. Time moves slowly suspended at this moment, and when you slip your eyes shut, all you can see is his gaze – that cheeky little wink he sends you when he’s propped between your legs. You’re combing back to remember his taste – his touch, the way he loves. It makes your heart skip a beat in anticipation. 

“Toru… Toru – mm…” You whisper, gasping when your fingers slide over your clit, making your back arch embarrassingly. “Please, Satoru – right there.” 

You feel so pathetic, but it feels so good. Too good. 

Just not enough. 

You work your smaller fingers in messy, quick circles against your bud – just trying to get yourself off so you can have a level head tonight with karaoke. It’s shameful just to admit how much you get from being intimate with Toru – it’s a way to lose your mind, like a high from a drug that costs way too much. 

You’re trying to mimic his deep tone in your head, whispering how good and beautiful you are. Your hand quivers as you bring it to your neck, hoping the soft squeeze will be enough to emulate Satoru’s affinity for squeezing you there. It works, if even for a second. Then, you’re scrambling for your phone, remembering the one video he sent you two years ago. You were in Tokyo, and he was in Kyoto – he missed you and recorded a video of himself in bed, vocalizing just how much he did. 

That tone – that adoration. It’s what you need. 

So you’re swiping manically through your camera roll, one hand frozen between your thighs as you search and comb the archive. 

Finally. You’ve never clicked on anything so fast. 

As you click the video to start, you push your head back into the pillows, working your fingers at your clit like you’d die if you stopped. 

God, his voice. 

‘Hi, baby. Just got to my room… It’s so big and lonely without you here… I know you’re gonna shake your head and think ‘God, he’s so dramatic.’ like you always do, but I miss you. If a man is dramatic for missing his wife, then lock me up and throw away the key because I'll be in jail for a long, long time… I wish I can touch you right now. Wish you were here so I can tell you all about my day – you’ll tell me about yours… then we’ll make the sweetest love… look, see how soft this bed is? You’d sink right in, love. I’d have to dive in and pull you up for air, haha… Anyways, I know you don’t like when I talk too much about nothing, but I really do miss you. Work trips are the worst. Well, I love you. So, so, so much. Alright baby, good night…’ 

He kisses the phone, and the video goes dark. 

You’re close, leaning over to bite the pillow in a sad attempt to muffle your overwhelmed sobs. In a few swipes, the video is replaying, and as soon as that deep laugh licks the line, you’re convulsing and coming all over your fingers. 

When you’re sitting in the dark blue light in the private karaoke room, you feel lighter, yet so guilty with shame. It’s only been twenty minutes, but you’re three drinks and two shitty pop songs deep. Now, you, Shoko, and Utahime are listening to the machine run – letting the choppy backing track carry the silence when one of you stops talking to take a sip. 

Shoko’s at your left, leg pressed to your bare one, blinding white screen cutting through the darkness as she feverishly texts someone back. When you lean over to ingest her business, you see Suguru’s name. Your heart flips. 

Clutching your glass like it’s a stress ball, you sit up so fast your head is spinning. “Please tell me you didn’t invite him.” 

Shoko scoffs, not even looking at you as she sends Suguru an “okay” message. “What? Of course, I invited him, who do you think’s gonna buy the drinks?” 

“Okay, but you know he’s going to bring Satoru – Shoko, I’m gonna fre-

“I told him not to invite Gojo. Chill – it’s fine. They’re walking up now, I think. He’s just bringing Yu instead.” 

You huff, sitting back with the mind to trust her. You can’t win against an angry or annoyed Shoko – never. Not even when she’s tipsy, and you’re drunk. You actually don’t want to fight at all because you know you’d curl into a ball and call a truce. 

The fact that Suguru is just bringing Yu is a red flag – he went to school with them before you even met. If there’s one, there’s always the other. It’s suffocating trying to leave someone so integral to your friend group. 

You didn’t notice exactly when Utahime ducked out of the room, so you’re loopy and surprised when she peeks her head through the door, smiling softly, eyes shut. “Shoko-

“What?” 

Utahime opens her eyes to glance at you, then tugs at her lips as she circles back to Shoko. “I have a situation. Can you… come on?” 

“Whatever.” 

They leave you alone like it’s nothing, but you’re thankful for the loneliness. You didn’t even want to come out tonight; you thought the orgasm would help, but the conversation you had with your mother hung over your head like a dark cloud. You feel so lifeless – like joy falls onto your soul just to shrivel up and die. 

Utahime makes sure that the door is shut – she’ll keep an eye on it, too, but she’s panicking right now. There’s nobody in the world who has ivory-white hair, sticking out of the crowd like a sore thumb. It’s a weekend – the bar is thick with bodies, and Satoru stands tall amongst the crowd at the edge of the room, drawing attention. 

Utahime leaps into damage control, waving her hands in front of Shoko like it’d simmer her down before she starts. “Look, I don’t know where Haibara and Geto are–

 “Shit, is that Gojo-

She springs into action, Utahime right on her tail.“-wait! Shoko, look-

-no, I’m killing him.” Shoko would never let anyone see how flustered she was, but she knew this was going to happen. If Suguru didn’t tell Satoru he’d be here, it was surely Yu. She knows you or Utahime aren’t responsible. “Killing all of those fuckers – God, I hate them.” 

Just before Utahime and Shoko can close in on him, Satoru’s attention is pulled to his phone, then the pushing bodies moving through the door. Suguru and Yu are shoulder-to-shoulder, laughing at a joke carried over from the walk here. They don’t see each other often – not with Yu’s secretive job on the outskirts of the city he can’t tell anyone about. Suguru told you it was government work, and Satoru told you he worked for a tech company. They’re both liars, but Yu is sweet enough to overlook the grey matter. He’s been around for years. 

