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tomiek111 · 23 days ago

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what do you need from me tonight? .𖥔 ݁ ˖ִ ࣪

i don’t care if you’re sick, i don’t care if you’re contagious.

𖥔 summary since befriending tim drake you have known exactly how he feels about his brothers: offlimits, forbidden, do not enter! this was never too difficult to maintain, never too hard to turn away when one smiles a little too bright, yet when sweet and sultry jason walks into the room it become harder to turn the other cheek.

𖥔 pairing jason todd x reader

𖥔 genre/tw best friends brother au!! fem!reader !! reader is tim’s bff, fluff! angst?! probably suggestive at times i can’t lie, intoxication, swearing !! jason is a softie, none of that charmer fuck boy jason here!! petnames, kissing, reader and jason are real yearners !! reader and tim are supposed to be like 21-22 which puts Jason at like 25-26 or so (in my mind) batfam mentions and cameos! we love!! librarian!jason !! historian!reader !! tim and reader are platonic soulmates <3 also tim calls reader chicken, idk why!! also thers gonna be typos and run on sentences probably (i blacked out)

𖥔 w/c 8.3k and some change

𖥔 a/n this came to me in a dream… idk i just feel like tim has such strong protective girl bestie vibes so this is what happened. i love tim and reader and reader and jason and i really hope you do too!! lemme know xoxo

masterlist | requests open!!

Since the moment you became friends with Tim Drake, you understood his brothers were completely off limits. It was apparent in how he would go out of his way to not mention them by name—only my brother this or my brothers that—it was in the look of pure disgust when someone would bring up just how hot his oldest brother was when he showed up on the news: alerting the public not to be worried about some crime in Blüdhaven. Even you, his best friend since the trauma of Philosophy 204 bonded you together, were not allowed to ask about them without a deadly glare shooting your way.

You understood, if you had a famous family full of wealthy handsome boys, you too would want to keep them aware from your friends. You shudder at the thought of some girl asking if your brother was single, thus whenever Tim gives you attitude about it, you allow yourself to laugh it off. It wasn’t until the summer between Freshman and Sophomore year that you were even allowed near Wayne Manor, and into the lives of his illustrious family.

Now, five years into your friendship, you could say that you’ve fit yourself into Tim’s life quite nicely. Being his favorite lady, you’re often his date to galas and Sunday brunches with the wives of Wayne Enterprises, The person who comes along when Bruce says “you can bring a friend”, and most special, who he turns to when one of his brothers annoys him. Like now,

“I just don’t know why I’m suddenly Damian’s chauffeur," Tim says, a familiar annoyance seeping from his voice. “Like, my father has billions of dollars yet I have to be the one to drive my little brother around, come on.”

You laugh, but the easy way in which he talks about his family’s wealth brings a bad taste to your mouth… You, a girl born and raised in the lower sector of Gotham, find it quite gross how easy your friend throws his money around sometimes, which you remind him with a swat on the back of his head. “Hey! what the fuck was that for?” He exclaims with a laugh.

“Timothy, you know better than to be all waspy when I’m around…” you sigh, “and anyway, it’s not like Damian goes anywhere but the library and the planetarium… he's just a kid.”

“A kid who threatens to poison me if I don’t buy him bug juice—which I gotta say he is getting too old for.”

“Ahh, Timmy, are you just sad about your baby brother growing up?” You say, pouting your lips in the exact way you know annoys him.

You’ve always thought it’s funny how annoyed Tim gets about Damian, a boy who’s only ever sweet to you—asking you about your favorite animals and telling you about the new exhibits at Gotham’s Natural History Museum. “I don’t get why it's so terrible, Dami’s just a sweetheart,”

“Ugh, maybe to you,” Tim replies, “he just thinks you’re cool cause you work at the Historical Society and you make fun of me,”

“Well, there’s a lot to make fun of.”

