#Reckless bc all they cared for is gone | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

mooishbeam · 9 months ago

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『♡』 Country Honey

♡ featuring: ranchhand!toji x richgirl!reader

♡ synopsis: a spoiled, wealthy college senior is forced to spend her summer at her father’s rural farm as punishment for her reckless behavior and slipping academic performance. unbeknownst to her, a bigger storm awaits just around the corner.

♡ wc: 16.5k+ (AHHHHHH)

♡ cw/tw: afab!reader, enemies to lovers if you squint, hurt/comfort kinda sad toji, feral toji, spanking, overstimulation, edging, sadism/masochism, throat fucking, cock worship, m/f receiving, doggy style, degradation kink, brat taming, dumbification, reader is a spoiled brat a lot of the time

notes: oh god, where do i begin...i know ive been gone for so long. firstly i want to apologize, and secondly ill explain my absence in a second post. not proofread so i apologize, honestly i shouldnt have tried a long fic for my comeback bc it took way too long to finish, but either way i hope you all enjoy! art by moonlessoul on ig! comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

“Almost there.”

The sleek luxury car your dad drives grumbles at a rocky pace over an evidently gravelly road. If you can even call it a road—rather the patchy fragments of flattened dirt eroded by heavy traffic from a forgotten time. It’s a path shrouded by southern live oak, canopying its leaves and spearing sharp rays of summer daylight through the sunroof.

You’re feeling every second of this bumpy ride. The wheels hop over an unsteady rock and your knees jab into your sternum. You’re pressed into an unfortunate position, with your legs pinched to your chest and the bright pink suitcase you insisted on bringing sandwiching you to the leather seat. You struggle to wiggle to a decent side that spares your sweltering face from the sun, but the other seats are also occupied with your luggage. And the front seat. And the trunk.

Maybe that’s why you were brought here in the first place. You’re well off to a sickening amount and you’ve made no efforts to conceal your wealth. Your dad sacrificed his golden years to foster an agricultural business in the rural south, and now you reap the rewards of his labor. You know it and spend it as such. You’ve collected a textbook of names throughout the years—spoiled, bratty, coddled, pompous—each insult savored more than the last. You embraced being a spoiled rich girl and all it had to offer. Top notch schools, waitlisted parties, designer bags, and just about any opportunity you could get your greedy hands on.

High school left like the wind and before you knew it, the 4.0 extracurricular weapon you used to be devolved into a nightlife college senior, more invested in the extravagant yacht parties than your academic probation. It was a risky misstep, but you didn’t have the heart to care when your dad could easily pay your way to graduation. At this rate you’d be a couple years behind your peers. Your dad wasn’t having any of it.

The festivities stopped. No unlimited debit card and especially no spending. This could possibly be your final senior summer, and instead of celebrating with friends you’re making up for your transgressions. The worst part is the rural retreat he’s currently driving you to with no sign of civilization for miles.

You could die right now.

“How much longer?” You drawl on the last syllable, flicking your phone on and off in hopes that a bar or two will magically appear in the top right. He glances at you through the rearview mirror, a tinge of southern, "Just a few more minutes.”

You let you phone fall from your limp hand and lean your head against the open window. Nothing but ancient trees and the occasional berry bush. You’re not sure if you should be more upset by the consequences of your actions or the actual actions that roped you into this mess. Instead of ruminating on your mistakes, you allow your eyelids to droop in the oppressive warmth.

“We’re here darling.” Your eyes shoot open. So soon, and surely not after the forest you’d been traversing moments ago. You’re able to scoot up more, the sound of stone-pathed roads rattling in your ears. You tuck your knees underneath you and lift yourself up now that the terrain was smoother, poking your torso out the window. A bane of light strikes you immediately, and you blink away its brilliance to reveal crystal blue skies.

Your mouth shapes an ‘O’, and you push your designer glasses over your forehead. “...No way” you gawk, taken by the view your father cultivated.

This is nothing like the previous tunnel, and certainly nothing like the skyscrapers you’ve grown accustomed to. It’s an endless expanse disrupted by stone and crowded with overgrown wheat, bobbing in the mild breeze. They travel up the winding hill, ducking under wooden fences to border the farmhouse. The two-story ivory home exudes simplicity, strung with hanging pothos that wrap around the spacious porch and decorative shuttered windows painted like strawberries. From your limited view you notice the large red wooden barn peeking out behind the house, and a dirt trail leading to productive areas; a small stable, cattle, and other farm animals coexist in a sector made for their comfort. Beside the home is the largest Magnolia tree you’ve ever seen, with branches extending over the pitched, fabled roof and overhanging eaves with sweeping petals. It’s purposefully overgrown and homely, a humble size incomparable to the mansion you were raised in.

Your father pulls up to the oak gate with a tattered sign overhead: Welcome to Pleasantview Farms.

The lack of security, never mind the lack of extravagance, is astonishing to you. It’s unexpected of your father—the man that required you have a designated butler all throughout secondary school. “You never told me about all this” you yell from outside the window, still gazing at distant rolling hills of dewy grass. “You never asked” he chuckles, and turns onto another hill leading up to the house. You look beneath you; patches of flowering weeds fighting their way past the pavement.

He parks in an open plot half occupied by a wheelbarrow, packed to the brim with haybales. “We’re here.” He turns the car off and steps out to open your side. Your luggage slams onto the dirt before you do, and you yelp.

“No, it’s gonna get dirty!” He laughs and brushes specs of soil off your precious bag. “And if it does, you’ll be alright pumpkin.” You groan and attempt to get out without sacrificing your hot pink slides, when your first foot gives into silt. You scream and stumble onto dry earth, leaving your phone behind to *splat* in the mud. You kick off the mud barely clinging to your shoes until you catch a glimpse of your glittery phone charm on the floor. It takes you a second to process the mud-covered device slowly descending, but when your brain synapses finally link, you expel an ear-shattering shriek. To which your dad stifles a smile at the dramatic performance.

He picks it up and wipes the debris on his ivory shirt. “One more reason for you not to have it” he says and tucks it away in his pocket while you’re struck with a permanent look of horror.

The front door swings open, and you turn to see a thin older woman. Slightly older than your father, her face is gentle and creased with living. Her hair fades from light gray to dark brown at the very tips, tied neatly into a bun with a coiled band. She removes her pale-yellow gloves and stuffs them into the back pocket of her bleached trousers, jogging up to you. “Good afternoon, Annie” he smiles, and she stretches a wide grin that nearly shuts her eyes. “Hello, sir. Is everything alright?”

“Yup, just kids being kids” he snickers and plants both hands on either side of your shoulders. “This is my daughter.”

“Good afternoon” you meek, devastated and contemplating the status of your phone. She audibly gasps and grabs your hands, and you jolt. “You’re even more beautiful in person. I’ve heard so much about you.” It’s like she’s studying your face with the way she gazes into your eyes, to which they fall onto your cheeks and hair. You’re not one to shy away from flattery, but the direct compliments spread embarrassment across your ears.

“Keep her company while I get these from the car, will you? Maybe show her around.” She nods, and leads you on an impromptu tour through the house.

“There isn’t much to see ‘round here, but I’ll try to make it interestin’ for ya” she jokes. The entryway is quaint, keeping nothing but rubber boots covered in dirt and farming tools used for today’s workload. “This where we keep what we need for today. S’just better to pick it up from the front.” You nod.

Further in, the hallways are decorated with baby pictures of you at various photoshoots. On the left side, she shows you a pastel green kitchen embellished with colorful floral paintings above the handles. Annie talks with her hands, “This is my domain. Damn near painted the whole thing. Took a lot of convincin’, but I got it eventually.”

“Do you live here?” you questioned. “We all do!”

“All?”

“Mhm”, she hums, “Me, Terrace, Lionel, and...” she trails off at the end. You’re surprised that they’re living where they work, and even more surprised that she’s all smiles while doing it. “Do you...like living here?”

“Of course! Pays well, lots'a vacation time, and everything’s compensated.” You tilt your head slightly, “Where do you guys' sleep?”

“We got our own place out back, all of us. Sweet deal, huh?” she says, patting your back. “And who was the other person that works here?” you ask.

Annie waves off the idea, stating “You don’t have to worry ‘bout him, he’s not really the talkin’ type.”

Perhaps it was her bluntness or her motherly cadence, but you quickly became comfortable with her presence dragging you around like a lost puppy. She showed you the living room that appeared to be vomited on by all things antique and vintage, and the bathroom tiled an ugly orange pattern. She led you outside, where a garden blossoming with peonies and hibiscus was trimmed carefully to adorn the pebbled path and fit around the barn. Far-out past the back gate you saw what you assumed was their living quarters, separated from miles of tillage.

By the time she finished her grand tour, you made it upstairs together to regroup with your dad. The second floor was reserved for your bedrooms and attached bathrooms. Entering your room, there’s nothing special about it. It seems like your dad attempted to buy things similar to your style, but couldn’t quite figure it out. You weren’t expecting much of anything considering this was your first—and most likely last—time being here, but it’s truly mediocre. “Whaddaya think pumpkin?”

“I love it” you choke out a lie and plop onto the red plaid bedding. Your luggage is lined up by the dresser, and you have quite the unpacking session awaiting you. Annie leans on the doorway. “I’ll let ya get settled in. We can do more in the morning.” Your dad leaves with her, and when you’re left alone stewing in the reality, you fall back onto the comforter.

One day is entertaining, you’d even call it an enjoyable experience. But the entire summer? You spend the rest of the day emptying out suitcase after suitcase, and turn in under the heavy blankets starving off a midnight chill.

You’re up before the crack of dawn, contemplating what you’ll wear as if that matters while you’re shoveling shit and carrying chicken feed. You throw on something impractical either way—a plaid button up tied to crop, tight denim shorts, and a brand new pair of shiny cowboy boots you just couldn’t resist buying when the trip was announced. You stomp your way to the back porch and are immediately hit with the bittersweet scent of humid pastures and last night’s rain within the tepid wind. It’s utterly quiet besides the distant echo of cattle and pigs, cicadas humming an airy tune. Your eyes latch onto the barn, slightly parted with a dim light going on the inside.

You recall what Annie said to you during the tour when you asked what’s in the barn: “I suggest you leave it alone, nothin’ worth lookin’ at in there.” Her clear avoidance intrigued you, and the more she dodges actual answers the more curious you become. You tread carefully on the path so you don’t alert whoever or whatever’s inside. As you plant one weightless foot over the other, you stop.

A deep, gritty voice; thick like the bark of an ancient redwood. He grunts then *chop*, followed by something solid rolling on a prickly surface. Another thick groan and another *chop*. You get closer to the barn and slide across it, practically dragging yourself against Annie’s wishes.

*Chop*

You clutch the side of the parted door.

*Chop*

You peak your head in. The two story barn houses an array of soils and tools used for farming on the bottom, and clumps of hay piled high at the top.

The older man with a mop of inky hair hangs his head low, honed in on the objective beneath him. The sharp end of the axe steadies above his head, then cuts through the air as it lands deep within the stump. He goes for another swing, beads of sweat meandering between his pecs, down the carved muscle of his abdominal and disappearing below his chiseled v-line. He digs his thick calloused fingers into the crevice and splits it. It’s as if his physique was crafted by careful hands, weaving marble like silk only Roman gods could mimic.

Your entirely distracted by the unexpected scene before you when the silence is cut by a clatter. His breaths are sharp and purposeful as he kicks it off the stand and trudges to the uncut pile of logs. You watch him with wandering eyes, taking mental notes of scars hiding underneath the fine hair spread across his torso. This isn’t the grumpy old man you imagined when Annie spoke so brazenly about him.

He hasn’t glanced at you once, despite standing right in front of the post he’s chopping on. It’s slightly aggravating. You’ve never had to ask for anyone’s attention before. You bathed in wealth, just enough to make even the snobbiest trust-fund kid turn his head. He must be blind. So, you wait until he comes to his senses, tapping your foot with your arms crossed over your chest.

And you do that...for a while. More than a few minutes pass, and you’re still standing here. You stir in the silence and methodical chopping, feeling flustered at how needy you look waiting for a man's response. A piece of wood—more important than you? Impossible. In a last-ditch attempt, you clear your throat rather dramatically. Nothing. A log rolls by your foot and the older man walks up to you only to kneel down and grab the wood before going back to his task. Heat creeps onto your cheeks. Are you fucking kidding me?

“Are you hard of hearing, mister?” you finally ask, batting your eyelashes at him. It’s a deep contrast to the irritation boiling in your stomach, so much so you have to choke back the vulgar words bubbling at the surface. He glimpses you with frosted olive eyes and swings the axe over his head. In a mild country accent he replies, “No.”

“...Oh.” You’re struck with palpable quiet once again. You’re fixed to the floor, struggling with something to say that doesn’t start with ‘fuck you’. As you’re about to open your mouth, he speaks.

“Heard ya the first time. If ya wanna talk, use your words.” You stare in utter disbelief. Was it audacity or straight stupidity? You can’t imagine anyone disrespecting their employer’s child, let alone commanding them.

“Excuse me?” He tosses the last log in the pile.

“Hm? Should I do it in a way you’ll understand?” he brings his fist to his lips, clearing his throat as you did. There’s a glint through that frost, the twinkle of an obvious shit-stirrer. You’re pissed no doubt, but the corner of your lip twitches at a challenge.

The most important tool to a wealthy family is humility. You can’t be too self-centered or prideful to strangers, dropping hints of sugary kindness as to not sour your perception. Perception is truly everything. Even so, the flowered words you’ve been taught to wield with grace wilt at the sight of him.

“Oh, so it’s gonna be like that, huh?” You scoff, plopping down on the stump. He wipes his dirt-dusted hands on the back of his overalls, straps dangling at his thighs. “Not sure what ya mean.”

“From what I’m getting, you’re a grumpy asshole. That description sound correct?”

“‘M only an ass when trust-fund kids call me like I'm a dog.”

“You know, the way Annie talks about you I thought you’d be some geriatric old man on his death bed! Turns out you’ve still got a couple more months in you—congrats!”

He laughs, “‘Preciate it. If I’m correct you must be papa’s spoiled little brat from the big city?”

“Mhm. Don’t worry, this was your first offense so I’ll let it slide. Remember to get on your knees when you apologize.” He pretends to ponder the idea, “Think I’ll pass. You can pick up one ‘o them bags up though and bring ‘er up to the field.”

You pause for a second, blinking. Instantly you double over with snorting laughter, the kind that tints your face and gathers tears at your lashes. You’re even clutching your stomach from how funny it is. When you come up from your fit, he’s there with his arms crossed under his chest. That’s when you realize he wasn’t joking by any means. You gape in disbelief, a chuckle still caught in your throat.

“Wait…you’re serious?” He walks over to one of the sacks and tosses it at your feet. “Well, get to work. I’ll show ya where to put it.” You purse your lips when a giggle slips, “Do you really think that’s gonna happen? Must be the age catching up with your brain.”

“I think it is gonna happen cause yer in my area. If you wanna be here, you’re gonna work. Nothin’s free ‘round these parts.” You hop off the stump and stand in front of him. Unfortunately, your attempt to size him up fails as your crane your neck to meet his gaze. “You can’t make me do anything. In fact, this is my property, and you’re here to do your job. So go do it” you terse.

“Nah, that’s not how this works. You’re on the farm now, not some bullshit country club you go to on weekends. Take yer ass to that bag and pick it up.”

You feign a pout, “Isn’t a pretty girl in your presence enough hard work already?”

“Not when she has so much mouth. The pretty ones know how to shut up.”

“I wouldn’t have so much mouth if you didn’t back talk.” He gets in close, only inches away from your face.

“Either go pick flowers, whatever girly shit you do, or do what I tell you to do.”

“I’ll tell my dad you’re forcing me into manual labor.”

“Aww, go ahead” he mocks with a smirk. He walks towards the door, wrapped in golden sunlight. Curious, you try tugging on the sack and nearly face-plant over the weight of it. There’s no way he expects you to carry it on your own. He turns back around, laced with mirth.

“By the way, name’s Toji. Welcome home, sweetheart.”

“Go do it yourself since you’re so good at it! You egotistical, selfish, brutish-”

“Pompous ass instigatin’ little-”

“-Callous disrespectful pig!”

“-Brat.”

The words topple over themselves and you both can’t get a full sentence in as insults are hurled like physical objects. The few days you’ve spent on the farm so far have been nothing short of hell, specifically around Toji. You’ve never worked this hard in your life; then again, that’s not saying much. He'd disregard your lack of general strength and enthusiasm. Sometimes he’d hold the underside of the bag to take some of the weight off, to which you often added “why don’t you just grab the whole damn thing?” A smirk and curt response were simply “Nope.”

Most days you merely dragged a few bags to the pick-up truck and spent the rest of the day lounging around the garden. You’d stumble into the kitchen, a bead of sweat barely manifesting on your brow, and complain to Annie about Toji’s evil plan to make you contribute.

Today is no different and you laze on the chair with your back bent over it, groaning in theatrical agony. Annie sits across from you funneling blueberry muffin batter into a silver muffin tin. “Yea, yea, I hear ya” she jokes.

“Annie, do something” you drawl. She throws her hands up, “Can’t. Thats on you, now.” You scrape the side of the bowl and pop a blueberry-dipped finger in your mouth.

“Don’t eat raw egg, hun” she says, turning her back to put the tray in the oven. You unconsciously take another swipe, then the door swings open. Heavy cowboy boots trail to the kitchen, and you glance at the doorway. Toji leans on it with his hands in his pockets, white tank sprinkled with grass blades.

“Shit” you mumble.

“’M lookin for ya and here you are stuffing your face.”

“The girl neva worked a day in her life an’ you want her to be your assistant” Annie jests.

“’S about time, ain’t it? We’re not done yet. C’mon.” You let out another reluctant groan and follow behind him. “This is bullshit, nobody does this on a normal day.”

“Yea, nobody you know.”

In front of the wheelbarrow bags upon bags are filled to the brim with juicy red apples and the truck is just a few feet away. Your eyebrow twitches imagining the weight in your arms. “You can go fuck yourself if you think-” before you can finish your sentence, a bag is dropped into your arms that briefly sends you to the ground. Toji picks up two and flings them over his back. “What? Too weak?” He walks to the truck, ignoring the glare burning holes in the back of his head. Too weak, my ass. You definitely couldn’t beat him in a fight, but you damn sure wouldn’t let him talk down on you after proving your competence. You pull it up and haul it backwards, not without a few mild choice words.

“Jerk.”

The pungent odor of slurry and trough feed overcome any habitable air near the pig farm. The clothespin you have clamped around your nose barely blocks the smell. It’s the middle of the day, rays rippling heat off the stench and sending it for miles. Your cowboy boots struggle to sit upright on the uneven terrain blanketed with mud.

You don’t dare to open your mouth and complain in fear of it invading your sinuses. It’s your fault for nagging endlessly about the “back-breaking” work Toji forced you to do. your criticisms were met with some rendition of “suck it up”, and arguing only went in circles. Consistent arguing—from the moment you woke up to the last minutes of your shift, where you mouthed off one too many times for his liking. When you threatened to find another shift with someone else, he laughed in your face, a “good luck” drowning in derision.

Eventually Terrace got word of your grievances and offered part of his work to you. You accepted too soon without consulting Annie, happy to just rub it in Toji’s face that he’d be on his own carrying the bags. Simply the concept of it—Toji hunched over and covered in sweat with heaps of cargo—satiated your pride, and you’d count the days until he groveled and begged for your help again.

Except that’s not the case. As you fight the urge to sink into the mud a seed of regret grows in a more reasonable part of your mind. You could ask for your position back, where he’d probably be waiting with that shit-eating grin of his and “I told you so” written all over his face. Or you could be stubborn and prove whatever point you’re trying to make. Stupidly headstrong, you swallow the urge to vomit and plod into the pig pen.

The squelch of damp earth and God-knows-what underneath your boots is enough to make you sick. You’re balancing two full buckets of pigswill on either side of you, resisting the lack of steadiness that causes you to lean unfavorably. It’s no help that there’s filthy pigs all around you, snorting and trotting along. One bumps into the bucket and you shriek; your foot goes airborne and impending doom flashes before your eyes. Luckily, you gain stability and plant it firmly into the ground with an awful bubbling noise. The mess has soiled your boots coming up to your calves, and you frantically check for mud-to-skin contact. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, but it’d definitely be the end of your day. Suddenly, a whistle from the other side of the wooden fence grabs your attention.

“Go on then, pig queen!” Toji yells, elbows propped on the edge. His accent gets thicker when he yells. He’s not affected by the smell in the slightest, and it almost looks like he’s breathing in extra hard to taunt the shortage of oxygen reaching your brain.

“Fuck you!” you yell in a nasally tone. He adjusts his cowboy hat, “I’d focus on what’s in front of ya. Wouldn’t wanna slip in shit, right?” You scoff and continue to the troughs.

You can’t imagine how Terrace, let alone anyone does it—from the constant clamor of livestock to sinking in pools of muck for hours. There’s dirt on your knees, clothes, in places you never imagined dirt could reach. The pigs seem excited as you place the pails on the rim, whereas you exert a long sigh for the fulfilled trek. They come running in unison as if something triggered in their brains, pushing past each other to get there first. Once they’re emptied, a partial weight lifts from your shoulders. You shoot an arrogant sneer at Toji, and watch the corner of his scar tip up just a little. You’re still pinned to the side, and a wet snout gently prods your exposed leg. It tickles and you laugh at its cluelessness. “Hey, I’m not on the menu.”

As you slither out the crowd, a sneaky puddle attempts to take you out. You cling to the embarrassment, to Toji standing right there ready to mock you. You won’t give him the satisfaction. From there you take careful steps, one cautious foot after the other. Toji meets you around the entrance, and you’re about to reach the gate. You’re oozing confidence now; you might even brag to your father about the effortlessness of it all, that living on a farm is nothing, that you were able to accomplish anything—

Slip. Crash!

You’re knocked clean off your ass, so fast it doesn’t register until a few blinks pass. You hold a breath and the blurriness fades.

Brown. It’s on your face.

It’s truly everywhere—mud sloshing around in your boots, seeping into your clothes, sticking to the crevices, your fingers intertwined in the mass below.

The emotion you try to stifle boils over into a horrified squeal, a tune that exceeds the pigs. And you scream and scream. Once for the mud and twice for the death of your designer boots. You’re so entwined in your own screams that you barely catch the laughter a few feet away.

It’s him, doubled over with a practically red face. “I get you wanna be one of the pigs but you don’t hafta roll in it too!” Toji chortles. He can’t contain himself, wiping the tears on his glove.

Your ears feel hot. “Shut the fuck up and get me out of here!”

“Relax, relax. Gimmie a second.” The footsteps get further away, and you stumble to the gate to open. It doesn’t matter now that the damage is done, and you look like some terrifying swamp monster from myth. The lower half of you could only be concocted in a child's nightmares.

Something snakes in the trampled grass, then it pauses. “Here.” Sooner than you can turn your head, you’re blasted with water. It rains on you like a thundershower and you cover your face from the assault. Denim weighs heavy, and your hair sticks to your face. You feel the dirt washing off, but now you’re soaked in a mixture of water and sodden debris. Wet, you’re spitting out water and treating your fingers like windshield wipers. The hose finally drops, and your eyes trail from the hand to the face.

That shit-eating grin.

“No need to thank me, miss piggy.”

Your lip twitches. Should you kill him? Absolutely. Is it worth it? In this moment, yes. You’re doused, dirty, nose blind, and no longer hanging on to your act of humility. You have to get him back, at least once. It doesn’t matter if you have to wait all summer for it, creeping in doorways for the perfect time to demean him. There’s no level playing field—either your way or nothing. A smile stretches across your face.