“You. Dumb, Dumber, and Dumbest, come here.” Shoko points to each of them respectively, barreling into protector mode to shield your bleeding heart just a few rooms away. She didn’t want to see your face when you saw Gojo, but she also didn’t want to be proven a liar. 

“Hey, Shoko!” Yu tries, unfamiliar with seeing her painted in dark makeup but in love with the reflection. He just thinks she’s great, albeit a little strict. It’s why you two get along so well. “Utahime!” 

“To be clear, you’re ‘dumber.’” Shoko completely barrels past his sunny persona, letting Satoru pick it up when he looks his way. She targets Suguru, grabbing at his baggy sleeve to drag him away for a second. Utahime is quick to start damage control, leaning in to hug Yu and exchange pleasantries with Satoru. It’s hard to hide what she thinks about him when he’s so close – after everything you said about him, too. 

Suguru isn’t even surprised, but he does pull Shoko’s small hand from the expensive fabric, frowning against the flickering blue lights. Everyone’s gaze is shadowed – terribly sung music is ringing in their ears. “I didn’t invite him!” 

“I don’t care! Kick him to the fucking street!” 

“Dude, you’re drunk. Whatever, they’re cordial.” 

“Because she’s actively trying to stay away from him – ugh.” She grunts, disgusted to her core and so flustered she’s tripping over her own feet. Suguru is a lost cause; he’s too nonchalant and sweet. She needed to poke the target – the only man wearing sunglasses in a bar. “You.” She states, pointing a finger right into Satoru’s chest. 

He steps back, feigning ignorance. “Hey-

“Leave – I’m so serious.” 

He’s laughing – of course, he doesn’t think this is serious. “Why would I leave? Come on. Don’t be like that.” 

“Oh, my God, I’m going to kill you!” 

“Shoko–” Utahime steps back in, cheeks all red with flush. Poor Yu has no idea what’s happening – he doesn’t think he even wants to know. 

“You’re gonna kill me? Me?” Satoru’s challenging her; it’s just in his obscure nature. He thinks she looks like a feral kitten, with fluffy hair and a razor-thin gaze. “What’d I do?” 

“Why couldn’t you have just kept your stupid mouth shut?! We wouldn’t be in this situation.” 

“What situation? My divorce?” 

“What divorce?!” Yu stands shellshocked, looking at Suguru, who is chuckling under his breath, then to Utahime, who looks like she just wants to run and hide. He can’t blame her – these two are scary when they’re mad. 

“His!” 

“Mine!” They belt at the same time, emotions running hot without care. 

Then, it’s like something supernatural clicks. Satoru stands up straight, taking a tentative step back. “She… she’s here?” 

“Who fucking cares?!” 

Satoru looks past Shoko’s sad, tiny figure, peeking over his shoulder as Suguru gives him a small nod. 

He feels manic, like a lion swooping in to collect his mate. It’s a feeling in his blood that he’s not sure he can pinpoint, but one that feels like pure, unbridled protectiveness. He just knows you’re somewhere sad and drunk, wishing he were close even though you’d push him away. Without care, he’s shoving past Shoko – she spins on her heel and follows. Suguru slinks behind with his hands in his pockets. 

“Lay off Shoko!” 

“You’re going to make it worse when you go in there!” 

“She needs me!” 

“Guys, come on.” Suguru’s voice evens theirs out as the music thins. They stop in the hallway of private rooms; Satoru is panting. “Satoru, I don’t think you should go in there. We don’t have to fight about it, and you know-

“I’m the only one that knows what she needs.” Satoru presses his hands into his chest, blue eyes open to the hilt under his dark glasses. His heart is racing so fast he doesn’t know how to think. “It’s complicated, but I know she needs me.” 

You can hear them outside the door – you’re staring at the red wood, vision pulling in and out, distorting the obvious. It makes it easier that you’re drunk, but Satoru’s voice feels like a blanket – a loud, mean blanket. Your heart races just like his, swallowing twice when their voices draw closer. 

Then, silence comes. Someone mutters. 

And the door swings open – wind slaps you in the face. 

It takes a second for reality to settle, but when you see Toru’s body in the doorframe, you’re panicking. 

You scramble for cover, rising to your knees pressed on the faux leather couch. He closes in on you before you can blink, and trying to gather yourself to run, you rise to your feet, towering over him, for once. 

“Get down. We’re leaving.” He takes his glasses off when he looks up at you, big hand reaching to snatch yours up. He feels possessive in your drunken daze – mean in a way you’re not sure you’ve seen so blatantly. 

“What? No.” You whine, knees rocking together as you tug against his grip, nearly losing your footing. 

“Get. Down. Look at you – about to fall.” Toru glances over his shoulder at Shoko and Suguru watching on with their fists in their mouths. He has to approach this accordingly – you two are in public, and everyone thinks you’re estranged. 

Then, he thinks to himself – how estranged can a couple be after only a month and a half apart? 

No, Satoru is crazy about you. He doesn’t care. 

He snatches you down so quickly, careful to hoist you to your feet when you rightfully stumble. 

The last time you two saw each other left him with more questions than answers. Satoru is reaching out for you, gripping onto every shred of hope you hang on a string. He thinks these hookups are hope — a way to split you open so he can see who you are and what you need. 

You don’t talk to him much anymore, but you didn’t tell him no when he proposed starting over. It’s why his mind is skewed - you won’t give him the answers he needs, so he’s making it up in his head. 