“Ha.Ha. Real funny guess who's uninvited to Dick’s birthday party.” With this, you pause. It’s true that most of the parties surrounding Tim’s family are unnecessarily boring and involve fitting into a tight dress and making your hair look presentable. There’s been quite a few times when you’ve wished that Tim would go with someone else and gift you the reprieve from a drawn out conversation with a doctor or a politician, (or whoever else Mr. Wayne invites to drum up philanthropy). However, you look forward to Dick’s birthday every year; a night filled with laughter and sweet drinks, getting to see Dick and his girlfriend Kory get a little too drunk and attempt to do gymnastics on the club’s dancefloor… Even better, it’s the one chance you really get to see Jason, Tim’s older and outcasted brother..

You remember the first time you met him, a Friday dinner you accompanied Tim to… It was the one night a week Alfred was free from dinner duty, thus the two of you had brought chinese and gelato for dessert and Damian kept pestering you about bringing him to the Zoo to see the snakes.

You had already met everyone else, Dick with his charming smile and the spark in his eyes when he pulled your chair out (you’re sure it had more to do with annoying his brother than being a gentleman,) You’d met Duke when he followed his brother into university becoming a welcome third to your little group, and his father–Initmaditing and encompassing Bruce Wayne, but you’d never met Jason.

You’d heard about him, heard the sighs from his father when he noticed his second son hadn’t shown up… Watched the careful way he was spoken about by his family, in past tenses and thinly veiled sadness. Tim had rarely brought him up to you, barely mentioning how there was some sort of accident, how it destroyed their father and separated Jason from himself and his family.

You never liked seeing your best friend sad, it hurt too much to see his blue eyes gloss over, so you never brought him up, yet you couldn’t lie and say you weren’t curious. You remember seeing it on the news, the day that Jason Todd went missing… It wasn’t surprising to hear about a missing boy–living in Gotham meant a new tragedy every day–yet, you remember being shocked that something would happen to that bright young boy, grinning ear to ear in the school picture the news showed.

You were only twelve, but you can think back and see so vividly the magic behind that smile, and how sad you were to realize that this boy, who could have very well gone to school with your sister, was gone… How sad he must be, you remember thinking, to be without his family.

He was quite the mystery to you, more so after becoming friends with Tim, his brother who would so rarely mention him. It was when you saw him slouching at the dinner table and arguing with Dick, that your curiosity came back, you couldn’t believe it–he was so handsome, prettier than the newspaper made him look, and so tall, but you remembered Tim… Remembered how upset he got when Hannah Beauchamp asked him for his brother’s telephone number, so all you did was smile and say hello.

After that you saw Jason more often, always quiet, always bright, but it was still glaringly rare… You never knew when he’d be there, unlike Dick who is unquestionable in his loyalty to family functions, Jason could be everywhere and nowhere all at once. Thus, the only surefire way to see him, is to go to Dick’s birthday, a gathering that Jason always appears at, showing his rare smile and a rare wish to his big brother.

You can’t be uninvited, you really can’t be…

“Timmy, you know I love you,” you say, giggling at the way his nose scrunches, “Please let me go with you to Dick’s party? Please please please!! I didn’t mean it, it’s so hard to make fun of you!”

You know you’ve won when his head tilts, nose sticking straight up like an aristocrat in a children’s novel, you know you’ve won because he sighs into a sweet smile–bringing his hand up to muss your hair.

“You know I can’t go anywhere without you, Chicken.” At his words you unceremoniously jump at him, encircling him into your grasp and squealing out ‘thank you’s.’ “But,” you groan. “You have to come with me tonight… If I have to hear Damian go on and on about Casseiopeia, you do too.”

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

The party was in full force when you arrived, music blaring, couples kissing, the whole nine; It smelled like sweat and tequila, and fancy perfume, and you wished you could feel this way more often.

Tim doesn’t like going out, doesn’t feel safe bringing you out into the Gotham nightlife–your best friend, sweet and loyal and protective, over his family, over you… You know he’s just looking out for you, but the frustrated sighs and the “that place isn’t safe for a little Chicken like you,” get exhausting. He gets frustrated when you go out by yourself, insistent that your group of girls would be much safer if you guys partied at home, yet he never seems to have a problem if his brothers are there too… more eyes on you, he says when you ask.