“You’re so right, darling. Now let me show you just how much I appreciate you.” You saunter to him, and he awaits with open arms. Before he can grab you, you dodge him and snatch the hose from the ground.

Aim and fire, full force directly at his face. The blast knocks his hat off and into the air, swaying in the balmy breeze. His arm falls short of snatching it, plopping into the pen to blend with shit. You can’t hear the muffled curses he spouts, but damn is it satisfying to silence him. Then he reaches for you to which you promptly escape his span. You take time hosing down any remaining dry spots, and once the hose is down, he launches. You yelp and return to his face, and the abruptness makes him slip. Right into the mud you just shook off, he lands butt-first. It splatters his cargo pants and creates polka dot patterns on the white tank stretching to accommodate his frame. “You little-”

Another burst of water. He tries to stand on slippery foundation and quickly falls, earth splashing back on him. You understand why he was laughing so hard and you can’t stop giggling at the misery of inescapable rain showers.

“Looks like you needed some too! I can smell you from here!” you laugh. His snicker comes off more conniving than it should, and you brace for whatever hell you’ll have to pay later. He bolts up, and you make a run for it. Just when he thinks he has you, he slips again.

“Poor grandpa! Someone get his life alert!” you cackle, dropping the hose and sprinting for the hills. You’re too afraid to turn around when you know for a fact he is mere feet away from capturing you. You cut through air, nothing but crumpling grass and laughter carried by the wind. It’s exhilarating...fun?

You're confused by your own actions. You smell horrible, your hair is sticky, disgusting slop clings to you like a second skin, the sun is only baking the scent, and your self-proclaimed rival is chasing you.

You should be mortified, and somehow, you’ve never felt better.

Motes of dust scatter within the golden hue of mornings wake. The window’s cracked open, and remnants of last night's chill carry through sunrise. You’ve sat in this claw tub for way too long, melting in steam and lavender bubbles that slowly dissipate the longer you linger. A self-care day is what you need, especially after the “incident” that still makes your skin crawl weeks later. Simply your mud mask, waning candles, and rustling leaves. It’s rare you get silence like this nowadays, with Toji constantly on your back bickering about trivial problems.

You can’t place your finger on what bothers you more, or if you’re really even bothered at all. Ironically, spending more time mulling over what you hate than actually hating him. You can mouth your contempt for him endlessly like an affirmation on deaf ears, but it never truly manifests.

He’s annoying, selfish, crude, and disrespectful.

Oh, and did I mention very annoying?

It’s almost a bonding experience between you two; you’ve memorized the way his lips curve before a snarky remark, the deep crease on one side of his eyebrow when they furrow at something stupid you unintentionally did, his jaw clenching from held back words. His laugh—deep and resounding, unleashing a toxic mix of vomit and thrill in your stomach. You anticipate it, practice your insults in the shower for it, as if...you’re actually looking forward to it?

You steep further into the fragrant bath, hoping you’ll somehow be sucked into an alternate reality where you don’t have to face those conflicting emotions. To your displeasure, the conflict is brought directly to you.

A roaring engine disrupts your personal spa, and you jolt up. It sounds like a monster truck convention decided to congregate right below your bathroom window, and you definitely can’t relax under these conditions. You loosely wrap the towel around yourself and peer out over the windowsill. You can’t see a face, but you see that distinct cowboy hat stained over its silver conchos.

“Hey!” you yell. No response, but how could you expect him to when the hood is propped up. He must be wrenching something inside judging by the way his back muscles methodically tighten.

“HEY!”

“TOJI!” That gets his attention and he squints above, wrench still in hand. “Oh! What are ya doing there?”

“This is my bathroom you idiot!”

He pans between the vehicle and your window. “Oops!”

“Turn it off, I’m trying to have my beauty bath in peace!”

“Welp, can’t do anything about that now, can we?” He makes no attempt to turn it off, nor does he give you any more attention as he turns around and resumes working like nothing happened.

You run downstairs completely haggard, mud mask hardly washed off with a pair of mismatched socks and a baggy shirt. The rumbling gets louder, and you don’t have the patience for appearances when you step into those clod-smeared boots.

The screen door swings open and you march to the side of the house, towel bunched in your arms.

He doesn’t regard you until you launch it at his face, which he promptly catches without looking. “Thanks, needed somethin’ to dry off.” He wipes the oil streaks from his face and neck while you stand there scowling. His eyebrows narrow.

“What’s the problem now?” You should've predicted he’d say this, as every time a dispute arises over his uncivil actions he asks the same clueless question.

“What...God, you’re so annoying sometimes! Do you not understand how it doesn’t make any sense for you to be here and-” He’s spacing off, scratching the side of his head with the wrench. It drives you up the wall when he acts like this.

“Listen to me!” That triggers him back to the present, and the light flickers in his eyes just to deadpan you. “You done?”

“No, I’m not done. Say you’re sorry” you command. He takes the hat off his head and places it on his chest. “My apologies, princess. I’ll be sure to call the company and let them know their machine is too loud for your prissy little ass” he smiles, coy and bowing. You nudge him and the wind rushes from his nose.

“When you call them, let them know their piece of shit junk needs to be out of commission.”

“Well, this piece of shit lasts a lifetime.”

“What even is this?” You’re analyzing it, and it reminds you of the illegal three-wheelers certain people ride through the city. It has no seatbelt or roof, and a row of sharp spinning blades hooked to the back.

“City girl’s never heard of this, huh? ‘Sa tiller. Gets the job done durin’ plantin’ season.” You step towards it, but Toji stops you from going further with his arm. “Don’t go near the blades.”

“Obviously.” You shoo him and climb into the seat of tiller. You sink into the leather seat, lay back, and cross your feet on the wheel. Toji grimaces, but that subtle sign that you’re inconveniencing him eggs you on.

“Get yer feet off the wheel.”

“Mm, nah. It’s not hurting anyone.”

“’S hurting me.”

“Hmph, okay.” You switch your feet to the opposite cross, and he looks up to an invisible God, probably begging it to give him the strength to not throw you off.

“What did I-”

“Sorry, can’t hear you over the engine!” you scream. He sighs and hunches back over the hood. “Jus’ be quiet for me, have to finish this.” Funny how he asks for quiet in these deafening circumstances.

You didn’t plan on watching him work, but you hate to admit it’s kind of interesting. It’s the quietest he’s ever been, sweat trickling down his temples from the apparent heat on the inside. This must’ve been what Annie meant at the beginning, about his silence and reluctance to speak unless being spoken to. The scars scattered on his bicep shift with the cranking wrench, and you can’t help but focus on it. They’re too deep to be cat scratches and healed with a bunched sheen under its darker edges. There’s one under his collarbone, too, peeking past his shirt neckline dark and jagged. Your mind wanders, for the past life he had—what was his family like, why does he choose to live here, why are there so many scars, what led him to-

“You’re staring.” You snap out of it, to him wiping the excess oil on his shirt.

“Sorry.”

“Oh? Where’d that hospitality come from all of a sudden?” You can’t explain why, but there’s a solemn pit burning in your stomach. Perhaps you’d lighten up a bit, at least for now. “Appreciate it while it lasts” you remark. He grins and gets back to work.

“What are you doing?”

“Changin’ the ignition coil. That’s why she sounds like hell.”

Your ears perk up, “She?”

“Yup.”

“Does she have a name?”

“Nope.”

“Can I name her?” He puts the replacement coil on, “Knock yourself out.”

“Hmm…how about….Priscilla?” He can’t purse his lips quick enough to stop the laugh that escapes.

“Hey! I think Priscilla’s a cute name” you add. “Yeah, for an old woman.”

“No way, an old woman name would be something like ‘Gertrude’.”

“Gertrude’s on the same level as Priscilla.”

“Either way it’s fitting, isn’t it? An old woman for an old man.” His scar tips up. “Ha ha. Think I’m pretty fit for an old man, though.”

Your eyes reluctantly snap to his chest muscles peeking through the shirt. “You manage.” He pushes the coil away from the flywheel.

“Maybe Rosy? Oh, or Susie.”

“Think I’ll just call ‘er (Y/N).”

“Huh? Why my name?”

“So when you make me mad, I can curse her out instead of you. Best part is she won’t talk back.” He tightens the last screws and shuts the hood. Immediately the banging stops, and the engine reduces to a whir. You clap sarcastically, “Nice job! You get a C minus.”

“Why not an A?”

“You’ll get an A when you stop pissing me off.”

Sticky sunbeams melt and mold into your pores, stiff from the aftereffects of its suffocating warmth. The sky gives way to a heatwave, where shimmering hot sheets scorch the ground and ripple like a retreating ocean. Lionel taught you how to harvest fruit before the rooster’s crow, and you reaped the rewards of your labor all morning. You’re numbed to the moisture collecting on your face at this point, as its vicious, stuffy humidity swallows your breaths and envelops your bleary eyes. You chose to shut them over battling the sun, bathing in its essence. It would settle in the late afternoon and blend to a forgiving mess of sunset swatches, but in the meantime, you’d soak up a bronzing tan.

You brought a blanket to the nearest tree you could find, an expansive canopy spearheading small manageable daylight. You’re leafing through the pages of a non-fiction novel you never finished with a makeshift flower bookmark tucked under your thumb. You occasionally stop to dive in the compensation for your earlier efforts; a basket of scarlet strawberries twisted around prickly stems.

The book tugs from your grasp and you prop up your sunglasses, gazing at the perpetrator.

It only takes a glance to notice how badly burnt Toij’s body is. Does he really need someone to remind him to apply sunscreen, a basic necessity, or did he get too wrapped up in his work again? Toji was, if nothing else, a hard worker. You caught yourself on more than one occasion observing him. You saw it in the way the other farmers freely asked for his help, and how he’d give it for nothing in return. He moved like the wind, stoic demeanor all consuming, to behave like the rough muteness he pushed upon himself.

A rosy shade diffuses on the apples of his cheeks and clearly separates from the protected and unprotected parts of his flesh. Its shape outlines a tank top he must’ve been wearing with the bottom hiked up, bright rubescent pattern surrounding his surprisingly smooth pecs. You take a mental note to nag him about it next time. The smudged outline of your glasses reflects on his glistening lower abdomen and his chest heaves like a marathon in the desert.

“What ya reading?” he asks. His eyes drag across the page. “None of your business” you retort, hazy and lax from summer’s embrace. He peers over the book and passes it off to you.

“Don’t seem like the reading type.” He plops down on the grass with a basket of dirt and carrots, few contorted to an inedible extent. “Neither do you.” He digs his fingers in the basket and begins fishing out the deformed carrots. The usual banter, macerated by exhaustion, ghosts by with little intent.

“If you’re looking for help, I don’t feel like it.”

“I know.”

You both don’t say anything for a while, taking in the warmth, the cicadas buzzing in a faraway tree, the brewing pause between your bodies, unsaid words binding you to selfish outcomes, depriving you of your deepest hunger. The book is no longer as interesting as you remember. You’re more inclined to watch the sunburnt farmer.

He picks up another clump. Inching along the carrot is a ladybug. Toji regards it for a second with the same eyes that chop trees and drag metal. At first, he does nothing. Then you track the tip of his finger as it prods slightly, goading the ladybug onto it. He carries it with the same unwavering stoicism to a blade of grass, where the ladybug hops off and continues its journey.

Speechless would be an understatement. Truthfully, he’s the last person you’d expect to act that way. Those battered palms, bruised and scarred, tattered with memories, could appear so gentle. Those same hands would afford the fragile beings of mankind a moment of mercy. Only you are granted the privilege of Toji’s micro movements; his shoulders slumping from their usual solidity, his eyelids relaxing, jaw unclenching. Is this what he wanted you to see? Is that why he came here, sitting in the shade of a rival you thought you had? You must be staring for too long because-

“…What?”

“Oh. Uh, nothing.”

He returns to what he was doing.

“It’s about the search for meaning in life. A psychiatrist's perspective.”

“Your book?” He asks, sifting through the sod.

“Yeah.”

“So…did he figure it out?”

“He believes that the primary human drive is not pleasure, but the pursuit of what we find meaningful.” He doesn’t react, but a curious part of you wanted him to respond. Tell you a story or spill his guts, lay bare in front of you so that you may latch on to something, anything that isn’t rumors or hushed whispers for the man unknown to everyone. He checks another carrot—it’s as if he’s looking past it, like a light switched off, engulfed in a reflection pulling him further and further.

You point the tip of a strawberry to him and his attention diverts, “You want?”

“Can’t. Hands full.”

You eye them; thick and calloused, fingernails lined with soil, probably sore along with the rest of his body. You can’t bear to watch—surely not because you care, but because of your sudden aptitude to kindness.

“Just come here.” He leans over cautiously, and the shock is palpable when you press it to his lips. He seems to contemplate the risk of poison for a second.

“If I wanted to kill you, it would’ve happened already. Open.” He obediently parts his mouth, and you feed it to him. Toji’s eye contact stuns like a spell from a Greek myth—devastatingly enchanting and hard to disengage. Just when you think you have the upper hand, you’re quickly reminded that dynamic can easily change. He rolls his tongue over the bite mark and sucks the juices, and you can’t look away—you won’t.

It’s the sun. it has to be. It’s getting to you both.

You flinch when his lips ghosts against your knuckles. Soft and slightly chapped. Sugary liquid pools at the plush center of his lips where your eyes linger for too long, and he licks that up too. It’s over as quick as it began. Then you’re stuck stirring in the disarray of your own deluded thoughts.

His scar curls with a growing smirk. It’s a shallow cut, but sunken, nonetheless. You tell yourself it’s the weather when your thumb moves from the strawberry to his face. Languid, careful motions where the hollow of his cheek would be, like gaining the trust of a wild animal. He doesn’t budge, and you press it to the corner of his mouth.

“How’d you get this mark on your face?”

“Not important” he responds curt.

“Why? I wanna know.” His jaw clenches, reappearing stiff and guarded. “Don’t push it.”

You trace it, fixating, studying the feeling. You drag downwards, tugging it slightly.

“…like someone cut you” you mutter.

Suddenly, he stands up with the basket. His joy fades to indifference; eyes encased in a dense fog. You retreat to your side, and he doesn’t acknowledge you as he starts down the hill.

“I-“

“I have to get this to Lionel. See ya.”

You’re given the back of him, receding into the distance. There’s a dull pounding in your ears, a twitch in your limbs that pleads for you to follow. But what would you say? What could you say? It doesn’t come to fruition.

The space between you widens with each step.

“-we’re expecting to see cloudy skies and storms for the re-” the portable radio buzzes in and out of connection, “-prepare for the weather by-”. Annie fiddles with the tuner to get it back on track. It crackles and scratches, but the connection can’t be regained, finally diminishing to static.

You weren’t listening either way, huddled with your knees close to your chest on the window seat, resting your head as raindrops trickle down the glass and pitter-patter the windowsill. The trees bend to the will of the raging wind, and they’re being pulled every which direction. Ceramic settles behind you, and you crane your neck to Annie, then the novelty mug resembling an orange. You don’t reach for it, but you stare for a while, teabag bleeding burgundy under the millions of candles placed around.

“Thank you for the tea.”

“Don’t mention it.”

You’ve had a hard time sleeping lately. Conflictingly so, since you’d imagine more sleep would be had with Toji coming around less. It’s what you wanted. Him chasing you was exhausting, wasn’t it? His behavior, his manners, him—it was just a bother. You should be glad you haven’t seen him since the incident.

If he pained you, why are you kept awake, fumbling with the covers, incessantly thinking of Toji? You put together witty remarks for when you cross paths again, new creative insults, schemes you’ll act out to piss him off—all of this for someone you tried to get away from for half the summer. You assumed a week would pass and everything would be back to normal. But one week turned into two, then three. Your stay is coming to a close, and as you reflect, you’re forced to reconsider the unspoken reality gnawing at your thoughts since the moment you first met.

That you were free to be dirty, to curse, to learn, to get mud on your face and dirt underneath your fingernails. You could lounge in an outfit from days ago or dance in the fury of midsummer. You were stupid, but not inferior the way wealthy upperclassmen made you out to be. You had the freedom to be stupid. There were no hierarchies or social status between you—simply hard work and hostility. Somehow that, being tangled in the thorns of a never-ending war, felt better than the yacht parties you’d been accustomed to.

He sets your blood aflame, but noting ignites a fire in you like Toji.

Annie sits crisscross on the loveseat, warming her hands with the cup. You return her content smile.

“Everythin’ alright, sugar?”

“Think I messed up.”

“Hm? How so?”

“I feel like...I overstepped. Actually, I know I did, and I feel bad. Even though I think I shouldn’t.”

Annie exhales a soft laugh, “Assumin’ this is about Toji?”

You nod, and she traces the rim of the cup. “If ya don’t care about ‘im, don’t feel bad.” You don’t reply, and she continues, “Though...I have a sneaky suspicion you care more than you'd like to admit.”

You bury your head further into you. “Feelings are weird” you mumble.

“They defnintely are. But sometimes it’s good to listen to ya heart. Take it from an old lady.”

“...”

“When ya feel bad about somethin’ ya did, the best way’s to apologize.”

You peek through your arms, “Has he ever told you? Like, about his life?”

She wanders in thought, recollecting an old memory, “Nope. Youngin’ showed up on the farm one day all scratched up and been workin’ ever since.”

If nobody knew, you wouldn’t expect him to comply with your demands. You’re conscious of what needs to be done, but doubt surfaces. What does my heart tell me?

You start tying your boots and throw on a hoodie in a pile by the door.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Not a clue.” That’s fine. Today, you’d be the one chasing after him.

The brunt of the storm smacks you in the face once the door flies open. “Careful out there!” she hollers, and you shut the screen behind you. Your fight or flight refuses to let go of the knob as the squall persists, invoking a shrouded sea of churning clouds and indigo, banging against the foundation of the house. You scale the side and notice the barn, no light inside. You go around the back and it’s the same, wheat failing to resist the storm. However, for a split second you squint and spot a flicker. It’s faint and the size of a firefly from your view, coming from the stables further down. There’s a chance it isn’t him, but you don’t have much room for hypotheticals.

The safety of the overhang leaves you, and you’re in the middle of a downpour. Running, inching the line of being knocked off your feet from an abrupt gust. You’re submerged in seconds, but you don’t stop running. If your heart tells you to endure, then you will. Raindrops threaten to invade your eyes, whacking you repeatedly in the face, but you shut tight and go forward. The last stretch to the stable feels like clawing up a mountain. The flurry hauls your clothes, and your steps get heavier and heavier as nature batters the earth.

Then the sleeve shielding your face grazes something solid. You glue yourself to the side of it and pry your eyes open. An oil lantern, shining bright in the dark. You shuffle around for the sliding door and slip inside. The interior is cozy, haybales piled wherever they could fit and a couple large wooden stables supported by beams. The power must’ve went out everywhere, oil lanterns casting dimly.

Your instinct to breathe ceases when you see Toji. His cowboy hat is tilted back, paisley bandana tied loosely around his neck with an ear of wheat tucked in his teeth. He glances at the sound of the door slamming. You’re blanking, even after you mulled over those sleepless evenings. It doesn’t help that your heart won’t function properly.

“...Hey” he says, a tone unrepresentative of his avoidance. He grins—in the exact way you like—and picks the straw out.

You’re irritated he’s even attempting to talk to you as normal.

“It’s rainin’. You should be inside.” He grabs his shirt and pats your face dry. You don’t complain; a musky scent of cedar and salt when you inhale. “I could say the same to you. Why are you out here?” you murmur through the cloth.

“Horses get a little antsy when the weathers like this. Came by to calm em’ down.” He pets the blonde mane of one of lighter horses, covered in brown spots. They look comfortable around him, loose lower jaw slanting to his touch. You’re forgetting how to talk. There he goes again, subverting your expectations.

“What kind of horse is it?”

“Spotted draft horse. She’s real gentle, wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“She’s pretty.” He flashes his canines, “Her name’s Marie.”

“Old woman name” you say under your breath. He laughs. “Wanna pet ‘er?”

You’re shy but interested, shuffling closer to the stable. The tips of your ears blossom when his palm encloses your wrist, rough skin abrading yours. Then he guides you to the side of Marie’s neck. “You’re gonna pet here. Nice an’ slow, yeah?” he instructs, way too close. It’s silky, and you’re absorbed in the feeling of it on your fingertips. She neigh’s mildly and you jolt. Toji keeps you still.

“Atta girl” he whispers, husky and painfully smooth in your ear. It fills your head like a shot of whiskey and a tipsy glow flows from your face. Your muscles tense, troubled from your anticipated apology and the unforeseen shift in feelings for him. There’s no way you can do this without stumbling.

“I didn’t know you liked horses so much.” He lets go.

“Yup. Used to have one.” You turn to him. His pleasant expression remains, but it’s solemn, bittersweet. You take a long breath and let it spill.

“I’m sorry for what I did before. I realized I made you uncomfortable asking those questions. It won’t happen again.”

He subdues his hum and he’s awkward in his stance, rubbing the back of his head like a guilty child. “I was never mad. I just...” He trails off.

“Never mind that. Big man still pissed at you?” he asks, like mood switch occurred. If he won’t dwell on it, you’ll try not to either. You connect the dots to your father's pet name.

“That’s what you call him?” you giggle.

“Yup, since I got to the farm.”

“I hope not, if he is I’ll probably never leave.”

“Is that a bad thing?” It’s a humorless joke, wavering someplace unsure.

“It would be if I never finished school.”

“What ya majoring in?” You’re hesitant to say for the possible doubt he’ll display. You dance around the answer.

“Promise you won’t laugh.” His expression contorts to confusion. “Fine...I promise.”

“Humanitarianism.” He goes blank like a mannequin, and by the way his lip fights a flit he’s holding in his laughter as much as possible.

“Forget it-”

“I didn’t laugh. What ya gonna do with your degree?”

“I want to help people.”

He folds his arms over his chest, “But you don’t wanna help me?”

“N-not that kind of help. Like, housing help, financial help. No one should have to work as hard as you...”

“So, you wanna help old broke runaways like me, huh?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I mean it’s admirable, darlin’, but I work here cause I want to. ’S a good gig, takes the mind off o’ things.”

Your mouth moves before your brain, “...What things?”

“Thought you weren’t gonna ask me shit like that anymore.”

“My bad.”

“I’ll give you what you want.” He locks the gate to the stable. Your blood feels hotter when he’s fixed on you.

“Y’know...the thing about foster care is you’re never guaranteed a good home, or even a home at all.” Toji simpers out of place, out of tune like a broken piano. “I was one of the lucky few that got sent home to home. Got attached just to get thrown back in the same shithole with the other rejects. It hurt at first, but after a while you get so used to the feeling that you’re not wanted or needed. And when a foster kid grows out of the system and they throw your ass on the street, gotta get it however you can.” Though he tells it like the casual reminiscence of childhood, you know better than that.

“So, I taught myself to survive, no matter the cost and regardless of who it hurt. I’ve done some irredeemable shit. Held people at gunpoint, beat them up for money, stole their valuables, all the shit they worked hard for.”

“I fought for food, shelter. Hell, anything I could get my hands on. I never killed anyone but damn sure got close, all for an overnight motel stay and sometimes a couple cigs.” He ambles to you and you automatically back up. Your space is squeezed to capacity, and whenever you get a portion of relief, he seals it. You take a step; he takes one more.

“You wanted to know how I got this, right?” He taps the corner of his mouth where the scar is.

“I entered a fighting ring for money, the kind that trades boxing gloves for knives. And boy, was I desperate. He chucked that blade at my mouth and I crushed his throat, sliced him across the eyes. I bled for a while but it kept me full for a few days.” Your back hits the door and he cages you.