Not to mention, this is not where you were supposed to be tonight. “You said you weren’t feeling well, so you were gonna stay home.” He closes his hands over your shoulders, shaking them to bring you to life. Satoru is mad, but he’s not angry. You were too drunk to care — trying to drink him away. 

“Mm,” You whine, shaking hands covering your eyes. You feel exposed with your friends in the doorway, even though the lights are so dim nobody can really see your face. Except him. He’s so close. 

“I hate when you do this!” His voice reaches a peak you haven’t heard in a few days. It’s still not enough to rid your shame. “Stop running from me! There’s nothing to run from!” 

His tone makes Shoko stand up straight, ready to dive in and protect your shivering figure. They’re just lucky the music is so loud — it drowns Satoru out. “Hey, shithead. You don’t have to scream at her.” 

Sensing this situation won’t get better if they’re idling, Suguru steps in, smoothing his hand over the top of her back. “Shoko, let’s just leave them-

“I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep trying.” You whimper, safe with him so close but torn to pieces at what you know you have to do. You have to leave him. This has to be the last time you two ever see each other. 

Digging deep, there has to be something there — some kind of courage that can rear its ferocious head and set you free. 

“Trying? All we do is try; this is a marriage!”

“And I want out. Let… let me out.” 

“You keep coming back! Why?! If you hate me, stop crawling back!” 

Like always, you’re crying, hunching in on yourself as his anger shoots for your core. ”I can’t stop! I can’t. I wish I knew how…” You shake your head, scrubbing at your eyes like it’s scrubbing how pathetic you feel from your frontal lobe. “I-I’m so scared that I’m not who you think I am, Toru. I need to be free — or at least feel free — and I need to be wanted by you. That’s all I want. I want you.” 

“See? You’re telling me you don’t want me, then saying you do.” He calms down when you’re shaking so bad you can’t breathe, turning that possessive arms-length hold into a comforting hug. “How am I supposed to work with that? Help a guy out.” 

“I want you.” You sniffle, finally calm enough under the prison of your hands to get some real words out. “I don’t feel good without you.”

“I want you, too — easy as that.” Satoru takes that spark you give him and lights a torch. He pulls you away when he feels your hands lower, heart-shattering when he sees your bloodshot gaze. “We’re back together now, got it.” 

“No, Satoru—

“What about me is driving you so far away?! Help me understand, I’ll change!” 

“How can I ask you to change everything about yourself?” 

You can hear it through the fog — Satoru’s heart plummets. He pulls away. “What do you mean?” 

It has to be the drunkenness— there’s no way you just said that out loud. You don’t even believe it. Yes, he has flaws like every other human, but he tries. 

Which is more than you can say. 

Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, the door slipped shut because someone knocked on it as soon as the silence hit. The noise stills you to the core. “Satoru, come on. I’ll take you home.” 

Satoru takes a step back, staring into your soul as if he wants to snatch it away… his gaze is off, as if it’s missing something. Or, like something inside of him has died. 

“I-I’m sorry… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” 

He laughs — something akin. Just a short, stupid breath of air through his parted lips. Silently, he shakes his head, then turns on the ball of his foot, making a beeline straight for the door. 

“Sat-

“Yeah, Suguru, let’s go.” 

“Sure-

“Satoru, don’t.” Now, you’re doing the chasing, piecing together the only two sober brain cells you have to put one foot in front of the other with purpose. 

Through the door, you’re rushing past Shoko, tears streaming down your face. It’s pathetic — honestly, the laughing stock of your lifetime, but right now, you don’t care. It feels like you need Satoru. Like your heart is ripping from your chest every time he takes a step away from you. 

No. It’s not supposed to be like this. Satoru is not supposed to be leaving you. 

The crowd gets thicker as they approach the front doors — Suguru peeks over his shoulder, expression so damning and overcome as he watches you push past bodies to get to them. Satoru is dragging him along now, holding onto his bicep like he’s on a mission. 

“No! Mph– T-toru!” You sputter, the heel of your hand flying up to tug at your eyes. You can’t see much in the haze – the front door is cracking open. Everything falls by the wayside. “I’ll stay, I’ll try! I promise you, I’ll try again!” 

He stops, grip shaking around Suguru’s elbow before he yanks it back. The three of you stand like statues in the middle of the floor, blocking the exit — bodies pushing. You’re out of breath, swallowing tears and wiping wetness when he turns to look at you. 

In the pursuit, his glasses fell, but somehow you can see the look in his eyes. One that loves you, hates you so well, and that can’t hide the devotion he feels. 

It hurts. You’re running face-first into a lie. 

Satoru blinks at you, breathless, as he closes the distance in less than a second, it feels like. He yanks off his glasses, balancing in his left hand as he cradles your cheeks. Sobbing, you grip his shoulder blades, shaking your head when he pulls your gaze. 

There, in the ripe blue light at Midnight, he kisses you like he used to all those years ago. He holds you, eyelashes shuddering against your skin as he leans into you. 

The kiss is hungry and mean — he’s shoving his tongue between your lips, squeezing your face so you don’t run away. You cry and sniffle against him, whining when he bites down on your bottom lip, drawing blood. 

Satoru’s not done for at least a minute — face so red when he pulls away that you swear he’s due to pass out. In that heaviness afterward, he presses his forehead into yours. Not saying anything, just silence. Pulsing music, unfamiliar stares. 

Nothing blooms into something. You’ve thrown your life to the wolves, innocent and baring your neck to be mauled to a bloody, beautiful end. 

That’s why you’re crying now. Not for him… for you. 

Satoru is on his back in bed, your ring finger in his mouth, sucking the metal clean. 