Still, you wouldn’t trade him for the world–how lucky were you, that your best friend cared so much…

He had gasped when he picked you up, a caricature of your sisters and girlfriends: he squealed and told you he loved your dress, (as if he wasn’t the one who paid for it), a routine that was familiar and warm. He’d driven you both himself, complaining about traffic and assholes who don’t use their blinker, he was telling you about his day and the “insolent” acts Damian committed at school. It was rather nice, just you and Tim listening to shitty pop-punk and laughing, a familiar scene that’s gotten rarer and rarer as his responsibilities have piled on.

He had squeezed your hand before getting out of the car, smiling at you with earnest eyes and a mischievous grin, and told you: “If Dick’s friend Wally hits on you, tell him I still have the pictures from last summer.”

You were a ball of nerves in the elevator, stomach dropping as it went up, up, up to the Penthouse, shying away from the stares and whispers that follow Tim around. But now, encased in house music and the saccharine smell of young lust and birthday magic, your anxiety eases and the smile you send your best friend’s way is finally sincere.

He takes your hand to lead you through the erratic rhythm of dancing bodies, sending dirty looks to men who look at you too long, leading you through the suite like he’s Orpheus on a mission. He doesn’t turn back to smile at you until you’ve reached your destination, the large rooftop patio where the pool lives, here you find Dick–front flipping into the pool fully clothed. His form is perfect, spinning into the water with a ballerina like elegance, a visage so striking against the electronica pumping through the night.

He comes up for air with far less grace, however, shaking his hair out like a dog and yelling at Kory to join him. When he sees his little brother, his face breaks into the most earth-shattering smile, before he breaks into senseless giggles–telling everyone, “You guys! My baby brother Timmy is here!”

Tim, a boy who loves his brothers more than anyone except maybe you, grins at the older boy's voice–pulling you along to greet him properly.

“Happy birthday, Dick!” You tell him, voice raising to be heard over the music and the squealing euphoria of his guests.

“Oh my! Timmy’s little Chicken is here!” Dick’s fondness for you is no surprise, as a professional older brother it is his job to love everyone his siblings love. “Jason! Look who's here!”

It's almost comical how fast you look up, how curious you are to see him, so curious you don’t hear Tim’s sigh or the way his hold on your arm tightens. Like Magic, Jason stands in front of you, leaning against a wall like a poor parody of James Dean. He looks a bit put out, a little annoyed to be interrupted in what looks like a riveting conversation with Roy Harper– a man you’ve only ever met through Tim’s phone on nights when he goes out without you.

“Hey guys,” He says, friendly enough yet you can’t help but notice how much tenser he looks now that Tim stands before him. “Timmy, I heard you’re taking up more and more roles at Dad’s,” he sounds strained, but it’s obvious that he’s trying.

“Yeah, our little baby brother is awesome, Bird, but let’s not forget it’s my turn to receive your compliments.” Dick exclaims, panting a bit from treading water.

“Yeah, yeah, Dickie, you just gotta wait for it, man.” Jason says, before turning back to Roy, you know at once that their exchange is over, you’re not sure what happened… It seems almost like Tim and Jason fought, niceties were exchanged, yes, but the look in their eyes: exhausted and awkward, says more than the short conversation they shared.

They get like this sometimes, a phenomenon you don’t quite understand… You’ve witnessed moments where they seem like best friends, joking and joining together in teasing Damian, yet there's other times… Moments like this, when it seems like there's years of separation and frustration between them.

You can feel Tim pulling you away, his hold on your hand a little tighter than you would like it to be… You can hear Dick yelling at him to stay, ‘the waters nice and warm,’ he yells, yet it's obvious he’s not too worried about it once Kory swims over to him. More than anything you can see Jason, nodding at you from his place against the wall–his drink tipping your way as if to say goodbye.