“‘Ventually the wanted flyers started coming out. Thought about turning myself in, but what kind of asshole admits to his crimes? So, I kept running, running from everything. I can’t remember how long I went for. But then I ended up here.”

Rain pelts the roof. You remind yourself to inhale and exhale. It’s a conscious thought, in and out, processing the secrets revealed. There’s nowhere to hide, yet you don’t feel unease—solely the faint pang of sorrow. Toji appears warm under the rich glimmer. The rugged contours meld to his lowered gaze, lips twisted in a frown you hardly recognize. He looks entirely different, disconnected from your quarrels. To you this feels like it should be an attempt at intimidation, but the way he's boxing you in screams loose and unsteady. A wounded beast bearing its fangs as a defense mechanism. His arms are corded in muscle and riddled with injuries, likely from the upsets, days of begging for food, wondering when his next meal will be or if he just consumed his last, where he will go to survive, how he will survive.

“Are you scared now?”

He’s a vagrant. He lived on the fringes of society, avoiding the law and committing horrific acts for his own benefit. He hurt people. Who’s to say he wouldn’t hurt you next? Annie was right. Toji is right. You need to be afraid.

Instantly, his little quirks made sense. The barriers he built and his hesitation to speak, forbearing and tolerant in spite of the bruises. He was afraid of being thrown away again, to be the same teen casted to the streets—proven useless.

You’re inches away. It’s unsaid, begging you to repel him. There’s no rationale in your actions.

You stand on your toes and catch his lips in a kiss.

Brief, charged with the comfort that got lost on your tongue. His lips requite yours and leave traces of bourbon. You didn’t know he drank. It’s so brief you linger in the aftermath of heat, hoping you can satiate your interest with two, maybe three more kisses.

Your noses graze each other. His half-lidded eyes captivate you, freezing you in time, to plinking mist and airy touches, yearning on the brink of impulse. He hovers over your lips, shuddering on the expel. Then he withdraws.

“Ya have no sense of danger.”

You can’t think straight, haven’t been able to for some time now. “You’re not scary. Just annoying.”

“...I'm glad.”

He grabs his sherpa lined jacket off a haybale and wraps it around your torso. It’s far too big and pieces of hay poke your lower back. He pulls the hood over, “This should be good. C’mon, let’s get ya back in the house.” Toji opens the stable doors. Tiny droplets percolate at your frigid feet, and you stick your head out.

Fog clings to the edge of the horizon. The storm ended, and the land washed anew.

“Ouch.”

“Careful, hun.”

The sewing needle pricks your thumb from the other side of the glove again and you flinch, though you probably have tons of holes in your skin at the moment. You’re by no means the best at sewing, but it’s not like Toji could do any better based on the tears in the leather. You’re curled like a shrimp on the dining chair, weaving the needle through a heavy-duty fabric you found in the sewing basket Annie gave you. Floral pin cushions, yarn, thread, and bunches of fabric are splayed across the gingham table.

It’s likely Toji would’ve slaved it to the bone and never ask for another pair, so when you got to your room and found them in the jacket pocket you felt inclined to assist. Plus, it’s a good distraction from the half-embarrassment half-shock you grieved from your boldness the other day.

A draft pierces the chiffon curtains. It’s getting colder and the final day of your vacation has arrived, both short and torturously long. You think about the things that passed the time, the person that shortened your days to summertime laughter and mischief. Before the farm, you would’ve relished in a going away party with a performer and glittering spotlight. Yet, as cattle moo and land are tilled for the upcoming season, the profoundness of being ordinary is more pleasant than the former.

You pull the last thread through the patch and admire your amateur mend, navy fabric accented amongst the mahogany leather. Vanilla and lemon permeate the house while a bundt cake rises in the oven.

Annie hands you a few stationery notecards smudged with flour fingerprints. “Write somethin’ nice for ‘em. Don’t think they’ll be able to say goodbye before you go. ‘S gettin’ busier and busier nowadays.” You nod and start writing messages of appreciation for Lionel and Terrace, thanking them for putting up with your cluelessness.

“Should I write one for you, too?”

“You can jus’ tell me now” she beams.

“Well, Annie, thank you for everything—for showing me around, cooking for everyone, making sure we’re all healthy and full. Most of all, thanks for treating me like family.”

She tussles your hair, “You’ll always be family, honeybun.”

Hooves on stone trot near the house and your heart skips a beat. You walk to the screen door and see Marie’s long mane, then Toji holding the reins. He looks like a true cowboy, double stitched western belt with a taut plaid flannel and chestnut cowboy hat to match his boots. You open the door and lean on the porch column.

“Wanna go for a ride?” he calls.

“Usually, guys say that when they have an expensive car.”

“Well, this here’s an expensive horse. That good enough for ya?”

“...I guess it’ll have to do” you say, continuing to Marie with a delicate caress on her neck.

He holds his hand out, “Up.”

“To where?”

“Stop askin’ so many questions.” You roll your eyes and grab his wrist. He abruptly hauls your body weight over Marie and you squeak. It's higher than you thought and you struggle to adjust your legs in the right position on the saddle.

“Might wanna hold on.”

You scoff, “I can handle myself.” As soon as you say that, Marie breaks into a sprint. You would’ve flown off the mare if not for your flailing arms finding safety around Toji’s waist. “You did that on purpose, you ass!” you scream.

“I have no idea what ya talkin’ ‘bout.” You can hear the smile when he says that.

Hammered dirt belches behind as you leave a thick forest similar to the one you drove through for your arrival. It’s a scene from a storybook, carving through a colorful meadow bursting with wildflowers. They teeter in the headwind and so do you, hair whipping onto your face from the speed. The canopy that once enveloped you becomes a faint, fading outline against the sky and bushes shrink to specks. The landscape melts like an impressionism painting.

Toji has expert control over the mare and his stature stands tall in spite of haste. You scale the hills, appreciating the natural foundation carving willowy trees, the miles of foliage, the cattails in a small sparkling river etched in a meandering bank. Birds sing their evening songs, and an animal rustles through the grass. Eventually you pause at the summit, immersed in a vast, unspoiled scenery stretching infinitely. Toji hasn’t said much, but neither do you.

“I thought you’d wanna see this” he mutters.

“How come?”

“When ya weren’t working, you’d just climb to the hilltops and... stare. Never knew what you were staring at, but I assumed it was the view.”

“You don’t see stuff like this in the city. It’s so peaceful here.”

“It never gets old.” You look at him, corners of his mouth mellow. You recall the way they felt and butterflies involuntarily bloom from a deep pit in your stomach.

You yank the hat from his head and try it on. “Hey, give it here.” You duck his grasp and push it down.

“It looks cute on me.”

“So what?”

“You don’t think it matches my shoes?”

“I think you’re a brat.”

“Hmm” you say, feigning contemplation. “You should know, women don’t like angry old men. It’s so uncute.”

“Heh, really. I’m uncute?” he laughs. “Yeah, among a few other things.”

“Well I’m sorry, princess, but you’re a real pain in the ass too.”

“The feeling’s mutual” you retort.

“...Is it?” You don’t have a remark for that. The sun recedes into the horizon, radiating burnt orange and red. He uses the reigns to guide Marie back in the direction of the farm. “I’ll miss the countryside.” The brim of his hat dips over your eyes and you don't correct yourself when you lean to his back, calmed from the rocking sway.

Toji pulls the reigns at the stairs and gets off. You impassively accept his aid as he

scoops and sets you down.

The buzzing porch light attracts moths with its fluorescence. Amidst the prolonged awkward silence and clumsy gestures, you’re searching for your soul’s response like Annie mentioned. Whenever you tried, the message got tangled on your tongue. Given another chance, it eludes you again.

“I guess this is it.”

“Yup” he agrees.

“Try not to miss me too much.”

He smirks, “I’ll do my best. Goodnight, little miss.”

He left and it’s time for you to get some sleep. But you can’t. You’re wide awake, glued to the ceiling thinking about him like your life depends on it. Maybe the instigator in you was waiting for confrontation, or the truth hurts more than you thought it would. You sit up like you’re expecting something, like you just lost a long-fought battle. You need the last word.

It’s a quaint home with tawny wood accents. Jacket and gloves in tow, you can’t formulate a single justifiable reason for being at his front door. You lie and tell yourself it’s to return his possessions, as if you ever cared, like his hat isn’t resting on your dresser. You knock twice.

Toji unlocks the door wearing nothing but his jeans, hair shaggier than usual. “Look who’s here” he says, a tinge of shock and something sweeter. You shove the items to him. “Your jacket, and uh…your gloves were bad, so I sewed them up. Try to take better care of your things.” He slings it to the side.

“Heh. Yes, ma’am.”

“So��um.”

“Is that all you’re here for?” Not in the slightest. You’re here to get something off your chest, right? You’re not even sure what you’re mad about anymore.

“Y-yeah.”

“Alright then, see ya in the mornin’.” The door slowly winds closed, but you interrupt, “Were you trying to insinuate something?”

It stops and he cracks it further, smile growing. “Not tryin’ to insinuate anything I haven’t noticed already”

You’re burning under his gaze. “Wha…I swear, your ego is insane. You should be grateful I’ve been so nice-“

“Your eyes tend to…” he regards you from head to toe, “…roam. You’re not as subtle as you think.”

“Like I wanna look at you.”

“I wouldn’t mind if ya did.”

“God, you’re so far up your own-“

“You haven’t left yet.” His relaxed demeanor aggravates you, as if he's fully aware of why you’re here. He edges closer, chest inches away from yours, voice slow and gravelly in the dead of night.

“There’s somethin’ you want, right? Ask for it.”

Your pulse travels to your ears. Longing teetering on the cusp of fire.

“Fuck this.” You turn to leave, when suddenly your arm gets snatched back and pulled into the room. The door shuts and you’re flung against it, though there’s no room to move when Toji’s pressed chest-to-chest. His breathing heaves, and you can feel it rising and falling laden with yours as he’s loomed over you.

“What’s with the sass, huh?” he chides. His grip is bruising, but the small victory of a sinking composure sends a chill up your spine you’d rather not think about.

“You started it, don’t act so innocent now.” You can tell he’s physically holding back, the shakiness in his little breaths becoming more evident. The wild blaze in his eyes eats you up with greed.

“You really need to be taught some fucking manners.”

“You’re gonna punish me?” You’re both at a whisper, too scared to speak the words you’ve been keeping to yourselves.

“I wanna do so much worse.”

“Then do it.”

He holds your neck in place and you succumb to raw and unrestrained fervor. Rough, uncoordinated kisses being dragged over the expanse of your lips and you’re hardly able to maintain the pace. Your free hand curls through his tresses and pushes him deeper into you. He groans through those rushed, bruising kisses reddening your lips and immediately hunts for more.

You didn’t expect Toji to be a gentle lover by any means, but it’s the way his mouth never leaves yours, a certain thirst that can’t be satiated no matter how much he drinks. You bite his bottom lip, teeth collide and he repeats the feast all over again. You can’t tell if he’s trying to savor it or devour you in one go.

His hands snake from your neck to the fat of your ass, and he delivers a quick smack before hoisting you around his waist. Trails of spit connect where you part for air, but he swiftly chases it with tongue, pushing into your mouth and clouding your head. You intertwine, wet and feverish as it explores your mouth.

He’s ruthlessly scouring fulfillment, drunk off the pleasure he finds in swallowing your moans and traversing your numbing lips. You’re sweating, hot in all the right places, and you return the favor with similar passion. Your lower back aches but he doesn’t give any inclination that he’ll let up soon, grinding on the delicate, sticky lace of your panties exposed from your hiked up dress.

“Fuck, I can feel it through your clothes” he groans, lazily undulating his hips.

“S-shut up- ah!” Your stammering gets caught in a moan when the fabric presses against your clit just right. He wears a sleazy grin, moving slower to coax the barely audible whimper that escaped you a moment ago. “I wouldn’t mind if ya made a little noise” he husks. You’re shaky, trying to compose your trembling vocals threatening to call his name. In regular circumstances, you would’ve let yourself have it. But this is Toji, and the mischievous urge you reserve for him wants to shoot down his boosted ego.

“Maybe you’re not doing good enough.”

“Really...” Toji’s huffs a humorless laugh, and you have half the mind to acknowledge that you just fucked up. He enriches the kiss and movements get a little angrier, bulge rutting into you furiously.

“Then I’ll make it so good for ya, darlin’” he rasps, “So good you’ll hafta beg me.”

It’s impossibly big, and sliding against the aching mess restrained in his pants doesn’t quell your concerns. You swear you can feel the dim thump thump thump through it.

You unlatch again, severing a trail of spit when you briefly make eye contact. They’re crazed, far and near at the same time and somehow sparkling the prettiest shade of hazel green. He immediately claims space on your neck. Sucking and biting, feral groaning between your pulse point that drums whenever his appendage glides along a sweet spot. His teeth graze harsh against your skin and you can feel purple and blue burgeoning like watercolor splotches on an untouched canvas.

And he must be long gone, pinning you between the door and his haughty strength, spit glistening on your neck. You’re using whatever pride you have left to clamp your mouth shut, though it’s obvious to Toji as his lips curl when your breath stutters. He detaches with a wet smack, and you can't angle away from the onslaught of tender kisses along the underside of your jaw.

He lifts you across the room, to the edge of his wooden platform bed draped in a deer pattern quilt. Your knees are wobbly on the descent and it hits when your feet touch the ground, almost slumping onto the mattress. Before you can, he grabs a fistful of hair at the back of your head and holds you upright.

“Stand straight” he barks, dangerously commanding. In one fell swoop, using one hand, he flips the buckle on his belt open and yanks it out the loops. His pants sag at his hips and the tent peaks with more room. He wraps the leather around your wrists and ties it over itself, securing tight—maybe too tight—at the end.

“On your fucking knees.” You don’t drop on the first order.

“Make me.” Typical—but he’s happy to guide you. He tugs your hair to the ground, and you thud onto the hardwood floors by your knees.

You knew Toji was hot, stealing glances of his shirtless torso plowing in the summer rays—but God, he truly is alluring. Straight below him you get the best view of the veins winding down his lower abdomen, the planes of his abs shining in the already low light. Underneath his pecs, full chest pulling taut with yearning, unruly need. In no time he unzips his fly and kicks his pants at his ankles, revealing firm boxer briefs and a dripping, milky stain trailing to the side. Your eyes follow, where his throbbing cockhead peaks out, rosy brown with pearls of greedy precome dribbling down. You can’t resist staring, devouring the sight and adding onto the stickiness coating your inner thighs. You lean in and pepper a few kisses on his tip. He hisses.

“Are you losing your composure?” you ask, reveling in his twitching abs. He grins, and you return the same, “Not yet. You’ll know when I do. I promise.”

You lick a long, mouthwatering stripe on it and he rasps a groan. He’s quick to snatch your scalp and tilt up, forcing you to gaze at him. “Look at me. Don’t take your eyes off me.” They appear darker, drunken.

He tugs the boxers down and his cock springs out centimeters from your face, glistening and flushed. He taps it on your lip and smears the sheen. You don’t break eye contact as required, especially when you lick your bottom lip to taste him.

“Fuck, such a slut.” He prods at your mouth and you gladly open, closing your puckered lips around the bulbous tip. “Nice and open for me” he mutters. It’s partly a mutter, resembling a hoarse ramble as he slides the length of his veiny, thrumming cock past your cheek fat constricting around him.

“Yeah, t-that’s it—fuck—just like that.” Your eyes water and beaded tears gather at your lashes, but he craves the back of your throat—he’ll make it fit if he needs to. You’re adjusting to his size, forcing yourself to accommodate him and hollowing your cheeks as best as you can, fulfilling a twisted desire to satisfy him. Your palate scraping his sensitive tip elicits a deep, gravelly moan that sends vibrations straight to your clit.

“Mm, that pretty mouth taking it so well f’me.” You open your throat and allow him to push further, swelling a noticeable bulge through your skin. He’s straining your mouth to capacity, and it’s only when your nose meets his pubes and his balls are flush with you that you try breathing.

It’s no use with his cock barreling down your throat. He keeps a firm grip on the back of your head, watching your body retch at the size of him for amusement. Then he pulls out and you dry heave from the sudden influx of normal air in your lungs. You’re soaked all the way through, hazy, hurting, but desperate for more. Too horny to remember your pride. What even is pride when you can’t tell the difference between drool and tears?

You’re French kissing his dick as if he’s not there, slobbering and licking it up, rolling your tongue over his frenulum like an animal in heat. Shame will overcome you by morning; in the meantime, you’ll indulge, drain him so that he can’t fathom speaking the word “brat” again. You loll your tongue and he smiles.

“I didn’t even fuck you yet and you’re already this bad?” He’s one to talk when his comebacks crack at the back of his throat, muscles sweaty and tense from your ministrations. “I’m a good man, so I’ll help ya out.”

Without warning, he drives himself all the way down your throat. You gag, but he’s relentless. He has hands on both sides of your head and he puts his foot on the edge of the bed, angling himself to probe deeper in your throat. Laden balls slap your chin and an amalgam of sloshing and gagging bubbles from the inundated scene in your mouth. Obscene noises cloud your ears. You can only lean on the support of the bed and take every brutal, solid thrust. His groans accelerate, “You’re—hngh—droolin a little bit, huh, princess. Haah—is it t'much for you, hm? T-tell me baby, fuck.”

It really is. It’s so intense; eyeliner smudged across your face, tears shimmering, drool coating your puffy lips and his cock rubbing your voice raw. He uses you like a fleshlight and your panties are soaked through. The twitching gets more apparent and he channels a string of curses as his hips lose coordination. “On your f-face or—ungh, your mouth. Choose darlin'.” You respond by staying still, looking at him with what little eyesight you have through cloudy tears.

“Such a pretty comeslut” he moans, “Don’t be wasteful—hah-ah—you’re gonna be soo fucking good and swallow it all, okay?” He might as well be rambling to himself, mouthing off on questions you couldn’t possibly answer. His bangs stick to his forehead, and he emits an endless measure of moans and curses at the precipice. Hips stuttering, legs quivering sporadically, “(Y/N), m’coming, coming—ugh, fuck—oh fuck.”

You see the exact moment he disregards ego; head lulled back, lip sagging open while he chases the high. Guttural groans meander in the space, and he pumps enough come from his spit-soaked balls to coat your throat. You wince and fresh tears are stirred from the sheer amount you’re gulping. He lags and finally relaxes, twitching sensitively when you swallow with his half-hard length still inside. Then he shudders once more when he retreats.

Toji leans down to kiss you, wrapping tongue over tongue. You’d hope the kisses soothe your chafed throat, but to no avail. It’s not ideal that there’s a tingle in your knees, and the same position made your legs go numb. Your wrists burn as well, diagonal lines creasing your skin around the leather. Luckily, Toji scoops you and sets you rather gently on the mattress. That’s the extent of his kindness, however, as he begins shredding the straps from your dress. They snap with a pop, the sound of money going down the drain. The luxurious silk is torn from you and you’re indifferent. There’s an unquenchable need for him—everywhere, under you, inside you, however you can achieve closeness. “I need you. Now” he grunts.

He manhandles you on your stomach with your ass raised in the air. Cool wind brushes against the pounding fever between your legs, and the sopping lace hangs by a thread.

“Shit, you’re wet.” It’s obvious from the outside, drenched fabric a shade darker, fused uncomfortably to your pulsing pussy and reflecting on your plush thighs. He won’t take his eyes off it; he stares like he can eat through them. He peels the fabric back painfully slow, watching it furl into itself. “These just get ‘n the way.” Some slick leaves with it and slides down his hand, then he absorbs the main course.

Glistening, syrupy fluid blankets your pussy and forms cobwebs of mess around your inner thighs and taint. You’re so wet it’s uncomfortable, and you shift around on your knees trying to quell the inescapable throbbing in your clit. He spreads your cheeks apart, practically salivating, “Look at ya.”

Your windpipe was ripped from you, but you can scarcely hoarse “Stop staring.” His hot laughter sends shivers through you, but he holds you still before you can move forward. “Aww, too wet for your own good?”

“Must be so sensitive” he coos, veiled in feigned concern. The pad of his thumb hovers, damn near salivating. “Tell me where it hurts, darlin’.” He flicks gently over the bud and you flinch. “Here?”

He rubs calculated, unhurried circles on it. It doesn’t suffice—it couldn’t, because each time you lean to his touch, he recedes just a little. Because of course he wouldn't let you satisfy your desires without paying first. It’s maddening to almost get what you want and fall short repeatedly. You whimper pathetically, and he teases, “I know, darlin’, I know.”

“Hurry up already” you whine. He quickly lands a stern, stinging swat to your ass and you recoil. “No attitude. Had enough’a that.”

He positions two fingers at your glossy entrance, “Want help? Show me how bad ya want it.” You should’ve told him to go fuck himself, or at least you would have if you weren’t trembling with carnal hunger. You turn back to him glassy-eyed and he smiles—sympathy won’t work here. So you slope over his waiting fingers and glide them inside. They’re thicker than you thought they’d be. A delicious burn around the ring of your cunt from your walls stretching, it takes some adapting to get used to it.

Once you do, though, you’re bouncing on them knuckle-deep, coating his palm in juices sluicing down his wrist. He doesn’t move an inch, but he drags his digits in a ‘come hither’ motion that sends tiny sparks bursting through your body. The notion of fucking yourself on his fingers should’ve been obscene, but you can feel yourself climbing to the edge. You’re panting, wiggling your hips with buzzing stars in your vision at the way it scrapes and kneads your walls. “You can’t hate me that much. Suckin’ me up and I’m not even movin’” he taunts.

You don’t realize how loud you’re moaning, how your pussy talks louder than you do, sloppily sliding and squelching. “Fuck—you’re so messy. Where’s your resolve, huh? Nothing mean to say?”

“Hah-ah” You clench rapidly, heartbeat in your ears. Until your stuttering heart and legs get worse, and you’re losing momentum. Your muscles burn from the inside out like a tiring workout, and you can’t keep up the pace that would’ve attained ecstasy. Just like that, it’s ripped away from you.

And you cry.

Hot, frustrated tears spill down your cheeks and you stop moving. He removes his wrinkled fingers. One side of the mattress sinks near you, and he thumbs the tears from your blushed cheeks and nose, your dazed lashes and pouty lips. “S’okay.” He pecks the corner of your eye, prompting a tear he samples. “Done fightin’ me?”

You nod absentmindedly. “What do you want?” It’s simple, but you make eye contact with him. Jaw clenched, huffing as if he’s battling his own assurance. Your eyes water again. “Please...”

You can’t read his face, but he leaves the mattress. It’s eerily quiet.

“Y’know just how to get me.”

A shattered gasp dies in your throat when you feel a warm, cruel stripe from your clit to your taint. Once, twice, his broken puffs fanning the flames. Both hands spread your legs wider and he nuzzles your folds, placing open-mouthed kisses, savoring your arousal. Then he immerses himself.

He put up a good farce for a while, but the crumbling began at his desperate, tangled tongue—ravenous and starving, he ate you like a decadent main course he’d never taste again. He was starved—slurping and sucking, releasing with a juicy smack and diving back in. He’s on his knees, grunting low at your drooling slit. He didn’t care about your quivering thighs, honeyed liquid building in layers on his chin, the weak cries you managed. None of it mattered. Because you—you were heady and sweet, and as he drowned in your scent, he wished to be breathless forever.