You’re on top of him, crying like always. Head tossed back, jazz music on your skin, and blossom in the air. You’re riding him like a horse, out of your mind with pleasure as he moans your name. He’s fucking you so good, now, knowing you differently since the breakup. You feel different since then, too. Nastier — headier. 

You know what you want. Satoru knows you know what you want. He’s ready to give it all to you, but right now, all he wants to do is suck your wedding ring. 

“You look so hot like this.” You gulp, tongue flicking from your parted mouth. Your free hand reaches forward to rub over his face, marking the expanse red in your wake. “Look at me.” 

He does, slamming open his eyes and staring at you so blue it feels like you’re drowning. Toru’s pupils are blown to Hell, too — so dilated you could be mistaken for a drug he’s high on. 

“Fuckin– look at you.” He groans, teeth grinding as your hips slam down again. He’s sure your calves hurt with the fervor of your want, but he’s just too much right now. Your body is craving him – he’s treating you so well. 

Satoru reaches forward, kissing your glistening ring as he grips and grabs at the flesh gathered around your hips. Your body is making him drool, and the pure mutual attraction in the air is so thick neither of you can snap out of it. You’re caught in a constant state of praise, adoration, lust, and more praise. 

Everything is perfect, here. You’re not sure you ever want to rise to the surface.

Technically, you and Toru aren’t separated anymore. It’s complicated. 

It’s what you two tell your friends – it’s what you tell yourself. He still refers to you as his wife even though things aren’t perfect all the time. He comes to and from your apartment now, just like you do his, and the space is exactly what you two need. Maybe living with him is too much? Being around him constantly is suffocating? 

The pieces are starting to fall into place. Satoru sees that you still need to feel free even when you’re tied to him with a ring you refuse to take off. If it’s staying so perfectly, ripe with his spit and deep in the throes of pleasure, it’s meant to be on you. 

“Oh, you’re stunning – taking me like this.” 

“Tell me, baby.” 

“Sexy fuc-fuckin’ mouth. God, your pretty little lips–

You’re slowing down, catching your breath as you grind on him like you want it to mean something. Your ringed hand pinches at his chin, egging those words you need to hear along. Toru’s spacing out – he’s close. 

You shiver, that deep, grinding sensation setting you ablaze. It doesn’t dawn on you just how far you were edging yourself until you’re about to snap, but it’s impressive. “Want it in my mouth?” You whisper, dragging one of his heavy hands to your lips. Biting and kissing at the soft webbing between his thumb and pointer, Satoru mumbles something adjacent to yes, then no. You giggle – hardly there, but felt through the vibrations of the pulsing position you’re in. 

“No– yes, oh, suck on it, beautiful… Tell me you love me,” 

“Oh, I love you, Satoru.” 

“Again.” 

“I love you!” 

“Come here.” His voice turns into something primal – deep in his chest in a way he can’t replicate outside of the moment. This is taking you there at an alarmingly defenseless rate, closing in like a bounty hunter. 

Satoru yanks his hand from your mouth, pinning you chest-to-chest by the back of your neck. He knows not to be gentle now, taking the small hairs at the nape and nearly pulling them out. Open-mouthed, sharp-toothed, he gnaws at your cheek and ear because it’s just too much to get to your lips right now. 

It gets too much – he has to fuck you. He feels like a track runner, hips rising from the bed so he can carry you both to the finish line. Toru knows you too well, he knows how to sync your orgasms, and he executes it perfectly this time. 

Fingertips digging in that gorgeous muscle around your hips, Satoru fucks you right – the only way he knows how to keep you, now. He tugs at your earlobe with sharp teeth, gasping right into you. You’re sobbing for him, fists pulling at the ruined sheets as the wetness between your bodies gets too much to block out. 

“Ugh – take it.” He growls, screwing his pulsing release deeper inside of you as it comes. You can feel every spurt – your nerves are on fire. It’s that third one that does you in. It pools right against your favorite spot, stabbing deep inside of you as Satoru lays his mark. 

You’re the one that collapses on him once the aftershocks ride away, but he’s still limply thrusting into you like he doesn’t have a mind to stop. 

After the ecstasy, Satoru thinks he feels… sad. He’s sad that its over. He’s sad you’re so tired you can’t talk to him anymore. He just wants to talk to you. He wants to know how he did… was it good enough for you now?

Everything settles. You roll away sometime in the midst, and Satoru sits up. He knows you’re tired – don’t want to be touched, don’t want to be bothered, but he wants you to know how much that just meant to him. 

He wants to show you how loved he feels. Something he hasn’t felt in that last year of your marriage. 

“Ba-

His phone rings. Satoru closes his eyes and wills it to Hell.

Then snatches it up from the nightstand, eyes glancing at the caller ID as he stands and fishes his underwear from the pile on the floor. 

It’s Nanami. Satoru smiles when he answers. 

“Hi! How’s Malaysia?” 

‘I’ll make this quick – I’m having a peaceful time down here.’ 

“Really?! Aw, well we miss-

‘I was offered a position down here at the school… Effective next semester, but effective nonetheless.’ 

Satoru stands still as a statue in the doorway of the bedroom. Glancing back at you, it seems like you’re completely dead to the world; you must’ve drifted off. 

So, he slinks out with his promise of good news, trying to hide his smile as he shuts the door so softly the click is almost invisible. 

When he’s safe from ears-length, he opens his mouth. “That’s so amazing! How amazing! So deserved – really, that’s so great.” 

‘Don’t be coy, Professor Gojo.’ 