You’re still a little confused when Tim drags you back into the suite to dance, finding Conner and Stephanie along the way. The four of you twirl and laugh and drink, the boys spinning you and Steph around and around–passing the two you back and forth until you're dizzy and drunk. Tim’s hands steady you, leading you in a crazy dance the two of you made up junior year, and grinning when you drunkenly tell him you love him. The night is alive, it’s burning with winter yearning and the feeling that you’d never be this young again. How you love your friends, how you wonder what's ailing them.

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

The music is thunderous, eating away at your ear drums and seeping into your bones until your body sings along. You’re not sure what time it is any more, or where Tim went… Your last memory is Conner giving you his jacket before pulling your friend away, a sight that made you giggle and roll your eyes. Steph’s seemed to disappear too, leaving you all alone on the dance floor, swaying in time with the music and whispering jokes to nobody.

The crowd seems to have gotten bigger and the drinks stronger, a revelation that sends you in search of Tim or Dick, or someone you know. Yet, you can’t find them anywhere, off with Conner and Kory surely, abandoning you with only vodka and an empty chip bowl to keep you company. The party seems lonelier now, the music dull and throbbing in your ears, and all the dancing seems out of rhythm. It’s almost like you’ve stepped out of the faery ring, released yourself from an enchantment, and now everything that was once magic is all wrong.

That things happening, that thing where you begin to have nostalgia for the moment you’re in, a kind of bittersweetness veiling over your eyelids as you take in the dark room. This happens sometimes, where you get a sudden case of the blues–too much adrenaline, too much happiness for one person, so it comes out as sad. It doesn’t help that you’re all alone, that Tim left you to go kiss Conner and you don’t really know anyone else, not truly–not the way you need to know them for a moment like this.

You find yourself on the stairs, leaning against the railing as you attempt to regain your balance. The world seems to be spinning, whether it's from the alcohol or all the dancing you’re unsure of, yet the sky seems to be under your feet. You wished Tim was here… he always knew what to do, always knew how to make you laugh when you’re sad and get you home without a scratch… Stupid Conner, you think, stealing your best friend from you when you need him most… typical.

It's minutes later that you feel someone nudging you awake, shaking you from your place on the stairs. The person's hands are rough and warm and gentle, easing you back into consciousness, accompanied by whispers of “come on, little one.”

You don’t feel very good, the alcohol and the sadness filling your throat with the taste of vomit, yet you find it in yourself to look up. Light invades your senses and that same blaring electronica finds a home in your ears again, a repeated refrain of call on me beating into your bones. You find the eyes of the intruder, green like summer; they’re looking down at you in concern, all squinty like a crescent moon. It's not until the song changes that you realize it’s Jason looking at you, your mystery come to find you.

“Jason?” you ask, your voice covered in sleep and intoxication. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing, Where’s Timmy?”

“Off with Conner.” You harrumph, sneering at his name as if they aren’t two of your most treasured friends.

“And he left you all alone?” He looks a little surprised by this, and a little upset, a combination that will surely keep you up thinking about what it means.

“Yeah, can you believe that?! He’s a treacherous traitor who betrayed me.”

“You know, I’m pretty sure all those things mean the same thing.” He laughs a little, and you wish you were sober just so you could really hear him, the fear you feel that you might not remember this fills you with dread. It's so rare that you get to see him, so rare that you get to talk to him without Tim around to make things different and tense… your crush on Jason is not so hidden, a truth that eats at you in moments like this. You’re sure they probably all know, can all see how flustered you get around him, but you’d never act on it–you’d never do anything to hurt Tim, (that includes kissing his brothers), thus you pretend like it doesn’t affect you as much as it does. But here now, with Jason sitting next to you on the stairs, sharing space and oxygen and more words than you’ve ever spoken to each other before, you feel it becoming harder and harder to pretend.

“Why are you sitting with me, Jason?” You ask him.

‘What?” He replies, eyes wide in shock or maybe confusion. “You’re my little brother’s best friend and you’re asleep on the stairs, why wouldn’t I be sitting with you.” His voice is pure Gotham, it brings a smile to your lips.

“I see, is it just because I’m Timmy’s best friend.”

“Are you flirting with me, Casanova?” he laughs, bringing a bottle of water up to his lips.