“S’fuckin’ good—oh, fuck, make a mess on my face.” He swats your ass, pointed tongue massaging your clit while he gropes the doughy flesh. It’s pliable in his hands and it gives him something to anchor while he drawls lecherous swipes over your swollen gooeyness. “Ngh—p-please—close-” Your stomach turns knot after knot, damp with sweat and sensing a rapid euphoria surging all too fast. Your mistake for announcing it, because he focuses his attention on a self-indulgent make-out session with your clit. “Come. Come on my face, princess—” You start to spasm, and the vulgar noises coming from Toji disperse in your ears.

“Toji” you moan, and sooner fall apart in his arms. White-hot pleasure courses through your convulsing cunt and a chain of violent aftershocks render you silent. What makes you even shakier, though, is that he doesn't stop.

He cleans his plate, imbibing the perfumed essence gushing from you. He peppers kisses around your contractions, deaf to your croaked sobs. If you weren’t bound, you’d push his head away. You attempt to use your foot to nudge him off, but you didn’t expect to make a dent in someone his size. He intertwines his hands with your sweaty ones, calm thumb swaying back and forth; it would be comforting if he wasn’t ruining you at the moment.

The intensity of his deliberate tongue only makes the aftershocks worse, and your hands start to jolt as you cry out, “Ahn--no more, p-please!” You feel his smile on your folds and he persists. His lapping gets more aggressive and so do your tremors, loud and unrestrained moans torn from you.

He finally unlatches, landing a final smack on your puffy pussy. Your heads swimming in an infectious trance, but you’re undeserving of a break as you whirl behind you and see him pumping his flushed cock. It stands at attention and even seems bigger than before, colored deep with need pearling at the divot.

“Need you or ’m gonna go crazy.” Toji keeps a firm hand at the base of your spine—it arches your back and shoves your words into the bed. He drags his bulbous head along your sensitive cunt, collecting the slick trickling onto the damp sheets before rimming the slit. A hint of fatigue crosses your face and he takes notice. “Heh, done already? We haven’t even started yet.”

The image of him entering you for the first time burns into your memory; his brows are knitted, bottom lip tucked under teeth and his breath hitches. If you were fucked out, he was getting there. He presses into your spine like he’s trying to prevent himself from coming on the spot, paused but lingering. Tunnel visioned on your soaked, bulging pussy stretching around him, snuggling his leaden length like a heated blanket. And you drink in the pain, a dulcet blaze engulfing you as sore muscles clench and unclench.

“You’ve been quiet, pretty thing” he muses, “Where’s your resolve, huh? Nothin’ mean to say?” With his veins adorning your walls and your mushy brain bouncing around in your head, you can’t bring yourself to talk shit. He pulls out completely, watching a mix of precome and wetness connect your bodies.

Suddenly, he bottoms out. “Ahn--fu-ah!” It shreds a whimper from you and he mocks your cracking moans, though he seems to be breaking, himself. The sharp snap of his hips contacts skin-on-skin, earning each sloppy slap echoing in the room. His lips are parted, swamped in infinite, unbridled lust. The carnal itch he’d been holding off on for weeks seeps through, satiating his most indulgent appetite. “O-oh, God, shit, look at the m-mess you’re making.” He drives out to his frenulum and shoves it back in with no mercy, no sign of slowing down. Long, deep strokes leaving you slack jawed and teary. Every drag of his dick imprints his name on your tongue, heavy balls smacking your tender clit.

“You hear that? Listen.” He goes quiet, to let the indecent plap plap plap’s resound. Your cheeks turn hot from humiliation. The side rail of the bed screeches the hardwood floors, and the belt buckle you’re secured to clicks occasionally.

“You’re my filthy slut” he grins, striking your rouged cheek. He’s rough, but you weren’t searching for friendliness, neither of you did. At your core, you knew it—Toji bullying himself into your cervix is a poison you’d drink habitually. A poison so incredibly captivating, you’re burning just to feel his crowning ardor.

He’s sandwiched between your swollen lips and he can’t get enough, virtually drunk from it. He winds another branding swat on your backside, then the other. The crackling fire of his hand thwacking delicate flesh merges pleasure with pain. “You've been such a brat all summer” he taunts, “Needed me to put you in your place, huh, you fucking slut?” Another mean swat, and he laughs crudely at you little gasp. “You like this shit, don’t you? Wanna be manhandled like a fucking whore.” Both cheeks are a severe fiery color, beginning to welt, but he resumes. And you’re drenching him. A creamy, gooey ring forming at the base of his dick, tracing translucent strings when he pummels your poor leaking pussy.

“M’sorry, so s-sorry” you babble. Apologizing for what? You don’t know, but the delirium spills truths you should’ve voiced ages ago. You're utterly incoherent; you might as well stay silent. “Aww, I know” he cloys, soft and sultry compared to the angry strokes he’s delivering. Shockwaves burst and fizzle on your clit and you flutter around him. Your ass ripples against him, hoarse voice funneling strings of curses, scrotum pummeling your overworked bundle of nerves. You want to come so bad it hurts, and you find yourself arching a little harder, spreading your legs a little wider—just begging him to use you entirely, to melt, become his.

“Pleasepleaseplease” you whimper, at the height of your intensity. Then sweltering, frenetic spasms suffocate Toji’s shaft as you ride the orgasm seemingly crashing into you. You shudder violently, pleading with your body to attain some level of poise. It has other plans, however, provoking you to flitting tears from dragged-out, toe-curling tremors. You grip him like a vice and he struggles to pull out, but when does he’s rubbing circles on your aching nub. You’re lost in a bottomless sensation, but you hear his voice in your dampened ears, “Mm, I got ya.”

The pressure on your wrists lessens, and you realize you can move them freely. Your arms are numb returning to a normal position, and you support yourself on your feeble elbows when you feel your legs being parted again. In the fleeting instant you’re allowed to settle, the vast trail of his tongue laps at your shuddery cunt. "P-please wait—ngh, I can’t-” you wail, and you turn to the commotion to see Toji, growling and devouring your silken arousal.

He’s absolutely corrupted, a feral glint in his blearily blinking eyes, chest heaving salaciously as he kneads your thighs. You paw at his hair, toiling to crawl away from his unsparing mouth but he follows. He releases you and you inch away from him. “Where ya goin’? Heh, tryna run?” he teases. You don’t get very far, because he grapples your waist and pulls you back. “Not done ‘till I say it’s done.”

Then he’s climbing on the bed with you, and you can do nothing but snivel in protest as he maneuvers you to hike your leg over his. He lays on his side, locking you in his embrace and smears his cock between your puffy folds. “Am I being mean to you?”, he slides in with ease, savoring the sweet mess spewing on cue, “’M sorry, I’m just an ‘angry old man’, after all.”

He pounds your chubby cunt with wild abandon. You feel each vast stroke pummeling your tumid core, squelching amidst your languid bodies. You can’t close your legs—as badly as you want to—and you’re forced to endure frantic twitching from your lit nerves. He strips your breasts of the flimsy lace bra and alternates among pinching your nipple and molding the valley to his palms. He twists it harsh and you muster a pathetic babble, to which he laughs—mocking and unhinged, “My poor baby, you can’t handle it anymore.”

Anymore was an understatement, it was overwhelming—to a degree that you’d gone quiet, enveloped in vehemence. You're scratching up his bicep with the other tangled in the sheets, knuckles turned white and your head thrown back. You want to push him off, but you’re milking his stuttering hips, drawing him closer. It isn’t enough and it’s too much. “F-fuck, it’s so swollen” he moves from your chest to your vulva, “I can touch right? Y-yea, you don’t mind.” His intoxicating voice is at a whisper in your ear, laying like liquor in your cotton-filled mind. With his cock dragging against your walls and hammering your g-spot, mercilessly circling his pads on your clit, eliciting every short “ah, ah” from your swollen lips, you’re far from combative.

He precisely rolls his hips and it’s unbearably hot, broken mewls fleeing you. Your mouth sags, drool shameless down your mouth as he kisses your cervix without trying. He wraps his hand around your throat, boring into your teary eyes. You can’t escape his overbearing presence, isolated from everything besides his eye contact. He is everything.

“Who’s pussy is this?” He gradually squeezes tighter and you pule in response. Since that didn’t work, he accentuates the words with every tantalizing thrust:

“Who’s”

“Pussy”

“Is this?”

You narrowly choke out, “Your pussy”, and like something snapped his rhythm get faster, nastier. The asphyxiation reaches you brain and floods you, aswoon on a pillowy cloud. He’s faltering, pumps getting sloppier, “Thaaat’s right, ‘nd I’ll use this pretty pussy whenever I need.” His stomach flinches but he doesn’t stop chasing that high, eyes thoroughly glassed, “’N you’re gonna be a good girl and take it—ha, f-fuck—be a good girl, o-okay?” Your pupils retreat to the back of your head, and you arch off the bed as your body begins to tremble. He’s glued to you, “One more, let it out f’me. Please, fuck, I need it—hah—need you to come on my dick—”

Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and you unravel. A stream of liquid coats the blanket and you’re speechless as you convulse uncontrollably, legs betraying you for strong spasms. You go limp but Toji props you up, bucking his hips when his own legs start to jolt. “That’s a good girl—Ohh yes. Y-you're so good f'me, princess. Coming—hahh—gonna come all over your pretty cunt—”

His balls tighten, and he manages some slushy, vile pumps before he pulls out. He spurts all over your tummy and hypersensitive vulva, painting it in thick white layers. He persists, groaning until he’s fully hollow, emptying his sack in globs. His staggering pants and shaking reduce to hitching, and he relaxes your exhausted weight. You weep softly, clinging to him as he presses selfish kisses from your lips to your wet lashes. He caresses your cheek, sweaty and disheveled in the dim light. Then your eyesight starts to blur.

Your sight peels back, permitting warm sunlight basked over the bed. It takes a split second to notice you’re resting on pillows not nearly as comfortable as yours, and the wood paneling was uncharacteristic of your assigned room. It takes another second to notice your galled throat, stinging backside, and the arm loose on your naked waist. You peer over your shoulder, to that mop of ink sprawled on the pillow. He looks peaceful, though you’re not sure how you slept soundly when he snores like a brute.

You slip from his arms to sit up. The floor’s freezing, but by the time you get to stand you’re pulled back into the covers. Entangled in limbs, you gaze at Toji, who still has his eyes closed. His face appears softened up close. There’s a small scar near his hairline that you hadn’t spotted. You trace the scar, outlining it to the one on his lip. He nips your finger.

“I wanna sleep” he grumbles.

“Then you should’ve let me leave”

“No.” You card your fingers through his hair, and he sighs into it. A fine gray strand peaks out amongst the rest. “You’re turning gray, old man.”

“The way I had you last night, I wouldn’t say ‘old man’.” Your remembrance makes your ears hot and you clasp a hand over his mouth. He laughs and pecks it, “You’re leaving today. Let’s get you packed up” he muffles.

Little did he know, you’d talk to your father that afternoon, asking to stay for a couple more months. The countryside welcomed you—and what a humbling experience it was.

#jjk toji #jjk x reader #jjk #toji fushiguro #fushiguro toji #toji x reader #toji smut #jujutsu kaisen toji #toji x you #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut

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luvfae · 3 months ago

Text

LOST IN TRANSLATION, PT 2

summary: you were meant to see palaces and eat street food in korea, but instead you got addicted to a local man who fucks you like a sin and holds you like a secret.

parings: thanos x foreigner reader

warnings: swearing, alcohol, weed, smut, choking, creampie, fingering, slight language barrier, romanised korean

< part one | part three >

You're on a tour bus.

A fucking tour bus.

It's hot, crowded, and the guide is cheerfully pointing at some historical palace while your friend is elbow-deep in a convenience store snack haul next to you. You should be into it. This is why you came to Korea, right? Culture. Memories. Adventure.

Instead, all you can think about is his mouth on your throat.

Your thighs are pressed together. Not because you're cold — it's 25 degrees and humid — but because the seat vibrates just enough to remind you what you're missing.

And you are missing it. God, you're missing it.

It wasn't supposed to be like this.

One night. A hot, reckless mistake.

You weren't supposed to think about him every time you close your eyes.

But you do.

You think about how he tasted. How his voice dipped when he called you yeppo.

How he fucked you like he was mad at time itself.

How you came so hard your knees gave out after.

Your phone's in your hand before you even realize it.

You open Instagram. Find his DM.

He hasn't messaged you. You haven't messaged him. Not once.

Because you both assumed it was a one-time thing.

You both acted cool the next morning.

But now?

Now you feel like you're going to lose your mind if you don't get your hands on him again.

So you type:

you home? bc i'm not doing this tourist shit anymore, i'm thinking about your hands and it's annoying. fix it

You hit send before you can regret it.

You stare at the screen.

One minute.

Two.

Three.

And then the little typing... bubble pops up.

where are you

You bite your lip.

somewhere in insadong. kill me.

Another pause.

Then:

come here door's open. if you're fast, i'll fuck the attitude out of you.

You're already standing up.

Your friend blinks up at you mid-crunch, a shrimp chip half-hanging from her mouth. "Where are you going?"

You don't even try to play it cool. Your phone's still in your hand, your pulse already spiking. You say it like a confession. Like a sin.

"To get fucked."

She chokes on her chip. "Excuse me?"

You glance out the window, squinting like you might spot a cab just by willpower alone. "I'm serious. I can't do this right now. I don't care about some 14th-century scroll or—whatever. I need him."

Her jaw drops. "Oh my God. You mean the club guy?"

You nod once.

She breaks into a grin so smug you almost turn around and throw her snack bag out the window.

"You little slut," she says, delighted. "This is your first holiday romance."

You whip your head around. "It's not a romance."

She fake gasps. "Right. Sorry. My mistake. Just casual, totally impersonal, post-tourism cultural exchange dick."

You shoot her a glare. "There's nothing romantic about the way he fucked me last time."

She wiggles her eyebrows. "Exactly. That's what makes it romantic."

You groan, dragging a hand through your hair. "I hate you."

"You love me," she sing-songs. "And I love this for you. You really are experiencing all of Korea, huh? Palaces, hanbok selfies, spicy noodles, and now a hot local rearranging your guts."

You flip her off with both hands.

She cackles. "Go get wrecked, bitch. I'll tell the tour guide you got food poisoning."

You're already on your phone again, pulling up the taxi app.

Your legs bounce as you wait for a driver. It can't come fast enough. Every minute feels like a test of your self-control, and right now? You have none.

The second that cab pulls up, you're gone.

You don't even look back.

You've got one destination.

One objective.

And if Su-bong still has his door open?

You're not leaving until your legs stop working.

You're breathless by the time you reach his door.

Not from the stairs. Not really.

From anticipation. From heat crawling up your neck. From the buzz of your phone screen still echoing in your mind.

door's open. if you're fast, i'll fuck the attitude out of you.

You knock anyway.

Three short raps. Not shy, but not cocky either. Like you're daring him to make this real again.

The door swings open almost immediately.

And there he is.

Su-bong.

Leaning one shoulder against the frame, shirtless, wearing a pair of black sweats that hang just low enough to wreck your concentration. Hair messy. A faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone, like he was already pacing before you got here.

His eyes drag over you slowly — from your flushed face to your bare legs — then back up.

And that smirk appears. Lazy. Confident. Fucking lethal.

"You ran here?" he says, voice low and teasing. "So... desperate."

You roll your eyes, stepping past him without waiting for an invitation. "I was already nearby. Don't flatter yourself."

He lets you pass — but not without his fingers brushing the small of your back as you do.

"Ahh," he murmurs behind you, shutting the door. "Yes. Okay. No flattering."

A pause.

Then — quieter, smug —

"But you came for me."

You spin on your heel, raising a brow. "Don't act like you didn't like that."

His grin widens. "I like everything. You. The way you look at me. The little skirt. The..." — he gestures vaguely, searching — "face you make when I touch you."

You snort. "You're terrible at compliments."

"I'm amazing at compliments." He corrects, pointing at himself. "My English—ehh..." — he wobbles his hand — "so-so. But my eyes?" He taps his temple, then lowers his voice, "my eyes say... fuck yes."

You laugh despite yourself. "Jesus Christ."

He shrugs. Steps closer. "Not Jesus. Just Su-bong."

You shake your head, biting back a grin. "You're ridiculous."

"Mm. What is... ridiculous?" he repeats slowly, the word heavy in his mouth.

You wave your hand. "You. Your ego. The fact that you think I came here just for your dick."

He raises a brow. "No?"

You hesitate. Then shrug. "...Okay. Yeah. I did."

"Ah-ha." His smile turns devilish. "So honest today. Honesty is sexy."

He's standing right in front of you now. Close, but not touching. His eyes flick to your mouth, then your collarbone, then back up.

"Three days," he murmurs. "No message. I thought you disappear."

You arch a brow. "You didn't message me either."

He nods once. "Because if you want it, you come back." His gaze sharpens. "You are the kind of girl who decides."

You blink. Caught off guard. "That a compliment or a read?"

He shrugs again. "Yes."

That makes you laugh.

He watches you — pleased — then speaks in Korean, smooth and fast, something that sounds like a string of soft consonants and rolled vowels.

You stare at him. "What?"

He chuckles. Repeats it — slower this time.

Still nothing.

You throw your hands up. "I have no idea what you just said."

He leans closer. "Then just say 'ne.'"

"Ne?"

He grins. "Good. Now you agree to everything."

You narrow your eyes. "You're dangerous."

He nods solemnly. "Ne."

The silence stretches for a beat — thick with everything unspoken. Everything you came back for.

You break it first. Quiet, honest. "You thought I wasn't coming back?"

He lifts one shoulder. "Not many people come back. Not for me."

You tilt your head. "Why not?"

He considers. "Maybe I fuck too good."

You snort. "Oh my god."

He laughs, then gestures to the couch. "Sit. Talk. Or do you want me to take your clothes off now?"

You smirk. "That eager?"

He taps his temple again. "Not just a fuck. I like... your voice. Even when I don't know your words."

You sit slowly, eyes still on his, heart racing with something that's not just lust.

And for now?

You let the tension sit between you.

Coiled.

Breathing.

Hungry.

You lean back on the couch, eyes dragging over his bare chest — the way his muscles shift when he moves, the tattoos that disappear beneath the waistband of his sweats, the lazy, dangerous way he watches you like he already knows you're about to break.

You don't try to hide your stare. You let your gaze trail down his torso, slow and obvious, then back up to his face.

He smirks, pleased.

Then — without warning — he leans forward and hooks a finger in the neckline of your crop top, tugging it down in one smooth motion.

Your breath catches.

Your chest bounces free. No bra. No warning. You gasp, eyes wide, heart hammering.

He grins like a wolf.

"No bra?" he laughs. "Crazy girl."

His eyes linger for a moment, greedy but amused, then flick back to your face.

"What?" he shrugs. "You can see me shirtless but I can't see you shirtless?"

You arch a brow, sliding closer — slowly, intentionally — your thighs brushing his.

"Mmm," you hum, tilting your head. "It's not the same."

He narrows his eyes, playing along. "How?"

You lean in, voice dropping just enough to make him tense. "You shirtless is a threat." You drag your nails lightly down his chest. "Me shirtless?" Your fingers dip lower, teasing the waistband of his sweats. "That's a promise."

His lips part — like he wants to say something cocky, something smug — but nothing comes out.

Instead, he just watches as you reach back and tug your shirt off fully, letting it drop behind the couch. The air hits your skin, your nipples already stiff from anticipation, and his eyes go dark.

You straddle one of his thighs now, close enough to feel the heat of him, your hands resting lightly on his chest.

"You know what I was thinking about," you murmur, voice thick, "on that boring-ass tour today?"

He swallows, eyes locked on your mouth. "Tell me."

You graze your nails down his stomach, slow and teasing.

"You. Your hands. Your mouth." Your fingers curl into his waistband. "The way you didn't even let me finish catching my breath last time before you had me coming again."

He exhales hard through his nose.

You press your body closer, your lips brushing his ear as you whisper, "I want you to fuck me on this couch. I want your dick inside me so deep I forget my own name. I want you to make me beg in English, in Korean — I don't care. Just... make me say something."

He growls — low, rough — and grips your hips. "Jesus."

"Still not Jesus," you tease against his jaw. "Still just Su-bong."

That makes him laugh — hoarse and wrecked — and before you can say another word, his hand is on the back of your neck, pulling you in.

He kisses you.

Hard.

No warm-up. No hesitation.

His mouth crashes into yours like it's necessary — like he's been starving for the taste of you. Your hands tangle in his hair immediately, your body pressing against his bare chest, and he groans into your mouth, deep and low.

Your thighs tighten around his leg as he shifts, pulling you flush against him, his hands sliding down your back to your ass, gripping like he can't decide whether to lift you or pin you down.

You bite his bottom lip — just enough to make him gasp — and he retaliates by sucking on your tongue like he owns it. The kiss turns filthy fast, spit-slick and breathless, your hips rolling without even realizing it.

His hands are everywhere. Palming your tits. Thumbs brushing your nipples until they ache. One hand dipping between your thighs to press against your panties, groaning when he feels how soaked you already are.

"Fuck," he mutters, his accent thicker now, voice rough. "Already so wet?"

You moan into his mouth. "Told you I've been thinking about you."

He pulls back just enough to look at you — lips swollen, eyes dark.

Then switches to Korean, something low and sinful that you can't understand.

You blink. "What?"

He smirks. "I said..." He leans in, lips brushing your neck. "You drive me fucking crazy."

You grind against his hand, head falling back. "Good."

And then he's kissing you again — deeper this time, slower. His fingers push aside your panties and slide between your folds, slick and hot, and he groans at the feel of you. One finger, then two — curling just right, just enough to make you gasp and clutch his shoulders.

You rock against him, messy and desperate, moaning into his mouth as his fingers work you open, his thumb circling your clit with maddening control.

"You feel this?" he whispers. "My fingers..." He pumps them deeper. "Soon, my cock. Right here. On this couch."

You're panting now, lips swollen from his, hips rolling shamelessly into his hand. "Su-bong—"

"Say it again." He kisses your throat. "Say my name like that again."

You do.

Between gasps, between kisses, between the moans he pulls out of you with every filthy touch.

His couch creaks beneath you, the air thick with sweat and breath and everything you swore this wasn't supposed to be.

And neither of you gives a damn.

You've soaked through your panties, your chest bare, his fingers inside you and his mouth wrecking your throat in slow, filthy kisses. You can't stop moaning, can't stop moving — your hips rocking against his hand like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

And then it's too much.

You want more.

Not fingers. Not teasing.

Him.

Your hand slips between you — grabbing the waistband of his sweats, tugging them down hard enough that he grunts.

He lifts his hips, helps you, lets you strip them down just enough to free his cock — thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach.

Your breath stutters.

"Fuck, look at that," you whisper, wrapping your hand around him, giving him a single stroke just to feel the weight of it. "So hard. Did I do that?"

He groans, head tipping back.

"Yes, you," he mutters, accent deepening with every breath. "You're—shibal—you're evil."

You press your forehead to his, grinning, wild. "No, baby. I'm starving."

And then you're lining him up — no hesitation — sinking down onto him in one slow, devastating motion.

"Shit—" you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "Fuck, I missed this. Missed how full you made me."

He hisses through his teeth, hands gripping your hips like a vice.

"You're insane," he growls. "Three days and you come back like this?"

You roll your hips, slow and filthy. "You think I could do that tour shit knowing this cock exists? You think I gave a fuck about palaces?"

He groans, watching your tits bounce as you start to ride him — hard, fast, no patience. Every sound you make is high and desperate and ruined.

"Crazy girl," he mutters. "So needy. So fucking wet. You want me to break you?"

"Do it," you pant, nails dragging down his chest. "Choke me. Fuck me. Spit in my mouth. I want everything. I want to feel it tomorrow."

His hand flies to your throat in one swift movement — not tight yet, just enough to make you still.

"You're sick," he whispers.