It’s hard to hide the face-spanning smile that creeps over his. Then, he throws his hands up – letting it take over. In any case, he grinded for over ten years just to feel this moment. Now, he gets to live it. “God – it just rolls off the tongue, doesn’t it?” He flushes like a child, bringing his hand to his face to cover the unbridled joy. 

He has to shake himself free of it again. He earned this. He’s allowed to feel excited. 

After all, you’re not at his feet telling him how annoying his light is. 

‘Fairly well, I admit. Look, Gojo, I didn’t know this was going to happen, but I do not regret it. Your pupils adore you, peers love you, and you’re so smart…’ Nanami pauses, taking a deep breath. Satoru can almost see him now – head in his hands, stewing away in the wake of success. ‘You know I have nothing but respect and faith in you.’ 

“Thank you… honestly, thanks.” 

‘I’ll be back in Japan next week – together, we will work on making this transition as smooth as possible, okay? Don’t let this weigh on you, Gojo. The summer semester is slow. It’ll be the perfect time for you to adapt.’ 

“Yes… yes, sir. I understand. Thank you so much.” 

‘Alright.’ 

Just like that, the line clicks on the most important phone call of his life.

Satoru spent the entirety of his twenties focused on this and you – it’s all he knows, so stepping into this shiny new territory is terrifying and so exciting. 

He just can’t stop. Satoru can’t stop smiling. 

Lost in himself in this moment, the only thing that can pull him out is you. The movement from the bedroom behind him makes that smile even wider. Toru just can’t stop winning today – you’re awake after sex. 

Still, he gives you a moment, giddy in his own skin as he paces, combing his hands through his hair, trying to slow down his racing heart. He doesn’t know whether he should grieve for the years past or look forward to the new ones – maybe both? Maybe talking to you can help him balance out these big, conflicting feelings. 

For once, Satoru actually wants to call his mother. 

He abstains, opting to slip back into the bedroom with a small grin on his lips. You’re not in bed – the sheets are ruffled. Satoru smiles even bigger. 

“Hi, sleepyhead.” He peeks his head in the dark bathroom, reaching to pull the dimmed lights a little higher. He watches as newness floats over your body as you lower yourself into steaming bathwater. 

You’re exhausted – bones sore. You needed this. 

Satoru walks into the bathroom, turning the dripping shower head you used to rinse entirely off. Silence spills the nude space. He’s biting over his lip as he watches you settle. 

“Hi.” You reply, finally. Eyes drifting shut as heat melts over your entire strung-out nervous system. Against the heat, you’re shivering,  opening your eyes as you lean against the back. Staring at his smile, you can’t help but smile back. “What?” 

Toru’s phone is still in his left hand. He waves it once, then pushes it on the counter. “Nanami’s all kicked up in Malaysia. Totally forgot about us over here.” 

You laugh under your breath, flashing him the sleepy bedroom eyes that make him feral. He steps closer. “Mm… Miss him. Nanami always has the best family-owned bakery recommendations.” 

“My professor is not a review site – but I agree.” 

“Shut up,” You shrug him off with a short laugh, rolling your head the other way as he approaches the side of the tub. The moment falls in silence – Toru is kneeling beside the basin, reaching for your wet hands against the polished stone. 

“I know it’s still too soon to tell how you’re feeling, huh?” He chews on his words carefully, avoiding eye contact when you look over to evaluate the sudden dip in his tone. 

Satoru’s referring to a conversation you two almost had two days ago over dinner. He brought up moving you back in — you declined immediately. He suggested going on casual dates until the pieces are connected again, but you also declined. 

He asked you what you wanted from him, and you lied. You want his company, but you want his lust even more. You want him to scream your name in his sleep — to torment him with debilitating morning wood and linger in the air long after it’s gone. You want to smile in his face and have him smile back — you want that feeling of teeth against softness when he smiles as he kisses you. 

That’s it. 

“What do you want to hear?” 

“That you’ll forget you ever left and let me buy you that house I always promised.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Nanami took a job in Malaysia. They’re offering me his position.” 

You sit up, water splashing around you as you stare at him dead-on. Satoru is easy to read — when he’s lying, his eyes sparkle in mischief. He’s telling the truth, you can tell. 

Then, it dawns on you. “Oh, my God.” 

He’s smiling as big as he did when he found out, just ecstatic you’re around to tell it to. “I know.”

“Oh- oh, my God. Baby, I’m so happy.” You whisper, shell-shocked as you pull him into a wet hug. “I’m so proud of you.” Your naked chests melt together with water to make them stick. His heart is sprinting like a hare, knocking over your chest cavity for entrance. 

It’s true – you’re so proud of him. Before Toru was your husband, he was a friend. Previously, he was a trusted and beloved colleague. That’s where it should have stayed. 

“I love you. I do it for you.” He kisses your hair, big hands rubbing your back. This moment with you is so tender and warm, like he can pull away and feel the same heat from you. He knows the truth, though – just doesn’t want to admit it. “I feel so good right now, with you and this news. I think it’s hope.” 

Still hugging him close, arms slung over his neck, your hands pull into fists where he can’t see. You’re staring at yourself in the tall vanity mirror. You know what this is – what he’s going to take from this. Now that he’s found success, naturally, he’ll want to drag you into it. After all, you two spent your best years talking about this time in your lives. He’d get this promotion, and everything will be okay. 

So, you don’t comment on it. Instead, you state the obvious. “I love you.” 

~

 Suguru’s house is up in lights, and chatter spills out through the open kitchen window. Everyone sounds so happy – Satoru’s name is on the tip of everyone's tongue… Everyone is so happy. 