You lick your lips. "So make me worse."

His grip tightens. Your breath stutters.

You fucking love it.

He pulls you in for a kiss — tongue deep, filthy, biting your bottom lip until you whimper — then pulls back just enough to stare at you.

"Say you're mine," he growls.

"I'm yours," you gasp, hips still working.

"Say you're my good girl."

"I'm your good girl—fuck—Su-bong, please—"

"Say it again."

"I'm your good girl. I'm your good little slut, please—"

His eyes darken.

Then he's grabbing your ass, guiding your thrusts, his hips bucking up into you now — fucking up into you so hard you bounce. His hand finds your throat again, tighter now.

"You're perfect," he growls. "So dirty. You were made for this."

"Tell me you'll come inside me," you whine. "Please. Please, Su-bong— I need it, I want to feel it leaking out of me—mark me—please—"

He groans, visibly hesitating. "I shouldn't—"

"Do it. Ruin me. I'll come so fucking hard if you do—please, fill me up like you own me—"

He snaps.

His thrusts go brutal — deep, fast, punishing. He's growling in Korean now, things you can't understand but feel, one hand choking you, the other gripping your thigh so hard it might bruise.

And then he lets go of your throat just long enough to pull you down and kiss you — messy, gasping, all teeth — as he spills inside you.

You moan loud into his mouth, your whole body locking up as you come with him, your pussy milking him so tight he groans again, head falling to your shoulder.

You both go still.

Shaking.

Breathing hard.

Bodies glued together with sweat and cum.

You think it's over.

He definitely does.

He leans back, brushing his thumb over your cheek, his breath finally slowing.

"You're..." he starts. "Fucking dangerous."

You kiss him again — soft this time. Sweet.

And then?

You start moving.

Rocking your hips again, slow and tight, still full of him.

He blinks. "Wait—what are you—?"

You whimper. "Again."

He groans. "Jagiya, I don't—fuck—I don't know if I can—"

You roll your hips harder, clenching around him, kissing his jaw. "You can. You will. I need you again. I want to feel you break me this time. Please, Su-bong—don't stop—"

He exhales like he's in pain.

Then grips your waist again.

"Fuck it," he mutters. "One more."

And he gives you everything.

Again.

—

You didn't leave.

Not right after.

You ended up tangled in Su-bong's sheets, bruised and boneless, your thighs aching, your lips swollen, your body still clenching around the ghost of him. You fell asleep with his hand on your hip and woke up that same afternoon to the lazy weight of his arm still draped over you like he hadn't meant to fall asleep there either — but didn't regret it.

Now?

You're walking next to him in a back alley that smells like meat and oil, the sun too bright, your body still buzzing. You're wearing one of his shirts — oversized, sleeves rolled — and he's in a black tee, slouched into it like he owns the whole city and you're just tagging along.

Which, to be fair, you are.

He's leading you somewhere.

You don't ask where.

It's not a date — no one said the word — but you're both acting like it is.

Eventually he stops at a street cart wedged between two storefronts, the kind with plastic stools and an auntie already stirring sauce in a bubbling pot. He talks to her in quick Korean, hands moving with it, and you catch none of it.

She hands him two steaming paper bowls of tteokbokki. He passes you one. "Eat. Don't cry."

You eye it. "You think I can't handle spice?"

He smirks. "Most tourists die."

You take a bite. Immediately regret everything.

"Jesus—" you wheeze, coughing as your eyes water.

He laughs. Hard. "Ya! I told you! Ganjang yes, gochu-noona no!"

You glare. "What does that even mean?"

He grins. "Don't worry. Language lesson starts now."

You fan your mouth, tears threatening to spill. "What, so you can mock my pronunciation like a dickhead?"

He just smirks harder. "Say thank you. For food. For me. Ready?"

You groan. "If I survive this."

He taps the table, slow and deliberate. "Gam. Sa. Ham. Ni. Da."

You blink. "Gahm... sa... ham... knee... dah?"

He winces. "Oof. That was murder."

You narrow your eyes. "Say that again."

He leans closer, smug as hell. "Gamsahamnida."

Slower now: "Gam. Sa. Ham. Ni. Da."

You try again, biting the syllables out like you're chewing them. "Gamsa... hamnida?"

He nods, pleased. "Not bad. Cute."

You tilt your head. "That a real compliment, or more of your bullshit?"

He shrugs. "Little bit of both."

Then he mutters under his breath, "Jinjja, neomu gwiyopda..."

You squint. "What does that mean?"

He smirks. "Maybe nice. Maybe dirty. Maybe insult. You'll never know."

You gasp. "Excuse me?"

"You don't know Korean," he teases. "I could say anything."

You lean in closer, voice low. "You keep teasing me like that and I'll drag you into that alley and prove I'm not too tired to ride you again."

He freezes. Blinks at you.

Then groans, dragging a hand over his face like he's praying for strength. "Shibal... don't say things like that in public."

You grin. "Why? Gonna get hard in front of the tteokbokki lady?"

He huffs a laugh and tosses a piece of rice cake at your bowl.

You catch it with your chopsticks. Smug. Victorious.

The breeze picks up, and your thigh brushes his under the tiny table. His eyes flick to the contact but he doesn't move away.

He leans back, staring at you like he's trying to figure you out — and failing.

"You're different," he mutters. "Not just sexy. Something else."

You tilt your head. "Something good?"

He pauses, then nods once. "Yeah. Gamsahamnida."

You laugh. "For what?"

He doesn't answer.

Just looks at you.

And eats like he didn't just say something kind of fucking real.

You stare at him for a second longer than you should.

Not because he looks good — though he does, with sauce on his thumb and sweat curling at his temples and that silver chain glinting at his collarbone.

But because that line — that "something else" — hit you harder than expected.

You're still chewing it over when he speaks again. Casual. Low. Like he's talking about the weather. "Stay over tonight?"

Your chopsticks pause halfway to your mouth. "My friend—"

"Gets to see you every day." He doesn't even look up as he says it. Just picks up another piece of rice cake and pops it in his mouth. "Me?" He shrugs. "Only three more days."

He says it like it's the obvious choice.

Like staying over is the only thing that makes sense.

Like it's already been decided.

You swallow. Hard. That number echoing in your chest.

Three.

And somehow, it already feels like not enough.

You don't answer Su-bong right away.

Instead, you pull out your phone and call your friend — the one who's been more than patient, the one who covered for you, teased you, practically pushed you off the tour bus.

She answers on the second ring, breathless and probably mid-shopping spree. "You're alive."

You roll your eyes, even though you're smiling. "Barely."

You glance at Su-bong, who's sipping from a water bottle now like he didn't just emotionally blackmail you into staying over. You lower your voice.

"Hey, uh. So... he asked me to stay the night."

"Obviously."

"Are you mad?" You hesitate. "You sure you're okay with that? I don't wanna ditch you—"

"Babe," she cuts in. "You're being dicked down by the hottest man in Seoul. Live your dream. Just don't forget I exist."

You exhale. Relief and something warmer curling in your stomach. "You're really not mad?"

"Mad? I'm living for this. But." Her voice sharpens — mock-serious. "One condition."

You wince. "I knew that was coming."

"He has to take us somewhere tonight. Somewhere local. No tourist traps. I want the real Korean experience. Party style."

You glance at Su-bong again.

He raises a brow.

You cover the mic. "My friend says if I stay over, you have to take us somewhere tonight. A real Korean party. Not tourist shit."

He grins immediately. "Easy." Pulls out his phone like it's already handled. "I know place."

You mouth, "Where?"

He's already scrolling through his contacts. "Nam-gyu's house. My friend." Beat. "He throws parties. Loud ones."

You raise a brow. "Like, music and drinks or...?"

"Yes. Food, games, music. Se-mi, Gyeong-su, Min-su will be there." He looks up from his phone. "You'll see. It's not club. It's... better."

You pull the phone back to your ear. "He's calling one of his friends now. House party. Locals only. You in?"

There's a beat of silence, then your friend practically shrieks, "fuck yes I'm in."

You grin.

Su-bong's already got the phone to his ear, speaking rapid Korean — casual, animated, confident. You can't understand a word, but the tone is easy. Familiar.

He glances over at you mid-call, expression warm.

And you realize...

He's not just including you.

He's folding you into his life, piece by piece.

And you don't know what that means yet.

But for tonight?

It means one thing.

You're staying.

—

The apartment is already alive when you arrive.

It's tucked on the top floor of an older building near Hapjeong, the hallway narrow, the stairwell painted in peeling beige. But the second Nam-gyu's door swings open, it's like stepping into another world.

Warm lights. Music pulsing low from someone's Bluetooth speaker. The smell of fried chicken and alcohol already thick in the air. Shoes scattered at the entrance. A couch that's clearly seen too many bodies. Someone's jacket draped over a plant. A stack of soju bottles on the table like decoration.

The second you and your friend step in behind Su-bong, heads turn.

Everyone's already buzzing — loose-limbed, flushed cheeks, laughter bleeding from every corner. The music dips just low enough for voices to cut through.

"Yaaaa, Su-bong-ah!" a voice calls from the kitchen.

A guy with a snapback and an unbuttoned shirt jogs over — tall, lean, grin already in place.

"This him?" your friend whispers.

You nod. "Nam-gyu i'm assuming."

He greets Su-bong with a one-armed hug and claps him hard on the back before turning to you and your friend.

"You must be the foreigners," Nam-gyu says with a thick accent, grinning wide. "Welcome to my house-slash-party-slash-chaos."

You laugh. "That's exactly what we were promised."

He bows slightly. "Nam-gyu. I speak English, good... well, good enough to get you drunk, bad enough to never say sorry."

"That's perfect," your friend chirps. "That's all we need."

Nam-gyu waves someone over. "Come, come — meet everyone."

From the kitchen, another guy appears with messy dark hair, dressed in a striped tee and cargo pants. He looks about five seconds out of military service and ten seconds into a buzz.

"Gyeong-su," Nam-gyu says, pointing.

"Hello," Gyeong-su says with a polite bow. "Nice... meet... you."

He looks like he used all his English in one go and immediately retreats with a red-faced smile.

Then a girl with black hair and perfect winged eyeliner steps out of the hallway, holding two soju bottles between her fingers like claws.

"Se-mi," she says before Nam-gyu can introduce her. "And yes, I speak English."

"Fluently?" your friend asks.

"Fluently enough to flirt with your friend," Se-mi smirks, eyeing you playfully before winking at Su-bong. "But I won't. Su-bong is scary."

Su-bong snorts. "You're scared of me but not Nam-gyu?"

Se-mi shrugs. "Nam-gyu buys me food."

Last to appear is a guy with a loose sweatshirt that reads "K-Drama Ruined My Life." He holds a bag of chips in one hand and a soju shot glass in the other.

"I'm Min-su," he grins.

You end up cross-legged on the floor with the others, a full circle formed around a pile of drinks. Your friend is already chatting animatedly with Se-mi and Min-su, while Su-bong sits beside you, thigh pressed to yours.

Nam-gyu claps his hands once. "Okay. First game — easy. Baskin Robbins sam-sib-il!"

You blink. "Isn't that an ice cream brand?"

"Also a game," Nam-gyu grins. "Here's how it works: You take turns counting from 1 to 31. On your turn, you can say one, two, or three numbers — but only up to 31. The person who lands on 31 has to take a shot."

"It's evil," Se-mi adds, pouring the soju. "There's strategy. Betrayal. Drama."

"And shots," Gyeong-su says solemnly.

You catch Su-bong's eye and smirk. "I'm screwed."

He shrugs. "Maybe. But cute when drunk."

The game starts.

"One," Se-mi begins, smirking.

"Two, three," your friend says confidently.

"Four," Min-su grins.

And around it goes.

The numbers fly fast. Everyone starts laughing when Nam-gyu and Su-bong try to sabotage each other by jumping numbers. Gyeong-su has no idea what's going on but yells numbers proudly anyway.

When the count hits the twenties, tension spikes. Every number feels like a death sentence.

You land on 27.

You hold up one finger. "Twenty-eight."

Su-bong next to you smirks. "Twenty-nine... thirty."

"Shibal..." Nam-gyu blinks. "Thirty-one!" Everyone bursts out laughing as Nam-gyu throws his head back with a groan and downs the shot. "You did this to me," he glares at Su-bong.

"You deserve it," Su-bong mutters back.

Nam-gyu wipes his mouth and turns to you.

Leans just a little too close.

His grin goes playful. "So. Foreigner. You got a name or should I just call you yeppeun geunyeo?"

You blink.

Su-bong doesn't.

His hand on your thigh tightens. His jaw flexes.

"Ya," he snaps. "Geumanhae."

Nam-gyu lifts his brows innocently. "Mwo? Joke-joke. She's hot."

That's when Su-bong really lets go — in Korean first, voice low and rough. "Ya, jinjja—geuman. Ije jeongmal—aniya. Nae yeoja, molla? Apeseo—geunyeo nae—"

He cuts himself off. Then glances at you.

And switches to English. "My foreigner. My girl."

The group goes quiet for a second — half amused, half unsure if a fight's about to happen.

But you?

You laugh.

Full, delighted, tipsy.

You look at him, still smiling, your hand finding his thigh now under the table.

"That's hot," you murmur, leaning into him. "You being all angry and growling in Korean. Getting possessive. It's so fucking hot."

Su-bong blinks, caught off guard.

Then his mouth curves. That slow, dangerous smirk. "You like that?"

"Uh-huh." You lean in closer. "Next time you wanna yell at someone for flirting with me, whisper it in my ear instead."

His eyes flash.

He says something under his breath in Korean again — quick and sharp — you don't ask what it means.

You don't need to.

Because the way he grabs the soju bottle and pours your glass again, hand brushing your thigh like it's second nature?

You already know.

Half an hour later, the party's deeper.

The music's louder. The soju's hitting harder. Your friend is dancing barefoot in the living room with Se-mi and Min-su, laughing so hard she almost knocks over a lamp. Gyeong-su is passed out against the wall, a peace sign still up in one limp hand. Nam-gyu is pretending he isn't watching the chaos unfold with pride.

And Su-bong?

He's been watching you for twenty straight minutes.

Not in a creepy way. Not even overtly.

Just... watching.

You've been sitting on the couch, sipping on a beer someone handed you, laughing too loud and tugging at the hem of his shirt — the one you're still wearing, oversized and falling off one shoulder.

And maybe it's the lighting. Or the weed. Or the way your lips are curved just slightly, like you're always about to say something filthy.

But whatever it is, he snaps.

"Yah," he mutters, tapping your thigh. "Come here."

You blink. "What?"

He doesn't repeat himself. Just grabs your hand, and the next second, you're straddling him on the couch, his hands firm on your waist like he was always going to put you here eventually.

Your knees sink into the cushions on either side of his thighs, your beer forgotten on the floor.

He leans back, one hand sliding around to your lower back. His other hand? Fishing something out of his pocket.

You raise a brow when you see it — a slim pre-roll and a cheap lighter. "Seriously?"

He shrugs. "Nam-gyu's stash. Said to share it."

You smirk. "And you're just such a generous guy."

"I am," he mutters, lighting it. "Very giving."

The smoke curls between you in the dim light.

He takes the first drag. Holds it. Exhales slow.

Then presses it to your lips, watching as you inhale, slow and cautious.

The burn slides down your throat — smooth, warm. He watches you like he wants to record the way your mouth curves around the joint, the way your eyes soften when the high settles.

"Feel it?" he asks, voice rough.

"Mmhm," you hum. "Feels nice."

He nods. Then—

"Why'd you come to Korea?"

You blink.

It's not flirtatious. Not shallow.

Just—genuine.

You lean back slightly, fingertips resting on his chest. "I don't know. Needed a break. Wanted something... not mine for a while."

He studies you. "Not yours?"

You shrug. "Home feels... small. Heavy. You ever get that?"

He's quiet for a moment. Then takes another hit, passes it to you again. "Every day."

You hold his gaze as you inhale. Exhale. Pass it back.

"You ever been in love?" he asks.

The question hits harder than the smoke.

You let out a soft laugh. "You're really asking that right now?"

He shrugs. "Just wondering."

You glance down at his chest, at the silver chain resting against his shirt.

"Once. A long time ago." You pause. "You?"

He tilts his head. Considers.

Then shakes it once, eyes still locked on yours. "Nah. Not yet."

Not yet.

You wonder what the hell that means, but you don't ask. You're too high. Too warm. Too tangled up in the way he's looking at you like he's trying to figure out your edges — like he's searching for something under the skin.

"You think about it?" he asks after a beat.

You blink. "Home?"

He nods.

You take the joint again. Inhale slow.

Then—

"Every minute." You meet his eyes. "And somehow... not at all."

He doesn't say anything right away. Just slides his hand up your back, fingers curling around the nape of your neck like he needs to anchor himself to something.

"You're not what I expected," he says finally.

You raise a brow. "What did you expect?"

"One night," he says honestly. "Tourist. Tipsy. Quick fuck. Forget your name in the morning."

You nod slowly. "That's fair."

He leans forward. Kisses you. Soft. Slow. Tongue barely brushing yours, lips warm and patient. The kind of kiss that says I want to remember this.

When he pulls back, his voice is a whisper against your mouth. "But you keep staying."

You press your forehead to his. "Maybe I'm not done yet."

The words hang between you like smoke.

Your hands resting against his chest, the smell of soju and weed in the air, the music still thumping faintly from the other room. You can hear your friend laughing with Se-mi again, someone shaking a bag of chips way too aggressively.

But here, on this couch, in his lap, everything else fades.

And then Su-bong says it.

Soft. Certain. Like it's obvious. Like it's easy.

"Extend your stay."

You pause.

Just for a second. Just long enough to feel it land somewhere deep in your chest.

You run your fingers absently along the edge of his shirt, biting the inside of your cheek before answering.

"I can't."

He doesn't speak, just watches you.

So you explain, voice low and honest.

"I've been traveling for two months. Around Asia. Korea's the last stop before I go back to real life."

A small smile, a shrug. "All my money's already gone. My job's waiting. I don't have the luxury of... disappearing here. Even if I wanted to."

He doesn't like that.

You see it on his face — in the way his brows pull together, in the way his lips twist into a pout that's more genuine than dramatic.

"Aish..." he mutters, exhaling hard. "Geureom eotteokhae..."

You blink. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing."

"No, seriously. What'd you say?"

He just sighs, voice heavier now. "Geureom eotteokhae, jinjja..."

You smirk, fingers running along the collar of his shirt. "If you're gonna say something dramatic in Korean, at least help me understand."

He groans. You laugh. And then you shift in his lap, grinding just slightly — slow enough to make his jaw flex, his hands automatically tightening on your hips.

"Why don't we take my friend home..." You lean in, lips brushing his. "...and crash at my hotel tonight, hmm?"

Your voice drops, all heat now. "It's a two-bedroom. And she's a very heavy sleeper after alcohol."

He huffs a quiet laugh, lips curling. "You dangerous woman."

You kiss him. Just once. Firm. Confident.

"So?" You raise a brow. "Are we doing this, or what?"

He leans in, mouth grazing yours as he mutters, "try and stop me."

—

You're not even sure how you made it back.

The city is a blur — neon lights bleeding into pavement, car horns echoing like background noise to your tipsy, giddy laughter. Su-bong walks between you and your friend like some reluctant guardian angel, one arm curled securely around your waist, the other guiding your friend with the patience of a saint.

You and her are drunk, high, and useless.

She keeps singing part of a Blackpink chorus on loop, swaying into parked scooters. You keep mumbling about how good Su-bong smells and how unfair it is that his jaw looks like it could cut glass.

He doesn't say much.

Just keeps you both moving, steady and warm.

By the time you get to your hotel, your friend is half-asleep on her feet. Su-bong helps her into bed, tucks a blanket over her with surprising gentleness, and sighs as she starts snoring immediately.

You sway behind him in the doorway, eyes glazed, hair messy, shirt halfway off your shoulder.

"Well," you mumble, grinning, "she's done for."

He turns to look at you — and you swear you see the shift.

That slow melt from patient babysitter to something hotter, heavier, eyes flicking down your body like he already knows where this night ends.

You walk past him without a word, grab his hand, and pull him through the adjoining door into your room.

The second the door clicks shut, everything turns electric.

There's no finesse. No warm-up. Just hands yanking clothes, breathless kisses, mouths crashing together like you've been starving for each other all night — because you have.

You fall into the bed, Su-bong over you, both of you still laughing through the haze, drunk on everything: the party, the weed, each other.

Your shirt's gone. His pants are gone. His mouth is on yours like it belongs there.

"You smell like smoke," you whisper between kisses.

"You taste like beer," he murmurs, dragging his lips down your neck.

"You gonna fuck me or just make fun of me?"

"Both," he mutters. "Geurom... let's start now."

There's no foreplay. Just a mess of limbs and gasps and mouths.

He enters you in one slow, thick push — no teasing, no warning — and you both groan like it's a relief. Like finally, finally, you're exactly where you're supposed to be.

"Oh my god—" you gasp, eyes fluttering. "Su-bong, fuck—"

"Shh..." he soothes, kissing your jaw. "Shhh... neomu areumdawo... you feel so good, baby..."

He rocks into you, slow but deep, his chest pressing down against yours, one hand cradling your jaw, the other gripping your thigh. His thrusts aren't polished — they're messy, needy, soaked in sweat and urgency — but every one hits just right.

"You're so warm," he groans. "So wet already... god, I will miss this—"

You clutch at his back, legs wrapping around his hips as he drives into you again, again, again.

"Say something else," you whisper. "In Korean. I don't care what."

His breath catches.

Then he leans close, brushing his lips against your temple.

"Saranghae," he murmurs.

You smile, drunk and unaware, letting the word wash over you like music. "What's that mean?"

He just kisses you and keeps moving inside you like he wants to imprint himself under your skin.

His hips roll into you with slow, dragging thrusts, every inch stretching you open, making you feel like you're unraveling from the inside out. There's no rhythm anymore, not really — just this desperate push and pull, his body molded to yours, skin slick and flushed, breath tangled between kisses.

You cling to him, your legs locked around his waist, arms around his shoulders like you'll fall apart if you let go. His forehead is pressed to yours, his eyes half-lidded, voice rough and low and broken in your ear.

"You're perfect," he whispers. "Fuck... you're mine, jagiya. This pussy—" he groans, dragging himself deeper, "made for me, yeah?"

You nod, whimpering, so gone you can barely breathe. "Yes—fuck—yes, don't stop, please—"

He kisses you then — deep and messy, all tongue and heat, biting your lip between gasps.

"You feel so good, baby," he pants. "So fucking tight, so warm... I don't wanna leave. I wanna stay right here—inside you—just like this—"

Your nails dig into his back, your hips rolling up to meet him, chasing that edge, your body clenched around him so tight it's a miracle he's still holding on.

"Gonna come," you gasp. "Fuck, I'm so close—Su-bong, please—"

He doesn't answer. Just drives into you harder, deeper, groaning every time your walls flutter around him.

"Come for me, jagi," he whispers. "Let me feel you. Give it to me."

And you do — everything inside you coils tight and then snaps, white-hot, blinding. You cry out, your whole body shaking as you clench around him, gripping him like you're trying to pull him even deeper.

"Oh my god— fuck—" you gasp, voice breaking, stars exploding behind your eyes.

"Geurae, geurae—" His hips stutter, and then— "Shibal—"

He buries himself to the hilt and comes, his entire body tensing as he spills inside you, hot and deep, hands gripping your waist like he's anchoring himself to this moment.

He moans into your neck, voice ragged and low, "jugeul geot gata... saranghae..."

You don't understand the words.

But you understand the way he says them.

The way he holds you after, lips brushing your cheek, hand sliding into your hair. Still buried inside you, still panting like he's never coming back down.