Not you. Never you. You swear something inside of you was manufactured with broken parts – this didn’t make sense. You’ve spent the best week of your life with Satoru. You two had the best conversations, and agreed on the minute stuff. This last week actually felt like the promise – a tiny little inkling of the hope Satoru wanted to churn out so badly. 

Inside, you’re nowhere to be found. 

Once he crawls off of you, you’re drowning in overwhelming numbness. 

When he kisses you, some feeling comes back, only to fade away again with the passing breeze. You look at him and see nothing, you’re tired of hearing about the promotion, and you’re tired of your inability to escape him. 

It passes through you all at once as you stare at the promotion party from around the corner. Suguru lives in a beautiful, well-maintained neighborhood – families and salarymen at the top of their field make this street more alive than you’ve ever felt. You envy it. 

You envy their lives – you bet their marriages are perfect, and their children are beautiful. Their cars are probably polished like Satoru’s, ripe with money like Suguru and demanding attention like Shoko.

You squeeze your eyes shut and fall back behind a fence, willing your life to disappear. You no longer want to have a choice. You don’t want a body that feels something your mind doesn’t – you just don’t want to be here. 

It takes everything inside of you to do it, but one-foot steps in front of the other. Your arms shake as it clutches your purse against your body. Tears come – you welcome them. 

You welcome anything that pours some feeling back into you, because you feel like a dripping, empty chasm. Burning the hope you two created as fuel, your slow steps turn into determined strides, sneaking a look over your shoulder to see if anyone from the gathering was following. 

Maybe you want them to, or maybe you just want to disappear off the face of the Earth. 

You chose the latter. 

France is beautiful around this time of year, but not the city. The countryside sparkles in the humid breeze, away from all the noise and sewage. It feels a little bit like home, only you can’t go back there. Not yet. 

Not when you gave every single piece of your old self away. Of course, you kept the ring and the last name – it feels good to carry him around. It’s proof to your former self, there to remind you that those years did exist, and they were good. 

It’s just you. You’re the faulty component. You’re the missing piece. Satoru is an angel – you’re nothing but a stranger who crashed into his life and drained his happiness from his sweet soul. He doesn’t deserve that. 

The toll you took on him was starting to kill you, but he was too indebted to ever let it show. Satoru would see the darkness in your eyes when he turned your words into a joke, then nod and tell himself to never do that around you again. Being so close to you for so long, his light started to fade at the corners like a vignette. 

He never mentioned it, and when you began to notice, you hated yourself. 

Now, you’re cordial with your mind. It’s had time to think and heal just being alone. Being in France is just a vacation for you – sleeping in a bi-weekly rented cottage a few hours from the Capital. 

You truly picked the destination out of a hat after leaving Tokyo. You quite literally ran for the hills – sending off the stack of divorce documents to his new office at Tokyo-U for him to sign. Inside that sealed package, you had decided to give him the note you had written when you left the first time. You’re not sure why you kept it, but you knew you needed to. 

This was why. You knew you were going to leave again. 

With the absence of him, you’ve begun writing again. It started as notes to him, then to your past self – now it’s studies of the mountainside, the way the air smells as it rushes through your hair. Small little poems to take your mind away, and it feels so good. You don’t feel like a walking extension of him anymore, but you feel like a Gojo. There’s that scary sense of power that sits over your shoulders, knowing it’s all one phone call away from falling back into place. 

You have plans to reach out to him eventually, but it feels good to not exist anymore. It feels good to pad around the little cottage in nothing but your socks and underwear, reciting the poem you wrote yesterday without care of anyone hearing. 

It feels good to feel the morning light on your skin, snaking in through the window with the week-old dried wishbone on the sill. You love this life right now, and that’s all you need. 

All you need is right now. 

@coralbae @nylve @torueater @yossellinn @kiwikeeahwah @gojoikawa @peacequeen2 @asimpinamillion @genericxseas @casssiesthings @bypanana @kr3ideprinz @kamuihz @bbqsauceonmytddys @sukunaslilsocks @spacefae-x @tenaciousavenueavenue

[thatonegrimm]

Greetings!!!!

May I request a reader who's a Japanese Oni(man-eating), the boys are unaware of such

While she hides her true appearance(like how they do) it still remains underneath, hidden away

I apologise if it sounds a little weird but it is my first time sending an actual request..ever... (;v;"')...

- 🦇anon

🦇Anon!!! Greetings and welcome!! ❤️ Please don’t worry—this is a fantastic first request—you've got great taste 👀 Here you go!💌

🌙Saja Boys x Maneater!Oni Reader

You wear a human face. Speak with a soft voice. Smile politely. But you are not human. You are Oni—horned and hungry, something ancient and exiled. And the boys don’t know. Not yet. Not until something pushes you too far.

------------------------

🧿 Jinu 

Jinu had been chasing a low-level demon when he saw you slip into the alley.

He followed without thinking. And then he froze.

You were already standing over it—breathing hard, shoulders shaking, something wrong flickering around you. Not wrong like an injury. Wrong like true form showing through. Horns flickering. Eyes glowing. Blood steaming on your hands.

You turned, just enough for him to see it all. The real you.

His voice was low. “...So it wasn’t just a nightmare.”

You looked away. “I didn’t kill it.”

“I know.”

“I’ve killed before.”

“I figured.”

He was quiet, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to see the whole picture and not just the monster parts.

Then he stepped forward and said, softly: “Do you still want to hurt people?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“I mean,” Jinu shrugged, “you warned me about mint chocolate. I still ate it. Some things we find out the hard way.”

And then, just like that, he held out his hand.

------------------------

💪 Abby 

You told him not to worry. That you’d meet him after the mission. That you were tired.

But when Abby stumbled back into the warehouse, bleeding and half-conscious, you were already there—standing over the torn-up body of the thing that ambushed him.

And you weren’t glamoured anymore.

He saw the horn vanish mid-shift. The teeth. The claws. The blood on your hands that wasn’t his.

You turned quickly. “I didn’t want you to see—”

He was already walking toward you. Wincing, yes. But walking.

“You’re taller like this,” he said lightly, leaning his weight on a crate.

You stared.

“Also kinda scary,” he added, grinning. “But you saved my ass.”

“Abby—”

He held up a hand. “If the choice is between a scary girlfriend or being dead? I pick the scary girlfriend.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He solved that by pulling you into a very bloody, very strong hug.

------------------------

📚 Mystery 

Mystery had known something was off.

You flinched from salt. Slept too well during blood moons. Shadow wards made you twitchy. And you moved like you were always listening for something older than sound.

He didn’t say anything. Not until he found you curled up in the corner of the attic—teeth too long, glamour flickering, and a deep red ring blooming in your eyes.

He didn’t gasp. Didn’t pull a weapon.

He crouched.

“You were never human,” he said plainly.

You looked at him, ready for rejection.

Instead, he tilted his head. “But you never lied.”

“I never told you.”

“That’s not the same.”

You didn’t dare move.

He pulled his coat off and set it over your shoulders like it was nothing. “You’re still cold,” he said, voice low.

And that was it. You were Oni. He was Demon.

And you both knew what it meant to wear a face that didn’t belong to you.

------------------------

💋 Romance 

He found you behind the concert venue, sitting in the dark behind the dumpsters, shaking.

You weren’t bleeding—but your face was cracked. Not physically. Your glamour. Your control.

He saw your eyes first—too red. Too sharp. And then the ridges of something just under the skin, pulsing like old blood.

You looked up, voice hoarse. “I didn’t want you to see this.”

Romance crouched in front of you slowly, carefully, like you were a hurt animal he didn’t want to scare off.

“I’ve seen worse,” he said.

“You haven’t seen me.”

“I have. Just not this version.”

“I could hurt you.”

He reached for your hand and held it. Not tightly. Just enough that you felt it.

“Then don’t.”

You stared at him.

“And if you do,” he added, smiling gently, “at least make it sexy.”

That earned a weak laugh. He considered it a win.

------------------------

🔥 Baby 

Baby saw it all.

The way you took that demon down with your bare hands—no glamour, no weapon. Just teeth and strength and something dark uncoiled inside you. The body hit the ground. You were panting, crouched, red smeared across your mouth.

And he saw you realize he was watching.

You wiped your mouth, stumbling back. “You saw that.”

“Yep.”

“I’m not human.”

“Clearly.”

You stared at him, waiting for the shift. The disgust. The fear.

Instead, he stepped closer, eyes calm.

“So,” he said, hands in his pockets. “You still hungry?”

You blinked. “What?”

He nodded toward the alley. “There’s two more of those things. I’d rather you eat them than spiral.”

You were stunned. “You’re not scared?”

“I’m not dumb. Just not running.”

That was Baby. Blunt. Honest. Steady.

And apparently, not afraid of anything—including you.

------------------------

M-List

[rainrot4me]

can you give us some Jeff angst PLEASE. I need him to be miserable. like him having a huge fight with his s/o and now he’s suffering😭

and maybe some frustrated make up sex?-WHO ASKED THAT

Post-fight angst….. my favorite flavor of makeup sex mhmhmhmhm. Might fledge this out into a oneshot if I have the time!

๑ Warning: Breakups, make-up sex, implied vaginal/anal

── .✦

The fight started like all of them did: with Jeff getting too loud and you getting too quiet. That damn temper of his. He didn’t mean it—he never does—but his voice cracked the walls like thunder, and you flinched.

And that? That wrecked him.

He hadn’t touched you. Hadn’t even moved from where he stood. But you still looked at him like he could break you.

And you left.

You didn’t slam the door, didn’t scream back. You just grabbed your hoodie, eyes glossy, and whispered something that’s haunted him since.

“I’m tired of walking on eggshells just to love you.”

Now Jeff’s sitting on the floor of the kitchen. Knife in hand—but not using it. Just… holding it. Spinning it by the handle. A nervous tic. The metal glints in the dim light of the single bulb in the light he never bothered fixing.

The silence eats him alive.

He stares at the coffee mug you always use. There’s chapstick on the rim still. He hasn’t thrown it away, can’t convince himself to.

He hasn’t eaten since you left.

“Goddammit,” he growls into the air, smashing the knife against the tile.

It clangs. Echoes. No one answers.

He’s so used to being hated. Feared. So when someone finally loved him—it felt like learning to breathe after drowning. And now he’s drowning all over again, only this time it’s his fault.

Later, he’s in your shared room. (It’s still yours in his head.)

He’s lying on your side of the bed, face buried in your pillow, hoodie sleeves tugged over his hands like a kid. He smells you on the fabric and his chest hurts. Like something inside is breaking and it won’t stop.

He remembers the way you used to cradle his face after nightmares. How you whispered, “I’m not scared of you, Jeff. You’re not a monster to me.”

He wonders if you still mean that. He wonders if he pushed you too far this time.

He’s pacing now. At the door. At the window. Should he go after you? Would you even want that?

But the second he imagines you never coming back, his stomach turns. He hits the wall hard with his fist, blood smearing across the paint.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to no one. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

He slides down the wall. He sits there until his head hits his knees, until his breathing evens out in that shallow, ragged way that shows someone is trying to hide the tears that desperately need to come out.