And neither of you says anything for a long time.

Because right now?

Words don't mean nearly as much as this.

Eventually, you both slow. Your limbs tangle. The sweat cools. Your breath returns.

He doesn't pull away.

Just lays there on top of you, face tucked into your neck, hand still cradling your jaw like he's afraid to let go.

You run your fingers through his hair, soft and slow.

"You okay?" he murmurs.

"Perfect," you say. And you mean it.

He kisses your cheek. Then your collarbone. Then your shoulder. Just little things. Little touches that say stay.

He helps clean you up gently — wipes between your legs with a warm towel he grabs from the bathroom, kisses your thighs afterward like an apology. Pulls the blanket up over both of you.

You're curled into his chest when it happens.

Suddenly. Quietly.

You start to cry.

Not a breakdown. Not dramatic.

Just silent tears leaking from your eyes as your fingers grip his shirt.

"Hey—hey," he says softly, pulling back to look at you. "Why cry?"

You sniff. Wipe your cheek.

"I don't want to go home," you whisper. "I want to stay with you... just a little longer."

His face softens. He cups your cheek, thumb brushing another tear away.

"Don't cry, jagiya," he murmurs. "We will meet again, hmm?"

You don't know if it's true.

But you let yourself believe it — just for tonight.

And fall asleep in his arms, still warm from his body, his breath steady in your hair, wrapped in a feeling you're too scared to name.

#thanos #choi su bong #squid game #thanos x reader #choi su bong x reader #thanos smut #choi su bong smut #subong smut #subong x reader

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celestielbeing · 9 days ago

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Captain Diaz yelling at Buck not to go any further in2 a compromised structure during a fire but ofc he does anyway - and his heart's beating out of his chest and he keeps checking for Buck on radio but he stops responding and then there's a huge flare of smoke and the whole thing trembles - atp he knows that theres only one thing to do and that's go in after him but just as he gets closer Buck's there carrying the kid who went missing and right after he brings her to EMS his knees buckle and Eddie's right there, he's hefting Buck's long colt legs up into a stretcher and following him in2 the back of the ambulance. And he's so - he's so angry, how could Buck be so careless and reckless and thoughtless? But then Buck's fluttering his eyes and flashing his dazzling white smile and saying "Cap, knew you cared" as his fingers tighten around Eddie's (who'd held his hand in a white-knuckled grip) and obviously Captain Diaz is beyond pissed but that's all for later, for now he can't help his smile and the way his fingers card through Buck's sooty hair

……………………….no like. exactly. ohmygod…..

and eddie drops his head in a laugh, all the nervous tension exiting out of him , hair falling on his forehead .. eyes still kind of shiny.. bc he does care ok? god fucking help him..he fcking cares… “you little shit lol” but there’s no heat to it, it almost sounds like an endearment…especially with his hand soothingly in bucks curls .. but his voice sounds hushed and worried when he asks “what were you thinking buck…”

“i had to cap….I had to..I couldn’t let her-- I’m sorry.. I had to eddie… (and that’s how you know this was close…the come down off of the adrenaline and worry washing away the formalities……) buck is both agitated and drowsy in the way only a near miss and morphine can do

“I know, hey, I know you did buck…” and I kind of love you for it races thru Eddie’s mind, but it’s gone as quick as it came…buck finally slips under from pain meds and exhaustion… and eddie breathes .. and wonders when he raced past whatever line he didn’t want to cross when it came to this thing btwn them…. As it fades quickly in the rear view as the ambulance races towards the hospital

#tv: 911 #buddie #asks #anon did u know this brand of h/c was literally my most absolute favorite thing in the world or ???#I always feel soooo vulnerable and perceived adding to an ask like this lol bc the og mesage is so good I don’t want to mess it up…#like I said im not the perfect purveyor of this dynamic that is definitely some of my mutuals but…#🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹#I love playing in this sandbox w yall #captaindiaz x buck1.0

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mayasaurusss · 5 months ago

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yoyoyoyo what if this time it’s reader who is a werewolf? and reader is with jackie, jackie doesn’t know until eventually she finds out because they panick and tell her. she is a little apprehensive but then she warms up to it. eventually she gets used to all of it, reader’s body heat, how they can retract their teeth, the way their eye colour changes. and in the bedroom? she wants to hear them growl in her hair and go absolutely primal as she gets strapped down just bc she’s a lovely pillow princess bunny. if it can be sweet and smutty that’d be awesomeee also keep up the good work ur writing is amazing ;)

-🫳

Hello new anon! Thank you for your request and encouragment! It's what keeps my blog going!

Contents: genderneutral reader, adult timeline Jackie, strap can be read as dick,smut.

The blood stuck to your skin like dried concrete; the smell of iron, which was so delicious before, now stanks and sticks to your bathroom walls, making the whole place smell like a butcher shop. You are lucky that today she's not home, having gone to meet up with her old soccer team from highschool. You are sure she would leave you instantly if she saw you like this, and would probably call the cops on you. You wouldn't blame her.

Keeping that secret of yours from your lovely girlfriend has proved to be a harder task than you had thought.

You scrub away at your skin with hot water and soap, resigning to tweeze out the bigger chunks with your fingers. When all is done, you find scratches on your skin, probably left from the struggle. Without a doubt, Jackie will ask you about them, and you will have a hard time explaining their source.

"A cat attacked me" or "I fell off the stairs" doesn't work anymore on her. And, if it happens one more time, she might start to think you are somehow cheating on her. With a sigh, you apply some concealer where the scars are, and hope for the best.

Jackie would take some time to get adjusted to all of...this. Now that your secret is out, you can let loose all those traits that you had suppressed in front of Jackie; and while she finds some of them cute, she's not a fan of others. She's especially not a fan of your shedding, having to clean for at least an hour after your transformation, with you looking and whining at her like a guilty puppy.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, nothing seems out of the ordinary. Good, you think. You clean the bathroom off of the countless of hair left from your shedding. The amount is probably enough to make a pelt out off. After a strenuous three hours, you are finally done, not a trace of hair left on the floor.

Now that that's taken care of, you can take a breath of relief.

But you can't help but wonder, what will you do when the full moon comes?

You, as reckless as ever, agreed to an indoor date with Jackie, not realizing that the moon would be full that night. You could try to make an excuse, but on the other hand, you could not say 'no' to her; she had a far too tight hold on your heart for you to deny her. You'll just have to tell her.

On the couch, with her head resting on your shoulder, Jackie doesn't seem to pick up on your weird vibe. You gulp down your fears, breathing through your nose before whispering to her "Jackie... I..." but you can feel the transformation getting a hold of you as soon as you speak. As your canines become too big, your nails too long and your body too large, you break out, escaping from the window and leaving Jackie behind.

Some time passess before you see her again. You had remained confined to the parks and green areas of Wisayok, moving only during the darkest hours, when no one was around; stress so heavy that you remained in your wolf form for several days.

The only reason Jackie found you, was because rumors had it that there was something roaming in town, and she, as usual, just picked herself up and acted with her guts rather than her brain. It took her a while to convince you to go back home with her: you were far too scared to know what she really thought of you. But as everyone around her always thought, her charisma would take her far, and you were back in her arms again.

But she can get through some things. Like, for example, your body heat. You had always avoided sleeping with Jackie too much, fleeing the aftermath of your lovemaking as soon as you possibly could. She never understood why, but as the heat from your body literally starts to suffocate her, she can take a guess. She has to admit that the first times she saw your canines grow when you were having a fight, or your eyes changing colour while on going the transformation freaked her out.

What she can get used to, is the power dynamic that plays in the bedroom. "Come on... please?" she has been nagging you on and on about this for half an hour by now; and having her arms draped over your shoulders while she tries to egg you on while you're studying, really doesn't help your case. "Okay... if I do it, will you promise to shut up later?" she jumps up on your lap, those eyes of her boring into yours with a heat that could melt you.

"Fuck!", she screams as you dick her down, her legs keeping your hips close to her. Despite the thickness of your wolf skin, you can still feel Jackie's nails leaving moon shaped dents on you. She trashes in your grasp, moving her hips in tandem with yours.

She pleads you to go faster, to fuck her properly; but you are too scared to hurt her, so you resign to going at a slow pace.

You didn’t know how far Jackie was willing to go to get what she wanted.

"What, can't do it?" she breathlessly asks. You can feel a building sense of annoyance in your stomach. You shouldn't listen to her. You know how she gets-.

"I... I should have known" there it is. You try to not let her words affect your impulses. You were already having a hard time controlling yourself and she's just egging you on.

The dirty glimmer in her eyes is the only clue you get, before she reaches for your ear and whispers.

"You know who would take care of me? Shauna".

Fuck it.

In a matter of seconds, you have left Jackie's pussy and rolled her over, pushing her upper body down on the mattress, slamming into her with every thrust.

She brought this to herself.

Did she want to see you at your worst? Wanted to see you at your most primal state, wanted you to treat her like the slut she was?

Well, she could fucking have it.

And Jackie? Oh she's absolutely loving this. She wants nothing more than to be taken by you, to feel your cock move inside of her, to hear you groan in her hair every time you speared her down.

Every thrust builds her up toward her own orgasm, tingling her body with pleasure. She couldn't help it, and yet she had only lasted a couple of minutes. She can feel incredibly close, but she needs a little incentive, and in this position, she can't reach her clit.

"S-shauna would fuck me harder" and that does it. You take her by her hips and drive into her so hard and good, that Jackie cums right away, eyes rolling into the back of her head as she screams her peak away. You don't stop until your legs get tired, and by the looks of it, once they do, Jackie had cummed several times, your cock wet with her release.

"Hey Jax..." Jackie is so out of it that she doesn't even answer you, just humms into the pillow, too fucked out to make a coherent sentence. "Are you okay?" you think you might have fucked her a little too good. The skin of her shoulder is red, her pussy clenching repeatedly as you speak to her.

"Hmmm".

You spend several minutes cleaning her up with a towel, giving her water and massaging her sore spots

When you are done, you get in bed with her, kissing her goodnight.

And Jackie thinks that maybe, she likes gentle you better.

But she's sooo gonna get dicked down as soon as possible.

#yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets x you #jackie taylor x you #jackie taylor x reader

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morganitering · 1 year ago

Text

Because I'm the Weakest II: The Women Who Never Won

Pairings/character dynamics: Satosugu, Shoko and reader, Nanami and reader, implied shoko x utahime

Contains and warnings: DARK FIC/DEAD DOVE fem!reader, Suicidal ideation, rape aftermath, referenced rape (not written out in this chap), depression, alcohol abuse, misogyny & sexism, internalized sexism, sexual harassment on minors done by minors, victim blaming (thoughts), self harm, angst, hurt & comfort, I call noncon with the official word for it

Word count: ~9,6k

Summary: There's certain desperation when you try to keep your head above water. You were drowning and all you wanted to do was to forget, the weight on your shoulders unbearable. Despite the cards you were dealt with you found yourself among allies as the web of untold memories started to unfold.

A/N: Hey! Yall waited long for this, sorry about that. I have no idea how to tag this but I'll just do it somehow, bc this is a tricky chapter. Here yall get to dive deeper in the stuff that has gone down before the events that took place in 1st chap and get a hug from Shoko. This is hopefully the last installment of this. Read the tags carefully as always and make informed decisions based on that and take care of yourself. Shit can get heavy, but I'm trying to do this in good taste.

Read on ao3 part I

Shoko Ieiri had worked a long time with people who suffered. She had seen it all, limbs cut off, even the toughest of sorcerers reduced to crying messes as they practically had their innards falling to the floor. There’s something utterly horrifying watching a patient, no – a friend scream in pain when even her skills were not enough. Funerals came and went, the white sheet thrown over the deceased on the operation table in the same routine way she’d change her linens. Nothing really shocked her.

That’s what she liked to think.

Your visits have been more frequent. It started with bruises and sprained ankles. Then it was broken bones that soon turned to puncture wounds, your clothes sticky with deep red and dirt. When she asked about it, you laughed it off saying it’s nothing, just a silly little mishap, “I was too reckless in the heat of the moment.” But your eyes were empty, your words hollow like a dead tree. Of course Shoko did her job, without asking too much. You’re an adult and you’ll speak about it if you want to, right? Her job was to keep you alive. Your job was to exorcise curses.

Shoko and you had been close too, hanging out with the two men, but at some point in high school she had withdrawn from the group. Gojo and Geto had tried to keep in touch with her in adulthood, inviting her as well to spend time together as the four of them, but she had always declined, smoothly changing their relationship to acquaintances at best. She heard enough of the despicable men from you. The only times she was in direct contact with Gojo and Geto was work related and god how she hoped that it would stay that way. She’ll play that pretend game almost happily.

Shoko closed the office door the day turning to evening, sundown coloring the city in hues of orange and yellow. She held onto her little black purse, thankfully it was friday. A man stood on the long corridor, standing upright as if he did not belong here. He looked indifferent, almost bored.

“Nanami.”

“Ieiri.”

They greeted each other with a curt nod.

“So what brings you here? You seem healthy enough,” Shoko asked as they walked to the open parking lot, only a few cars in sight. The warm summer sun caressed her cheeks, wind making her long hair flow in waves.

“I think she’s going through something,” Nanami stated as a matter of fact talking about you. He and you had gone on missions together, but something about you wasn’t right. He had seen the way you clutch your weapon, throw yourself at the enemy recklessly almost as if you had a death wish. It’s like you waited for your end.

“No shit.” Shoko chuckled amused. It was as clear as a day if you just had eyes on yourself. “Why do you care?”

“I’ve seen enough people spiral to know where it leads. You’re a healer, can’t you help?” His voice was thoughtful, not betraying a hint of emotions.

“I can’t help a person who doesn’t want it,” Shoko said. “But I’ll try to figure something out.”

“And that is enough. Thank you.”

***

You hated meetings and rarely took part in them if you could avoid them. You had not met Gojo or Geto after the unfortunate night. If there were some work related things where there was a possibility to meet either of the men, you requested to be part of them remotely or that someone would just forward the key points. But after doing this for a few months Yaga had sent you a passive-aggressive email writing that it is absolutely mandatory for you to show yourself at least once in a while. You didn’t bother to answer him with anything other than a polite see you there.

Honestly you were tired. Your whole body ached in overexertion. Sleep escaped from you, ran a marathon around the block never stopping at your house, and every time you seemed to catch a break, hazy images you rather forbid being real filled your vision. Your eyebags told a story of exhaustion, your body shrinking in every possible way away. You went to see a doctor, not Shoko, just some normal practitioner from the private sector that you ended up paying yourself sick for.

The doctor gave you pills to help you with sleep. He asked you if you were stressed or going through some sorts of crisis. You answered with a diligent no and explained that you’ve always had issues with sleep, but you were otherwise okay. He looked at you, raising his eyebrow in suspicion, the glasses on his head hung on his nose by a thread. He decided to believe you as he wrote the prescription, but insisted you took home pamphlets about depression and crisis hotlines.

You tried the pills. You did fall asleep, but only after a panic attack wrecked through your body as the effect of the medication forced you into a deep slumber. The pills made you feel your pulse in your whole body. “It’s a quite strong product, previously used to treat psychosis, but nowadays it’s for patients with severe insomnia. Take it one hour before sleep. The effect might be really sudden.”

When you woke up you decided to throw them away. It’s better to not to sleep if it meant that you’d go free from the horrors of the night you had experienced.

The huge meeting table sprawled out horizontally and was able to sit around fifteen people in it. It had several small electric outlets for computers and tablets. Light poured in from the big windows, the blinds only halfway done. You stared at the weird scribbling on the white board that Principal Yaga was wiping furiously, muttering things about how students shouldn’t be let in this room under any circumstance since they can’t differentiate which markers are okay to use on it.

You exchanged pleasantries with him. The room was devoid of people since you were too early. You swung your leather bag on the back of the upholstered office chair and sat yourself down.

Shoko walked in and her face lit up a little bit when she saw you sitting there. It was subtle, you thought that you were maybe the only one who could differentiate that expression from her. She sat next to you, a faint hint of neroli wrapping you to its calming aroma.

Next came Meimei and then Utahime who came running to you two giving a happy hug to Shoko. They were so cute together, you thought to yourself as you fidgeted with your slightly too big shoes, constantly removing them and pushing them back to your feet. People don’t usually like small talk, but nonetheless the group chatted with each other. They had to, because it’s polite and you were coworkers. You thought that small talk was easy. The script of it was burnt to your brains for the rest of your life. You get to keep people at an arm's length and keep up appearances, so what’s there not to like?

A familiar blonde man stood in the doorway. You checked your phone for the time. Only five minutes before the official start. Yuki also appeared after Nanami.

“Hello,” he said and nodded at you as he sat himself next to you. Your whole body stiffened around him. It was hard to look him in the eyes and even harder to work missions with.

It was ten minutes past the official time when the meeting was supposed to start.

“Sorry we are late.” Two men marched in the room with confident strides and took their place in front of you facing you, that was sitting in between Nanami and Shoko, Utahime next to the doctor. Suguru sat down next to Yuki leaving a space for Satoru who had Meimei next to him.

Hearing Suguru’s voice made your skin crawl.

“It’s fine,” Yaga said and looked over his shoulder to look at the white screen he had pulled down earlier with only a blue screen reflecting on the fabric. “I can’t seem to get this work anyway,” he mumbled.

“Do you need help?” Suguru walked over to the man struggling over his laptop. “Have you checked the HDMI-cable?”

“Of course I have, I just don’t understand why it won't work. We have Ijichi remote today,” he muttered partially to himself.

“Let me.”

You sat fidgeting on your chair focusing on everything else than the two men and their presence that suffocated you. If you were a candle they’d be snuffing you out but not properly, no, that would be too kind. They’d always let enough air in so that you’d never be completely put out.

“Hello to you girls.. and Nanami,” Satoru flashed a playful grin at the four of you. Your head jerked involuntarily to look at the man. Thank god he has a habit of covering his eyes, but somehow that made him even worse.

“Hello. How are you?” Nanami nodded politely.

“I’m well. Hopefully the work isn’t stressing you out too much.” Satoru’s smile widened.

“Speaking of work, I’ve heard that you and her have started doing missions together,” Satoru nudged his head towards you as he spoke directly to Nanami. “I actually green lighted the idea of sorcerers working more together. It’s good to practice teamwork and I put in good words for the two of you, since you compliment each other with the techniques you have. ” Satoru moved his head to look your way as he drew out his words in a way that you’d be sure to catch the dual meaning.

The wall flashed a few times showing the computer screen and it’s default wallpaper for only a moment and after that went back to blue.

“An idea that I actually can get behind,” Nanami said agreeably.

Your eye twitched.

“Really? That was your doing?” You barely hid the anger of your voice. One more push and you’d pour your life savings on an amoral hitman, not that you’d believe that anyone could finish him off. It was a thought just for you so you could at least think about being mean in your own petty way.

“Not a fan of working in groups of two? How about in groups of three?”

“You fucking piece of-”

“Okay I think it’s working now,” Yaga put his hands together straightening himself properly. Suguru walked over to Satoru, slightly shaking his head before he sat down. You heard Utahime’s quiet “okayy..” whispered in the awkward silence.

“Unfortunately principal Gakuganji wasn’t able to make it today, he’s sick or something.”

You heard Gojo scoff audibly.

“Try to respect him.” Yaga shot a glare in the young teacher’s way.

“Ijichi and Nitta have gathered data about the hotspots of cursed activity,” he continued and opened up the window to teams only to be greeted by a tired looking black haired man in a suit. The background behind him was red, it looked like some type of wallpaper and small paintings covered the walls. You reckoned it was a hotel room. Or a motel, you really could not tell.

“Ijichi, do you hear me? Would you like to take over?” Yaga’s voice boomed louder as if he wasn’t already near his computer.

The grainy picture of the tired man smiling uncomfortably stayed still a little too long to be taken as a real time reaction to Yaga’s question.

“I hear you. Sorry, the connection here is a bit bad.” Ijichi’s voice echoed in the office room. The picture of a slideshow appeared on the wall, making Ijichi’s face smaller.

The map of Tokyo loomed on the wall as everyone stared at it intensely, more or less dozing off. Some parts of it had big red circles on them and Ijichi explained the way these places were having exceptionally heavy activity. He reckoned that partially the rise in activity tied to the sorcerers working more missions together leaving less people available. Ijichi also showed statistics comparing the effectiveness of sorcerers based in Tokyo and Kyoto.

You were about to lose your mind, your body still pumping adrenaline after the conversation with Gojo. Everyone else seemed to be bored, oblivious to your struggle. Satoru had yawned at least three times in the last ten minutes, Shoko and Utahime were both interested in their nails. Even Suguru looked tired and he was pretty good at hiding his thoughts. The only ones who did not look outwardly dead inside were Yaga and Nanami.

“Thank you Ijichi for your hard work,” Yaga said and Ijichi nodded smiling. The pop up of the slideshow vanished from the screen leaving Ijichi’s face in a huge resolution looming onto the wall.

“We are going to take in account the effects of pairing up sorcerers. I’m not entirely in charge of how long this trial will take,” Yaga said. “Ieiri has this trial affected the health care aspect in any way?”

Shoko cleared her throat tapping open the ipad in front of her, her nails making a satisfying click click sound.

“The injuries have lessened,” she started. That’s good, you thought. “But the severity has increased,” she said with a serious face.

“Why is that?” Principal scrunched his eyebrows together.

“In my professional opinion it is due to people being more brazen when having a partner. This can be seen especially in lower grade sorcerers, who are prone to believing that they are invincible when someone backs them up.” Everyone had turned to look at the doctor who played with her hair idly as she spoke.

“And the second grade and up?”

“It happens less. But there are some, even first grade sorcerers, who are accident prone,” Shoko said and quickly looked at you, not long enough for others to pick up on that she was speaking about you.

Gojo’s phone rang in the middle of the conference. He left the room with an apology and never came back. Relief and anger ignited in you playing tug of war in your heart as your eyes followed him bitterly.

“I think this is all. I’ll send everyone the upcoming jobs, but if no one has anything to say, I think we can conclude this meeting here,” Yaga said, the choir of thank yous and goodbyes filling the room.

You stretched yourself, happy to be on your feet again.

“Hey, can we talk?” Nanami tried to get your attention.

You stood in the room that was quickly emptying out of people. Shoko awkwardly hung around in a small distance from you and Nanami, trying to pretend that she wasn’t listening to your conversation.

“I don’t entirely understand the conversation between you and Gojo, but if I have somehow disrespected you I offer my deepest apologies.” Nanami’s voice was soft. Your heart ached as you realized how bad your words must have appeared to him.

“I’m so sorry. It’s not about you. You’ve done nothing..” You trailed off as you saw the tall curse eating man walk outside with a sly smile on his lips.

“That’s a relief but if I may be so blunt, I have a hunch that there is something bothering you,” Nanami said.

You looked at him and chewed your lower lip nervously. This was all their fault. If they had not done what they did, you would not be in this position. The least they could have done is to keep the names of people you know out of their mouths.

“I’m sorry to leave you hanging like this, but can we finish this conversation later?” You hurried past him, only hearing Nanami mumble the word ‘sure’ like a kicked puppy and you said goodbye to Shoko agreeing on staying in touch with her.

The corridor was almost empty as you walked through the school building frantically searching for that bastard of a man. Your footsteps echoed on the wood as you arrived at a not so well known exit of the building. Geto stood in front of the dual doors, half heartedly pushing it open as he furiously wrote something on his phone.

You yelled out his name, but he did not bother to react to you. You closed in on the man that was still standing back towards you. Anger surged in you as adrenaline made you braver than what you normally would be. You were supposed to just grab the ends of his hair that were sprawled across his back, but in the heat of the moment your impulse control had another lapse as you kept on raising your hand. A fist closed around the bun that had been carefully crafted on his scalp and you dug your fingers around the hair tie and then yanked, hard.

“What the hell are you doing?!” He turned around stepping out of the doorway letting it close properly with a thump and he closed the distance between you for good. His eyes shot daggers at you.

“You did not pay attention to me.” You shook your hand out of the spare strands that were stuck on your palm and offered the small hair tie back to him.

“Well you got it now,” he hissed. “You can keep that as a souvenir. I don’t want anything that a filthy bitch like you has touched,” he said, the calm composure nowhere in sight.

A filthy bitch? Really? Then maybe you should break up with Satoru if this is your deal breaker.. That’s what you wanted to say, but you held back your tongue.

Geto took a deep breath, calming himself down, slipping on the mask that you were more used to seeing. He put his phone back in his pocket.

“What do you want?”

“You told me,” you started, tears threatening to flow over. “You told me that I can just leave and do whatever I want. Why do you keep tormenting me? Why do you let Gojo do what he does?” Your voice broke as you started crying openly. You hated it, it made you weak. No. You were weak.

“Firstly, I’m not his guardian. He can do what he wants.” He sounded like a smartass.

“Second of all, never. And I repeat. Never, lay a hand on me ever again, especially on my hair.” You rolled your eyes.

Of course it was the hair that ticked him off completely. It was his crown, the only thing he had ever been able to take care of besides Satoru. Suguru loved to flaunt himself as the calm one, the kind one, but the exterior had always had some cracks in it. No amount of paint was able to hide the rotten wall behind it.

“I can forgive your outburst at Satoru’s, but now that you’re in your right mind, you won’t get second chances.”

“I don’t want ‘second chances’. I want you to leave me the fuck alone so I can do my job,” you yelled at him.

“Lower your voice. Or do you want to air out all the dirty laundry for everyone?” Geto hushed you.

“It’s not my ‘laundry’, it’s fucking yours!” You roared and tears fell down your cheeks blurring your vision. Your face felt hot as it got wrapped in the wrath of your words.

Geto did not answer you, instead he chose to stare you down, not moving at all as if he was a statue. He looked like a child throwing a tantrum when things did not go his way, his face contorting to a sneer that could challenge any rich spoiled brat. You panted and wiped your face with the rough backside of your palm.

“Move.”

“Ladies first,” he snickered childishly and kicked open the heavy door with his foot as he stepped slightly to the side. God this man hangs out too much with Gojo.

As you left the school grounds barely holding your breakdown away, there was one figure in the corridors hugging the wall near the exit, clutching onto her purse.

***

SHOKO’S MEMORIES, 2006

“Truth or dare?” Satoru asked, popping the pink bubblegum in the air, sucking the sticky material back in his mouth to chew on loudly.

“Truth,” Shoko said, placing another cigarette in her mouth. She smoked especially heavily when she was drinking.

Satoru had managed to bring a whole six pack of beer to the picnic whereas Suguru had found a travel size vodka bottle from his parents. Shoko had brought a package of different berries and salty crackers with her.

“If you could have any technique in the world, which one would you have?” Satoru asked. He looked at the clear blue sky and the way the summer breeze pushed on the white clouds.

Shoko played with the corner of the blanket as she thought deeply about his question. She stared at the shoes she had placed on the grass and the manicure on her toes that Utahime had insisted on putting on her.

“I think I’d keep this one,” she smiled wistfully.

“Really? You wouldn’t want my powers?” Satoru looked at her tilting his head to the side. He spat out the chewing gum and placed it on the plastic lid that belonged to the packaging of berries. He did not like it when things ran out of flavor, always searching for something more.

“No. I don’t envy you at all. I just want a happy life and that’s all” Shoko answered his gaze, with a gentle smile. “Besides, I like the way I am and I suppose I can help people like this,” she added.

Satoru hummed. He was clearly dissatisfied with the answer.

He did not exactly know why.

“Satoru, that's sad. You should ask something fun,” Suguru pointed out and took a sip from the beer can.

The three of them sat on a grassy hill that had a pretty decent view of the city and the park below it. Shoko leaned against the huge tree behind her back. The cicadas were performing their own concert with the hum of motorways working as their orchestra.

“You figure out better questions then,” Satoru pouted, but wasn’t actually hurt.

“Isn’t it my turn to ask though?”

Shoko looked in the distance watching closely how a woman jogged with her shiba inu, her ponytail swishing in the same rhythm as the chord of her headphones. Both men nodded slightly out of sync.

“Satoru truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Who’s the hottest person you know?” Her eyes twinkled teasingly.

“Waka Inoue of course. She’s sexy as hell!” Satoru slapped his hand on his heart as if he was saluting.

“Really? You still have a crush on her?” Suguru questioned. It was his turn to pout. “Am I not enough?”

“Baby you’re plenty, but you can’t replace a huge rack,” Satoru’s voice was steady as if he was talking about the most important thing in the whole world.

“I can’t argue with that.” Suguru sighed defeatedly, his shoulders slumping down dramatically.

“Ugh. I shouldn’t have asked that. Both of you are so weird and gross about women,” Shoko grimaced regretting her decisions and lifted the cigarette to her mouth as if to cover the bad taste of Satoru’s words.

The man in sunglasses ignored the criticizing words. “Suguru. Truth or dare?”

“Dare.”

“I dare you to share this,” Satoru lifted up a huge strawberry. “Like in Lady and the Tramp with Shoko,” he referred to the scene where the two dogs shared a spaghetti meal, eventually kissing.

“That’s too small!” Shoko protested immediately, shaking her head. The idea of doing that with Suguru made her feel iffy.

“I’m game if she is,” Suguru said and offered his palm to Satoru who plopped the berry in his hands.

Shoko had a nervous giggle come out of her.

“C’mon, it’s just a game. You can always let go after like one bite. This is truth or dare afterall,” Satoru coaxed.

“Fine. But I won’t kiss you, not even a peck.” Shoko established her own rule and rolled her eyes. She put out the cigarette on the grass and left the butt there.

“We’ll see about that,” Suguru laughed and picked at the stem that got thrown over next to the chewed up gum.

He awkwardly came closer to the young female student and placed the bigger end between his lips. He looked silly, the red end peeking out of his mouth. Suguru attempted at mouthing the words ‘come closer’, but neither Satoru or Shoko understood his words but the context clue carried the point to Shoko.

She got on her knees sitting on top of her legs and straightened herself out. Suguru was way taller than her, even when he sat. Her face approached Suguru’s who had a pink tint on his cheeks from the alcohol he had drank.

She opened her mouth and barely bit down on the smaller end, her tongue touching the bumpy texture of the strawberry.

“Ready. Set. Go!” Satoru exclaimed, motioning finger guns happily. His gaze was completely glued on his two friends.

Suguru closed his eyes and he started to carefully nibble, closing dangerously on Shoko’s lips. She bit quickly, not really tasting anything and began to pull away in hopes of Suguru calling it quits too.

Unfortunately she wasn’t fast enough. The last bits of strawberry fell down on Shoko’s lap when Suguru pressed his lips against hers, a faint red trail dripping on her chin. She didn’t move and her eyes widened in shock. Shoko didn’t know what to do so she just held her hands on her lap.

Suguru pet gently behind the girl’s head kissing her motionless lips. His hand trailed down to her neck and all the way to her shoulder. Shoko felt the sweet taste in her mouth mixing with the alcohol, stranger’s saliva and nicotine as Suguru dragged his hand to the mound of her breast. The warmth emanating from his palm was enough to bring her back to reality and Shoko pushed the bigger guy off of her.

“Why did you do that?” she snapped and crossed her arms.

“Oh don’t get angry now. Have a drink and chill out.” Satoru sighed. He shuffled awkwardly and placed the almost empty tote bag on his lap and grabbed a new beer can from there. Shoko narrowed her eyes in suspicion, but did not want to make room for any weird thoughts that would imply even weirder things. “It’s just a joke.”

“This is not the first time you take jokes too far.”

Shoko looked away from the two boys, disappointment turning into an ache in her heart and wiped her chin clean from the strawberry. She slipped on the ballerinas laying on the ground.

“Seriously? You’re leaving because of this?” Suguru tilted his head, his voice defensive.

Shoko threw her cigarettes and lighter in her own purse checking the blanket for other stuff she had.

“Yeah, I am. I’m not having fun anymore.” Her voice was cold as she was attempting to hide the nervous tremble in her body and almost jumped up throwing the bag on her shoulder. She turned around, once again crossing her hands against her chest as if to protect herself and started walking.

“Hey! Don’t you want your blanket with you?” Satoru yelled after her. The two guys sat on the quilt completely bamboozled.

“Keep it! I don’t need it!”

She didn’t eat strawberries for the rest of the summer.

***

“Hey you really should sing this one!” Shoko laughed as she scrolled through the song list.

“Whaat? No that’s not even funny,” you laughed and slapped her arm gently.

“Is it really not? Or are you just a bore?” Shoko taunted getting ready to put the song on.

“Can we sing something from this?” You pointed at the category called 2000’s hits.

“I’ll pick something at random and you’re just going to deal with it,” Shoko laughed clearly tipsy too after the multiple drinks you both had drank.

The disco ball was spinning around the small room painting the walls in hues of blue, red and green. Nanami sat on the couch nursing his whiskey as he stared off into space. The upbeat music filled the room, bass shaking the ground underneath your feet.

It was the first time going out after the events at Gojo’s house. Shoko had basically begged you to come with her to get shit faced complaining that she really needed someone to rant with. You told her that Utahime was right there and would probably love to listen to her, but she claimed that the woman from Kyoto had other plans for the weekend.

After arriving at the karaoke bar you had been taken back after seeing the stoic blonde man at the venue. You weighed the option of immediately leaving in your head, but your conscience did not allow you to do so, after leaving him so rudely hanging in the meeting. When the three of you had gotten your own private room you decided to immediately order shots and drinks with the only goal of getting absolutely black out drunk tonight despite having Nanami there.

It was honestly rare to see him after work as he had preferred to keep his distance. He was wearing the same clothing he always wore, dress shirt ironed, necktie perfectly hanging against his chest as if he was on the clock. You wouldn’t have been surprised if he were to whip out a cursed tool onto the bar table.

You clutched onto the microphone singing unevenly as you danced to the beat, half of the syllables disappearing to you being out of breath. Shoko cackled, almost folding over as she kept slapping her thigh eyes watering. She had drunk a few drinks less than you and she had been exceptionally happy even before drinking. Truthfully Shoko was quite a heavy drinker and she definitely should not have been as wasted as what she appeared to be.

Nanami stared at the both of you, raising the whiskey glass to his lips after checking his wrist watch.

“Come here! Sing with us!” You yelled to the mic only getting a slightly alarmed expression out of him as he shook his head.

“I think I’m okay with watching you two perform,” he said.

You pouted but kept on singing, your concentration skills nonexistent. You did not notice the way Shoko glared at him, nudging her head towards you as she pointed the microphone in her hand towards him.

Nanami cleared his throat under the threatening gaze and clumsily got up.

“Oh my god! Nanamiii!” You screamed the noise so high pitched that even the speakers were unable to handle it and you could see how Nanami cringed at the sound.

Shoko squinted her eyes and mouthed the word sing to Nanami. Shoko was not going to deal with you alone.

The combination of the pop song and Nanami’s voice made you giggle as you hurrayed him happily. He was not a bad singer by any means, but his voice did not fit the song choice. You wondered to yourself, why had you not gotten shitfaced earlier when you had all the good reasons to.

Shoko decided to take a small break sitting on the spot where Nanami had been earlier and inspected the brown liquid swishing in the glass. She stole a sip from it when Nanami wasn’t watching, not really caring about the fact that it wasn’t her drink.

You grabbed your drink from the table and drank from it and you kept on singing happily, almost jumping around. Nanami looked at you with a terrified expression when you moved side to side with the drink spilling on your hand, but you did not notice the wetness of it.

“Hey, put that down before you drop the glass,” Nanami said and gently tried to take the glass from you.

“No, I want to keep this,” a pout formed on your face but you still did what he told and turned around swiftly to place the drink on the counter. Your vision was blurry, the lights slightly too bright and you lost your balance tipping over the glass that was already safely on the table. You felt yourself starting to fall but a strong arm snaked around your waist to stabilize you.

The world felt like it was stopping when the arm around you changed into a tight rope that pressed around your ribcage. The karaoke room changed inch by inch to a vast room with a wall made of windows with a night view of the streets of Tokyo. The shattered drink turned into a broken light bulb on the floor. You felt a hot breath on your skin, but your body had gotten cold. It was as if you had been dunked into ice water, all the earlier excitement completely vanished. The disco ball spun around casting blue lights on the white haired man’s face that ogled you like a piece of meat. The imagery was so vivid and real in your mind that you reacted on instinct, elbowing the man behind you.

The rope vanished around you as the windows melted to the concrete floor, the shadows of city lights turned back to the tacky illumination of the disco ball. You felt the remnants of cursed energy fizzing out like a soda can as your eyes landed on Nanami, who was slightly hunched over holding onto his side the pain making him grimace. You had no idea how much force you had actually used, but probably quite a lot judging by the way Nanami was reacting.

Shoko stood there completely still, eyes filled to the brim with worry and confusion. Her lips were ajar and she gulped down wanting to say something, but she did not know what.

“My apologies. I didn't mean to touch you inappropriately,” Nanami managed to say. The music track played in the background, but it felt empty without a drunken voice guiding it. He was lucky to have good reflexes, instinctually protecting himself from the blow, otherwise Shoko would have had a patient off the clock.

“Uh,” Your mouth gaped at him hopelessly. He had done nothing wrong.

“I’ll go for a cigarette,” you blurted out and left the room hurriedly. The long hallway stretched in front of your eyes as you looked at the numbers on karaoke booths, only muted colors flashing through the slightly translucent doors. You leaned on the wall as you dragged your feet forward arriving at the front desk that thanked you for your time, but you did not pay attention to them and turned to your left to stare at the steep stairway.

The steps were made out of wood with a black paint that had started to chip away and the walls were pure red, too bright and intense for your eyes. You focused on the door in front of you and barely saw the red walls around it as they got covered by a dark cloud, your way of seeing more animalistic than human.The only thing in your mind was the need to get some fresh air as emotions threw you around like a shipwreck at the sea.

You pushed the door open and walked over to a bicycle stand choosing an empty spot where you plopped yourself on. You rocked yourself back and forth as you cried and gripped onto your skin painfully hoping that at least the physical sensation would put an end to your suffering. You started to be more aware of the familiar banging against your skull.

The door of the karaoke bar opened as Shoko walked outside, her face now serious, resembling more the woman she was at work than the friend giggling at drunk people's jokes.

“Hey. You forgot this inside.” She handed you your bag.

You wanted to answer something but you could not as the words got stuck to your throat. Your world flashed back and forth between sensations that you weren’t supposed to feel in this moment. The guilt and sadness ate you alive, nipping away from your vitals the more you tried to push them down.

Shoko placed a cigarette between her lips and lit it up and offered it to you. You took it gladly off her hands inhaling the sweet smoke, but you almost ended up suffocating on it as your nose was too stuffed to handle it. Even the menthol taste was unable to help you with this issue. Shoko opened the green box once more to get herself a smoke as well.

She took a drag out of it and watched your shuddering figure.

“I saw you in the hallway with Geto. Something happened at Gojo’s right?”

You lifted your head up mascara running on your cheeks. Had you not been in such a bad state her words would have shocked you.

“I can’t help you if you don’t want my help.” Shoko crouched down to your level. You stared at her face as she left out a puff of smoke that trailed around her face, the dark eye bags now more visible than ever.

You choked on your tears once more, now openly wailing on the pavement your fingers digging into the soft flesh of your arm. You dragged your nails across yourself leaving pink trails behind it, the soft tingle covering the areas you had just clawed at.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you cried, your words hard to decipher as your breath hitched. “I can’t keep on doing this. It’s all my fault. I’m so stupid,” you screamed snot falling onto your shirt.

“So fucking stupid!” You impulsively pressed the cigarette butt against your thigh melting the cloth away the stinging pain shocking you as your skin shed its layers against the fire.

You had no shame in your breakdown, frankly you did not even recognize the others that looked in your way speaking with hushed voices around you, as they tightened the grip on their partners hands. “That girl really needs to lay off the drinks,” someone had said loudly. Shoko had wanted to immediately pounce, but she held herself together. She knew that you needed her more.

“Don’t hurt yourself, when you want to hurt someone else,” her voice was just a whisper. “Can I touch you?” She asked not wanting to trigger you further. You nodded.

Shoko pulled you into a tight hug and you buried your face on her chest, holding onto her like it was the last thing keeping you afloat. You seeked comfort in her presence.

“I want to die.” You gripped onto her tighter. “I’m so weak.”

Shoko stroked your hair, her own eyes watering as she listened to you wordlessly. She felt your pain almost just as viscerally as you were experiencing them now.

“No matter… no matter what I do. I can’t escape them. I just want to be gone. I want to-”

Shoko shushed you and slipped her free hand into her pocket, digging out her phone. Almost ten minutes had gone by. She awkwardly opened her chat with Nanami trying to inform the man who was probably still sitting in their booth waiting for the two of you to come back.

A male voice disturbed the two of you. “Is everything okay?”

Shoko pressed her hand on your shoulder pushing herself up from the ground, she whispered to you to stay put, not that you really were in any condition to go anywhere.

“Good that you’re here. I was just about to text you. Can you get us a taxi?”

“Of course,” he said and opened the app punching in your address that Shoko forwarded to him. He looked so much older and out of place in the busy street.

This was the kind hearted and lovely Nanami that had forgiven you immediately, after you had punched him in the gut because you were fucked up in the head. The kind hearted and lovely Nanami that you couldn’t look in the eyes, because of a certain man whose name you felt like acid on the tip of your tongue. The thoughts in your head brought fresh tears to your eyes. You dangerously sailed in the deep waters of suicidal ideation, your tired hands opening the forbidden door.

“It’s going to arrive in five minutes,” Nanami hummed.

“I think you should go. I’ll handle this,” Shoko said, her voice full of pity. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Nanami nodded in agreement.

“For what it’s worth, take care of yourself too.” Nanami’s words were carefully chosen, anticipating that you weren’t the only one who needed a hug.

***

SHOKO’S MEMORIES, YEAR 2006

The beach was filled with people who enjoyed the way the sun spoiled them with its warmth. Shoko was sitting on a towel next to Mei Mei who applied generous amounts of sunscreen on her hand. They sat underneath a parasol that had been propped in the sand, covering them both from the direct sun. The brown haired girl watched as Utahime excitedly threw herself to the water. She had given up on trying to get Shoko and Mei Mei in the water as well.

“Mei Mei, don’t you have a lot of experience with boys?” Shoko almost whispered and hugged her legs. Her beach shawl swayed when the breeze decided to start playing with the huge piece of cloth.

“Are you trying to imply something?” Her voice was low and melodic but not at all accusatory.

“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to ask you something.” Shoko shook her head flustered. “Is it normal for a guy to kiss a girl without asking?”

Mei Mei burst into laughter. This was the question Shoko was getting all worked up for?

“Shoko,” Mei Mei’s eyes glimmered softly when she said the younger girl’s name with gentleness that reminded her of a mother tugging a child into bed. “I did not take you for being this innocent,” she teased.

“I’m not innocent,” the brown haired girl huffed with the unexpected blush decorating her cheeks.

“Did someone do that to you?” Mei Mei tilted her head curiously and offered the sunscreen bottle to Shoko who happily took it to her hands.

“If I tell you, will you promise that you won’t tell anyone?”

“If I’m honest, I don’t think I care enough to tattle. You got me curious now. Tell me,” she hummed as a smile curled on her lips.

“Well uh.. Suguru kind of kissed me when we were playing truth or dare with Satoru,” Shoko explained . She ran her hand between the warm sand, the grainy texture giving her something else to think about. “It was a stupid dare on Satoru’s part. Dunno why I accepted it.”

Shoko added that she did not want to kiss him under any circumstances but the boy had managed to go over her boundary with ease.

“That’s it?” Mei Mei asked, raising her eyebrow. She was almost bewildered at how tame the story was.

“Yeah.”

The blue haired woman scoffed.

“Guys think that girls like it when they take control and in a certain sense they are right. Maybe they got their eyes on you? Although, I did think that Suguru and Satoru were..” Mei Mei’s voice trailed off as she thought. “It doesn’t matter.” She concluded.

“If I were you. I’d go along with it.” Mei Mei suggested.

“No way. I don’t like them like that. Besides that’s not what I asked for your opinion on.”

“And?” Mei Mei turned her gaze on Shoko, her eyes hardening as she intensely stared at the younger girl. “Those two men are our generation’s strongest and you’re going to complain that one of them gave you a little kiss?”

Mei Mei’s melodic voice dropped lower as she showed her true feelings of distaste towards Shoko’s views.

“If I were you,” she started again, her voice tough and bitter. “I’d be securing my spot by their side and not planning to bring forth meaningless accusations over a game of truth or dare.”

Shoko was at loss with the things that were being said to her. Now that she thought about it, maybe it wasn’t the best idea to speak with Mei Mei.

“I did not say I was going to tell anyone,” her voice was squeaky like a little girl’s.

“But you thought about that right?” Shoko did not deny nor confirm the accusation.

Mei Mei’s face softened. “Shoko, you’re a smart girl. You should know better than to get shaken by two boys, especially when you so eagerly lead them on.“

“..I don’t lead them on.”

“Then stop meeting them in your spare time. If you do that, guys will think that you’re willing. You’re not a kid anymore, they do notice that you’re a woman now.”

She stayed quiet, Mei Mei’s words burning on her skin worse than the summer heat. She did not want guys thinking about her that way. She simply wanted to be their friend and the idea of boys and girls being unable to do that because of bodily differences made Shoko shudder.

“You want to help your friends, right?” Mei Mei asked when Utahime got out of the water.

Shoko nodded.

“Then become a doctor. That’s the best you can do to others with the technique you have.” Her words were probably meant to be comforting, but they made Shoko’s heart sink to the bottom of the ocean.

“Shookoo!” Utahime ran towards the two girls sitting on the beach towels.

“Are you willing to swim now?” Sand and water droplets clung onto her radiant skin that the younger girl admired silently. Shoko felt her heart skip a few times in her chest when Utahime offered her hand to her.

“Sure.” The shy smile stretched on Shoko’s lips.

“I’ll stay here. But you guys have fun.” Mei Mei announced as she opened the book next to her the pages slightly crumpled up.

Shoko did not really register Mei Mei’s voice anymore. She grabbed Utahime’s hand and the world slowly faded away around them.

****

Shoko went through the bathroom nimbly avoiding piles of clothing or takeout bags as she looked through your bathroom cupboard. She found a bag of half used cotton pads and a micelar water from the mess.

The taxi drive had felt like eternity. Your tears had dried before settling in the car and numbness had taken over. Shoko helped you to your bed and said that she’d come back soon, closing the door behind her giving you some space to change into something more comfortable.

The door opened. Shoko looked at you and sat on the bed. You were using a pillow as a support for your back. The night lamp’s warm color casted shadows around your puffy face. The woman shook the bottle in her hand and poured liquid on the white cotton pad and tilted your face towards hers.

She pressed the pad on your eyelid carefully letting the mixture soak through the heaps of makeup on your face. You sniffled sadly before speaking.

“I can do this on my own too.”

“I want to do this,” her voice was soft as she spoke the makeup remover leaving your skin slightly cold. You simply nodded and admired the way her hair framed her face.