And when he finally falls asleep on the floor, it’s with your t-shirt pulled against his chest like a lifeline.

—

After you left, Jeff didn’t cry—not at first.

He stared. He stood there in the dead silence of the place you’d called home, jaw tight, lips pressed into a line. He blinked at the empty doorway, at the missing weight of your presence, like maybe if he didn’t breathe, he wouldn’t feel the absence pressing in.

Then something inside him snapped.

The first kill came that night. A couple in a parking garage. They laughed too loud. Looked too happy.

He cut them both open, not because he wanted to. Not even because he needed to. But because their happiness made something sick rise in his throat. Something bitter. Something that looked a lot like grief.

“You don’t get to be happy if I’m not.”

And that was the beginning.

A body every night.

It wasn’t about the thrill anymore—it never really was. It was about the noise. The screams that drowned out your voice in his head. The blood that made it impossible to see your tear-streaked face. The gasping, pleading, begging that he could pretend was just you saying his name again.

He painted the city red, carving grief into strangers because it was the only thing he could control. He wore the shirt you left behind. He stopped sleeping. He stopped thinking.

“They’re all just bodies,” he muttered once, over a half-dead corpse who looked too much like you. “None of them are you.”

And that was the problem. None of them were you.

—

Then the door opened.

He was sitting on the bloodstained floor of your shared apartment, hoodie sleeves damp, shaking hands covered in rust-colored grime. Knife tossed somewhere. Eyes hollow.

He didn’t hear your key in the lock. Didn’t hear your breath hitch in the doorway.

But the moment he saw you—

Everything dropped.

He stood too fast, staggering like a drunk. You froze. His mouth opened and closed like a man drowning in his own guilt.

“You came back,” he rasped, voice hoarse from nights spent screaming into nothing.

“Jeff—” Your voice was small. Scared. That killed him.

He took one step forward and collapsed to his knees, hard. The sound echoed. His shoulders shook. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Please—fuck, please don’t be scared of me.”

You were crying now. He heard it. And that broke him worse.

He crawled to you like something wounded. Held onto the hem of your shirt like a child clinging to a mother’s hand. Smeared blood on your thighs, on your arms, on your heart, but didn’t care.

“I didn’t know what to do without you,” he choked. “I tried to feel something and I couldn’t and I thought if I—if I killed enough—maybe I could stop missing you. But I didn’t. I just fucking missed you more.”

Your hands were shaking when you touched his face. He flinched.

“You’re all I fucking have,” he whispered. “Please. Tell me you still love me.”

Silence.

You knelt. He was crying now. Ugly, violent sobs into your lap, smearing your jeans with red and salt. And when you whispered, “I never stopped,” he just held you harder, like you’d vanish again if he let go.

You don’t remember how long you held him. Just that his sobs bled into your shirt, his hands shook around your waist, and his voice—once so loud, so sharp—was now nothing but broken breath.

He felt small like this. Not the infamous killer. Not the nightmare. Just Jeffrey. A boy who didn’t know how to ask for love without screaming first.

“I should’ve never let you go,” he whispered, voice hoarse from crying.

“You didn’t let me go,” you answered gently. “You just got lost.”

His shoulders twitched. His arms tightened around you. The blood on his hoodie had dried sticky against your clothes, but you didn’t care. You combed your fingers through his hair—matted, wild—and for a moment, he leaned into it like a wounded dog finding a safe hand.

“I was so fucking angry,” he admitted. “Not at you. Not really. Just—at me. At how I ruin shit. At how I don’t know how to be soft without wanting to tear my own skin off.”

You cupped his face.

“Then don’t be soft. Just be honest.”

His eyes—wild, wide, so tired—met yours. He looked at you like you were something unreal. A miracle he didn’t deserve. Then, slow and unsure, he leaned in and kissed you.

Not hungry. Not rough. Just… desperate.

His lips tasted like salt. Like regret. He kissed you like an apology he didn’t have words for. His hands came up to your cheeks, thumb smudging a tear away before it fell. Then he kissed you again. And again.

“Let me make it up to you,” he breathed against your mouth.

“Jeff—”

“Please. Just this. Let me show you I still love you.”

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him closer.

You ended up on your back. Jeff climbed over you with caution like you were a painting he was terrified of ruining. His hands gripped your hips like he was grounding himself, and his forehead pressed to yours as his breaths came shaky and wet.

“You can stop me any time,” he whispered.

“I know,” you said. “But I don’t want you to.”

That cracked him open. He kissed you harder—still trembling—still holding back sobs that wanted to choke him. He clung to you like someone who’d lived through hell and didn’t believe heaven would last.

Your hands slid under his hoodie, feeling scars and warm skin. He gasped into your mouth, rocked into you like he needed to feel you in every part of him just to know you were real.

He didn’t rush it.

He didn’t want to fuck it up this time.

“I missed you,” he said again, broken between kisses. “I missed you so bad, I wanted to tear my own fucking heart out.”

Your fingers brushed his cheek.

“I’m right here. I came back.”

He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A small, wounded sound into your neck before trailing kisses down it. You felt the weight of all he’d been carrying. The blood. The guilt. The fear that he’d lost the only thing that ever made him feel human.

When he finally tugged your clothes off, when you welcomed him in, it wasn’t about lust—it was about love he didn’t know how to name. It was about making a home in you again, about easing the shaking in his hands with your skin, about pressing his forehead to yours and whispering, “Please don’t leave me. I swear I’ll do better.”

You kissed him and pulled him closer.

“Then stay. And love me right.”

And he did. Desperate, gentle, wrecked beyond recognition.

꩜ .ᐟ