“You know I’ve had my own bad experiences too,” Shoko said, her face turning to a slight frown. Her mind was sailing in memories that she had given up on trying to understand.

You were at a loss of words. You wanted to pry, but it felt invasive.

“With them? Really?” You heard yourself asking as you danced on the line of impropriety.

“Yeah,” Shoko hummed, “but we shouldn’t have this conversation yet. Maybe in the morning, but not now,” she tried to make her voice sound brighter, feel brighter as if it would fix everything.

“Okay,” you said. Maybe she’s right about this. Shoko discarded the dirty cotton pad, simply placing it on the bedside table. It was at its limits the whole thing turned into the color of your foundation with the small black streaks of your mascara on it, or what was left from it.

She held onto your face gently for a moment too long even after she was done. You opened your eyes to really look at her. She looked so sad and.. young? Yes young was the right word. She looked like a woman robbed out of something sacred. She had been so happy, so easy to excite in her youth, but now all she seemed to carry was baggage.

Your drunken mind wanted to close the distance, but something held you back. Maybe it was all the answers that were still being withheld by her, maybe it was the understanding that it’s not the right time yet.

“Can you stay the night?” you whispered. Shoko breathed in and opened her mouth to say something, but you were faster. “Please? Th-there’s some clothes you can borrow in my closet.”

She stayed quiet and you waited patiently.

“I’ll stay.”

You smiled weakly at her and muttered a gentle thank you. She shuffled up from the bed and walked over the closet you had pointed for her. You turned your back to her when you heard the rustling of clothing that she ended up piling up neatly on one of the spare chairs in your bedroom.

You fluffed up the pillow next to you and lifted up the blanket when she climbed in. You turned your back to her as you lay down on your side. Your hand searched the light switch and then the room was pitch black.

Shoko awkwardly came closer to you till your back was against hers and she played with your hair idly in the silence. The touch was friendly, your body slumping in relaxation almost immediately. It was nice to have someone there. You had gotten so used to being afraid of the nights.

“Good night,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Night.”

***

You woke up alone with no trace of the woman in your room. She had gotten up earlier than you and dressed up back to the clothes she had in the bar. You hugged your plush blanket, almost burying your whole face underneath it, not ready to face the day.

Your head hurt and you felt nauseous. How is Shoko even able to do things? You wondered to yourself.

The faint knock on the bedroom door disrupted your thoughts as the door opened slightly.

“I made a sandwich for you and found some painkillers, if you want any,” she said and you heard her steps further away again.

You groaned and threw the blanket away from your body, the cold greeting you roughly.

Your kitchen had gotten miraculously cleaner, the multiple empty beer cans piled in a bag and the dishwasher hummed quietly. You stared at the brown table in front of you that had two sandwiches and glasses of water on it, hunger long gone from your body.

“You really should drink less.” Shoko picked up another empty can from the counter just to place it in the bag.

“Like you’re the one to talk.” You sat on the chair with its legs squeaking against the floor with your rough treatment.

You grabbed the pill bottle and rattled out two tablets that you threw in your mouth and drank barely enough water to chase them down.

“What do you remember?” Shoko asked and sat in front of you. She wasn’t feeling very hungry either.

“I remember punching Nanami and the talk we had before we fell asleep,” you mumbled, playing with the edges of the slightly crusty lettuce between your sandwich. You had meant to use it on a salad a few days ago, but you were too tired to cook for yourself. Even the simple things were hard. “What did I tell you?”

“Nothing. You were just crying.”

Oh. So it was like that.

“They assaulted me.” Your face was stern, emotions hidden behind a wall. The words felt weird. It was the first time you had actually said it out loud.

Shoko’s face widened from shock.

“They what?”

“Don’t make me repeat it,” you hissed.

“Sorry, I won’t.”

The silence felt unbearable and you stuffed your face full of bread just to do something.

“They did something similar when we were still in school.” Shoko ripped the hangnail painfully from her skin and pressed on the miniscule wound with one of her fingers.

You chewed the sandwich aggressively without tasting anything, the texture turning to mush in your mouth.

“Why didn’t you warn me?” Your words were way more accusatory than what you wanted.

Shoko turned her head to the side looking hurt by your sudden outburst. Her eyebrows scrunched together in pain as she looked for the perfect words, but there were none.

“You admired them. I didn’t want to take that away from you, and when I realized that I probably should have said..”

“Bullshit, Shoko. It’s been ten years. I deserved to know, you could have-”

“Stop blaming me for their shit!” she yelled. Shoko never yells.

You fell quiet. You reined in your anger, its hands still attempting to reach out to anything it could latch on. She was right. It’s not her burden to bear, but you still couldn’t help but feel powerless, when there could have theoretically been someone who could have told you to not go there.

“Sorry,” you simply said just to drop the topic. Shoko sighed defeatedly and pushed her head briefly against her hands. She understood the anger, she really did.

“They drugged me and then raped me together. I don’t remember a lot from it. I fought back – well attempted to,” your voice shook as you spoke.

The brown haired woman simply looked at you with silent empathy.

“Did you at least get one good punch in?”

Your lips curled into a downhearted smile. The memory of your feeble fight playing in your mind, the weakness and despair of it all, a futile attempt of a prey to preserve their life just one moment longer.

“Not a single one,” you laughed hollowly as one tear rolled on your cheek and your lips trembled. “But I did rip some hair out of Geto at the school,” you tried to brighten your voice and be brave.

Shoko’s eyes watered and she answered your smile with her own.

“Good.”

The almost happy expression faded from your face. Everything hurt, never had you ever thought to be in a situation like this where you were exchanging devastation with your friend like gifts on christmas.

“Why did you stay? Even Nanami left for a while, you could have done the same.” Your question was gentler this time.

Shoko pondered for a minute, not sure of her answer either.

“Because this is the only way I could help. I had you and Utahime and I didn’t want to leave you two behind. Besides what else was I supposed to do? I’ve been given a technique that can save many if I choose right. Had I left a lot more could have died because I wasn’t here — all because of what two men did,” she tried to put her thoughts together.

“There’s a reason why Utahime doesn’t like Gojo,” Shoko blurted out and played with her hair.

You took a careful sip of water as if you were trying to carefully dissect the different flavors of Shoko’s words.

“What do you mean? Did they do something to her as well?”

“No. I just mean that women know, you know? I think it’s in our blood to recognize danger. That’s one of the reasons she despises him. But this is just my thought, not an universal truth,” Shoko wondered out loud.

She breathed in once again as if the words she was about to speak were too painful.

“I think sometimes us women have to carry the atrocities of men. There’s no rhyme or reason why they do certain things. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself. I never went through what you did, but I can’t say that I’m surprised,” she mused. “I’m sorry though. What you went through. It’s not right.”

Her brown eyes stared at you expectantly. You chewed on your lip nervously and tapped the empty plate with your nail, the small tinkle sound working as a metronome.

“No, it’s not,” you huffed. But it feels like it’s my fault. If I had not gone there, if I had not idolized them – loved them even. This wouldn’t have ended this way. It was easier to leave those words in your head.

“So what now?” You looked at Shoko, your eyes pleading, asking for answers, guidance, anything she would be able to provide to you. You knew there was nothing clear cut Shoko could say, but god how you wished that someone would know what to do.

Shoko shook her head in defeat as if telling you that she wasn’t able to point you on the right track like that.

“Whatever you want. You can stay or go, but you don’t have to carry it alone,” Shoko said, her face gentle. You could still draw out the remnants of the young girl from the year two thousand and six on her features. The lines were almost faded but they were still there.

You found kinship in her even if neither of you had shared the full story of what had happened. You weren’t there yet and you weren’t ready. Instead the two of you skirted around words unspoken finding solace of at least having someone who could understand. It was up to the both of you what to make out of the confessions of the past.

#tw: noncon #shoko ieiri x reader #ieiri shoko x reader #yandere gojo satoru #yandere geto suguru

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dudeimjustagirll · 19 days ago

Text

The Second Thing I Thought Of

Ao3 Link :p

some light angst bc I just rewatched Under the Red Hood and it was sooooooo good

It didn’t happen all at once.

Grief never did. It leaked in slowly, soaked your skin in memories, settled behind your ribs–beside your heart, like a tumor.

You didn’t get the call. You got the absence of it. An empty inbox. A silent line. And then Alfred—steady, composed Alfred—whose voice cracked just enough to tell you everything.

Jason was gone.

You were nineteen. He was eighteen. One year apart, but soul-matched in defiance. You were the one he called when Bruce said no. The one who knew how that felt—how the word stuck in your throat, how it made you reckless.

And this time, it wasn’t just any defiance. It was personal.

He’d gotten a lead about his mother. A sliver of a chance. He said he didn’t expect her to be perfect, or kind, or even good. He just needed to know. He loved Bruce and Alfred—God, he adored them, even when he couldn’t say it. He’d do anything for Dick, would defend him in one breath and punch him in the next. But there was still this part of him—a bleeding edge, something unresolved—that needed answers. Needed to understand why his life started the way it did. Why she left. Why he never got to know her.

Bruce had said no. He said it was a setup, too dangerous, too uncertain. He told Jason to wait.

And Jason told you.

You knew how it burned. The waiting. The powerlessness. You looked into his eyes—so full of longing, so impossibly young—and you said, "Then go. Find her."

You didn’t know that would be the last time you’d feel his heartbeat.

You didn’t know it would get him killed.

The first week after… you couldn’t bring yourself to eat much. Or do much else, honestly.

The news was like a weight dropped onto your chest, and no matter how many days passed, you couldn’t seem to breathe around it. People tried to help. Friends. Classmates. Your parents. Professors. They offered food, company, soft words. You snapped at them. Bit down on kindness with grief-sharpened teeth. You weren’t angry at them. You were just… sad. Bone-deep, marrow-rotting sad.

And losing a partner wasn’t the same as losing a parent, or a sibling, or a friend.

It was worse, in its own, horrifying way. Because you’d chosen him. You’d loved him in quiet, deliberate ways—chosen him in the moments between chaos. And now he was gone, and nothing felt real.

You stopped responding to messages. Missed classes. Let your coursework rot in the back of your bag. The university noticed. Your grades slipped. You didn’t care.

Your parents did.

They got you into therapy. At first, you refused. The thought of sitting in a room with a stranger and sharing the pain was unbearable. You didn’t want to speak it into the air and make it more real than it already was.

You went, anyway. After a particularly stern talking to from your mother, telling you that this couldn’t go on any longer. You needed good grades to get into your graduate program, after all.

You hated it. The first few sessions were a quiet, seething hell. For weeks, you sat in silence. Arms crossed so tightly your shoulders ached. Head low so you wouldn’t meet anyone’s eyes—not the therapist’s, not your own in the reflection of her glasses. Every question she asked felt like a scalpel. Too sharp. Too close. Like she was trying to peel you open and name all the pieces inside.

You weren’t ready for that. You weren’t ready to say his name out loud. Not in that room. Not in any room.

When she asked you what happened, you clenched your jaw until it hurt. When she offered you tissues, you didn’t take them. When she said it was okay to be angry, you stared at the floor like you could burn a hole through it.

You were angry. Furious, even—but not at him. Never at him.

You were angry at yourself. For saying, "Go." For meaning it. For being the one person who should’ve known better—should’ve stopped him—and instead handed him the push he needed to fall headfirst into his grave.

The guilt festered like a wound that wouldn’t close. And you thought, if you spoke it aloud, it would make it real. Concrete. Unforgivable.

But something shifted one afternoon.

You had shown up, out of obligation more than hope, and sat in the same chair you always did. Cold fingers gripping your sleeves, nerves frayed like wires. Your therapist didn’t ask anything that day. She just sat there. Quiet. Patient. Breathing softly across from you.

And for the first time, the silence didn’t feel like pressure. It felt like space.

And you cried.

Ugly, open sobs that collapsed your shoulders and twisted your mouth and shook your whole body like a tree in a storm. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t poetic. It was raw and wrenching and real.

You told her everything.

The guilt. The choice. The way you had told him to go. How you had said it like a gift, like liberation—when it had been a death sentence. How it felt like your hands were dipped in blood every time you looked at them. How the memory clung to you, cold and sticky and alive.

You told her how some mornings you woke up with his name on your lips, like he’d just walked out the door. How some nights you still reached across the bed for a shape that wasn’t there.

You told her how grief had gutted you. How it still did.

She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t correct you. Didn’t say it wasn’t your fault.

She just listened.

And somehow, that was enough.

It wasn’t a fix. It wasn’t even relief.

But it was the first time you didn’t feel like you were drowning alone.

And that was enough, for a start.

Healing wasn’t linear.

Some days, you thought you were okay. Then you'd hear a laugh like his in the grocery store, or catch the scent of his cologne in a crowd, and you’d feel like you were drowning all over again.

Once, it was a hoodie in the back of your closet. One he’d stolen from you and stretched out. You found it while looking for something else and sat on the floor for an hour, hugging it to your chest, sobbing like he’d just died yesterday.

But slowly—painfully—you got better.

The guilt that plagued you started to ebb. Bit by bit by bit.

Initially, his death felt like the worst thing in the world every single day. It was the first thought when you opened your eyes, the last one when you closed them.

After a year and a half, it was the second thing.

Eventually, the third.

You never forgot him.

He was kind. He was caring. He was a smart-mouthed, soft-hearted boy who brought you chaos and comfort in equal measure.

You still kept the polaroid from when he invited you to his senior prom. He was in the nicest suit he owned, grinning like he’d won the lottery just having you there.

Your ringtone for a few people was still set to his favorite song. Something fast and loud and stupid. It made you smile, even when it hurt.

You got back on your feet. Slowly, yes—but surely. The days stretched out longer. The sun felt a little warmer. You made friends in your program. You started laughing again.

After two and a half years, you thought—maybe—it was time to start dating again.

It didn’t go well.

The people were kind, mostly. But they weren’t him. They didn’t make your heart kick sideways when they looked at you. They didn’t know how to make you laugh from your stomach, or hold your wrist gently when you were anxious.

No one ever lasted.

You told yourself that was fine.

You were twenty one. You had time.

The world kept turning, and you had started turning with it—no longer stubbornly looking back, no longer clinging to memories like they could bring him to you again.

You made space for new dreams, kept your head down, worked hard in your classes.

There were good days. Warm ones. Quiet mornings where you caught yourself smiling without guilt. Sometimes you even imagined what your future might look like. A life built with patience. A life where the ache dulled to something you could carry without breaking.

And then you saw him.

It was late. Your shift had run over, and your body ached with the familiar burn of overwork—muscles sore, eyelids heavy, brain fogged with too many patients and too little rest. You were walking home in scrubs, the fabric clinging to your skin from the misty rain that had started to fall, keys laced between your fingers, humming a song you couldn’t name. Just another night. Just another tired breath, another stretch of cracked sidewalk beneath your shoes.

And then your breath caught mid-step.

There—across the street, beneath the flicker of a dying streetlamp—he stood.

Black jacket. Broad shoulders. That crooked stance, casual and coiled at the same time, like he was daring the world to try him. You knew that stance. Had leaned against it. Had run your hands over the leather and rested your head against those shoulders more times than you could count.

Your brain stalled. Refused to compute. For a second, you truly thought you were hallucinating. Sleep-deprived. Stress-delirious. It rewound. Glitched. Tried to place a logical explanation where one didn’t exist. A stranger. A ghost. A trick of the light.

But then he looked up.

And you saw those eyes.

Green. Startling. Too sharp to be kind, too soft to be cruel. Eyes that held memories you hadn’t let yourself touch in years.

You knew them.

Your heart plunged into your stomach, heavy and sick, like a weight dropped from a great height. Your pulse roared in your ears, blood rushing so loudly you could barely hear the distant sounds of the city anymore. Everything around you narrowed—blurred—until it was just him and the cold slap of the wind on your face.

You stepped off the curb without thinking. Barely noticed the screech of tires somewhere behind you. You crossed the street like gravity had tilted, and he was the only thing holding you to the earth.

Closer. Closer.

Every step felt like walking through water, thick and slow and disbelieving. Your fingers were trembling. Your breath refused to come steady. The air between you crackled like static.

You stopped inches away.

"Jason?" you breathed, voice breaking over the name like it was made of glass.

He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. Just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize you all over again. Like maybe he’d been standing under that streetlamp for a while, unsure if he’d actually come close.

You reached out.

You touched him.

His jaw was bruised. His knuckles bloodied. But it was him. His pulse was real beneath your fingers.

So you hit him.

Your fist cracked against his chest. Once. Twice. You weren’t even sure what for. For the years. For the silence. For the fact that you had buried him and here he was, alive and looking at you like he was the one who’d been left behind.

"You died," you choked, tears spilling fast. "You died. I buried you, Jason—"

He didn’t block you. Didn’t flinch. Just let you rage. Let you crumble.

"You said you'd just talk to her. You said you’d be fine. You promised me you’d be careful . "

He swallowed hard, the motion in his throat tight. "I thought I would be."

You hit him again, open-handed this time, and then your fingers curled in his jacket like you might fall apart if you let go. Confusion crashed over you in waves—grief, fury, disbelief, all tangled up in the shape of him standing there like no time had passed.

"I don’t understand," you whispered, eyes wild. "How are you here? Why didn’t you tell me?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at you like he wanted to, like the words were there and too dangerous to say. Like maybe he didn’t know how to start.

"Because I didn’t know if I was still him," he said at last. Quiet. Almost ashamed. "Didn’t know if I’d be someone you could still love."

Your knees buckled before the sob even escaped. But his arms caught you. Without hesitation. Like they remembered how.

You clung to him. Rain soaking through both your clothes. Heart pounding against his. Mind screaming that this couldn’t be real. That things didn’t just go back to the way they were.

They couldn’t. You wouldn’t let them.

But for now, you stayed right there.

Held by the ghost you had never stopped loving.

Held by the boy who had died and come back something else entirely.

And you didn't know what would come next.

Only that he was here.

And he was holding you just like he always had.

The months that followed felt like liminal space. Like you’d stepped sideways out of time.

Jason was back—but not really. The edges of him were sharper. The light behind his eyes dimmer. He flinched more, spoke less, and smiled like it cost him something. There were nights he would show up with blood on his hands and dirt under his fingernails, jaw clenched like he was holding back the end of the world. And you never asked where he'd been. You never asked why he looked at himself like he wasn’t sure he belonged in his own skin.

But he came to you. When the blood ran too hot, when the mission pushed too far, when he had nowhere else to go—he came.

You never stopped letting him in.

Tonight, the air was too still.

Gotham had a sound to it—constant, low, alive. Sirens, traffic, the hum of neon, that far-off sound of chaos you’d grown used to. It was a city that never slept, and you’d learned to fall asleep to its noise like a lullaby.

But tonight, the silence crept in thick and unnatural, curling around your apartment like fog. Even the ticking clock on your wall felt loud. You didn’t need a phone call. You didn’t need a text. Your bones just knew.

Jason was bleeding again.

You didn’t turn on the light outside of the door. You never did, not when it was him. Just the hallway lamp, casting a warm gold glow across the hardwood floor. The med kit was already open on the kitchen counter, supplies laid out with the same careful precision you used in your practice—alcohol wipes, gauze, antiseptic. A towel, already damp with warm water.

You didn’t pace. Didn’t wring your hands or flick glances at the door. That wasn’t how you waited for Jason.

You just sat. Steady. A quiet presence in the dark.

You remembered the first time he showed up at your door post-resurrection, soaked in rain and blood and guilt. You hadn’t spoken. Just guided him to the bathroom, sat him on the edge of the tub, and cleaned him up. He watched you like he expected you to vanish any second, like kindness was a language he no longer understood.

And tonight was no different.

The door opened just past midnight. No knock. He never knocked. He let himself in, quiet like a shadow, the hinges creaking softly as he pushed the door closed behind him.

You looked up from the armrest of the couch.

His shirt was torn. There was blood down one sleeve and a cut across his cheekbone. His eyes were unreadable, but they landed on you like he was half-relieved, half-terrified you’d finally stopped waiting.

You didn’t say anything.

Just nodded once. The smallest gesture.

He crossed the room slowly. Every step was a confession.

And when he stood in front of you, not quite meeting your eyes, you reached for him.

Not to pull. Not to fix.

Just to touch. Just to let him know you were still here.

He exhaled like it hurt.

Like being seen hurt.

And then, with a tremble so faint it might’ve been imagined, Jason Todd sat down beside you and let you take his hand.

You didn’t ask him to talk.

You just started cleaning the blood from his knuckles.

The silence wasn’t empty.

It was everything he didn’t know how to say.

Because if there was one thing he had never known how to handle, it was someone waiting for him like he was worth the wait.

You worked gently, dabbing antiseptic over scraped skin. The towel turned pink in your hands. His fingers twitched once beneath your touch and he let out a hiss.

“Too rough?” you asked softly.

He shook his head. “No. Just... not used to it yet.”

You paused, letting the weight of that settle.

“I know,” you murmured. “But you will be. Eventually.”

Jason was quiet again. His gaze was fixed on the floor, but his hand never pulled from yours.

“I didn’t come back right,” he said, finally. Voice low. Raw. “You loved Jason Todd. He’s gone.”

Your chest went tight. The sting behind your eyes was immediate and sharp. You set the cloth down slowly.

No. He couldn’t just waltz into your place whenever he felt like it and say he wasn’t the man you loved.

“That’s not fair.”

His brows twitched, but he didn’t look up. “It’s true.”

“No,” you said, voice steady despite the tremble building in your throat. “It’s not.”

He scoffed, bitter and low. “You don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”

“I know exactly who you are,” you said, louder now, sharper. “Don’t you dare sit there and act like I’m some idiot who’s in love with a memory. I’ve seen you. I’ve held you. I’ve listened to you scream in your sleep and still woken up next to you in the morning.”

Jason flinched—just a little—but his hands were clenched now, tension bunching through his shoulders.

“You think I want this?” he bit out. “I was eighteen. I wanted answers, not a goddamn coffin. I shouldn’t have gone. You told me to go—”

“I know , Jason!” Your voice cracked. “Do you think I don’t know? I’ve lived with that every single day for years. You think I didn’t rip myself apart wondering if it was my fault you died?”

Silence pulsed between you. Thick. Heavy.

His eyes finally met yours—and there it was. The weight. The pain. The shame.

“I loved you,” he whispered. “So much it scared me.”

Your throat burned. “Then why are you trying to make me hate you?”

“Because it’s easier,” he said. “Because if you hate me, you’ll let go. You’ll move on. And maybe I won’t have to look at you and remember what it felt like to have a life.”

Your breath caught.

“You think I’m here because I want the old you back?” you asked, softer now. “ There is no old you. I’m here because it’s still you. Even when you think you're too far gone for anyone to ever care about you again.”

Jason blinked hard. You saw the tears, even if he didn’t let them fall.

“I still remember the way you looked at me,” you continued. “Like I was the best thing in the world. And now you look at me like I’m going to vanish. Like you’re not allowed to need me anymore.”

His shoulders dropped slightly. “You don’t know how much I still love you.”

You did.

You always did.

So you reached out, brushing the hair back from his brow with gentle fingers. His skin was warm beneath your touch—real. Present. Still here.

You leaned in close, cleaning the last of the blood from his jawline. He didn't flinch this time.

“I’m not leaving,” you said, quietly. “Even when you try to make me.”

He let out a shaky breath, the words catching in his throat.

“I don’t deserve this,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled, lips pressed to his hair. “I love you. So, so much. ”

“Horrible,” he rasped. “Useless, rotten work.”

You kissed the crown of his head. Closed your eyes.

“Not to me.”

#jason todd x reader #Jason todd x you #jason todd fluff #redhood x reader #redhood x you #redhood fluff #hes my shayla u guys

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