“Never ever, Mr. Todd, I swear it, cross my heart.” You can see how he’s smiling, goofier than you’ve ever seen it, less sculpted than the usual smirky grin he wears around his brothers.

“You’re drunk.” He says, before handing you his bottle of water, “Drink.” He says it like a command, like something you couldn’t say no to even if you tried, so you listen, yet you can’t stop thinking about his lips around it just a few seconds before. It invades your senses– the image of his rosebud lips curling around the top like a kiss… What is a kiss if not two mouths touching? What is a kiss without a kiss? Shared saliva and phantom smiles pressing against your own?

One of his large hands goes to the bottom of the plastic bottle–tipping it up further as if to get you to drink more, his eyes swallow you, commanding eye contact as the water tumbles down your throat. “That’s a good girl.” He tells you, voice low and pleasing. It’s only when the bottle is empty that he takes his hand away, lowering the bottle from your lips and looking back into the humid party.

How handsome he is, you think, it’s obvious he dressed up a little more for this than when you usually see him. He’s in all black, slacks and t-shirt displaying some 90s anime, he even has jewelry on: silver rings and heavy chains around his neck… He looks ravishing, like someone should take him home before other people can perceive him. You remember that first time you saw him, that fifteen year old boy on the news who looked like Peter Pan; you remember how you felt when you read that he was missing, if only you could have told yourself you would have found him one day.

“Jason?” You whisper, “Where did you go?” He’s surprised at the question, that much is obvious, but he doesn’t seem mad, more tired; exhausted by the memory.

“Neverland.” He whispers back, a response that brings a smile to your lips even though it’s not an answer.

“What was it like?”

“Hmm,” he says, thinking about his answer. “Well, it was pretty, there were pirates and mermaids, and little fairy girls like you.” That makes you laugh, a big booming thing that escapes.

“I’m a little fairy girl, now?”

“Oh yeah, I saw you spinning earlier… round and round like you were trying to fly.”

“Well, I’m all out of pixie dust.” You tell him, which brings that goofy smile back to his pretty face.

He doesn’t say anything else, just sits quietly with you, humming songs he knows and snorting at the drunken antics of Dick’s guests. It’s nice, just sitting with him–there is no need to fill the space, just peace and quiet. Finally, when you’re feeling sober enough to be a little worried by his answer, you ask, “Why’d you leave? I mean what made you come home?”

It takes him a moment to answer, but when he does it’s full of secrets and saved up sadness, his voice gruff with the memory of it. “I just had to grow up I guess.”

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

Days later you’re still thinking about that conversation on the stairs, how sad he looked… how vulnerable and young he appeared. When Tim finally showed himself, he was shocked to find you with his brother, thanking him over and over again for keeping you company. You remember how Jason smiled, sweet and sleepy, before he said No problem, Timmy, you just get her home safe. It’s less of a memory and more of a dream, like you went off to Neverland too.

It was difficult to find sleep that night, too shaken and embarrassed by your own behavior… Nerves ate at your brain every time you thought about how natural it was to talk to him, nerves that only got worse when you wake up to a text from an unknown number:

‘Hey, fairy girl, it’s J. just want to make sure you got back alright’

It filled you with heat and parasitic flutters in your belly, but you couldn’t answer… couldn’t get over the guilt you felt when imagining Tim’s reaction, no matter how innocent it all was. So you left it alone, didn’t answer him and went on with your day as normal as you could make it: lunches with Tim and group chat gossip with Duke and Stephanie, anything that could distract you from the fire blazing in your veins.

You were still a little cross with Tim for leaving you all alone, but after making him take you out to breakfast and promise to buy you whatever you wanted for the next week, you thought you’d cut him some slack. He was acting a little weird, he kept making that face that only conjures itself when he’s trying to figure something out, and he repeatedly asked you if Jason said anything interesting to you– a question that has you shaking your head every time.

His words were just for you, you knew that more than you knew anything, so even though it was unfamiliar, you kept it from your best friend.

It’s been a week since that fateful night, a week full of sleeplessness and butterflies when you thought about his bright eyes and warm hands. You’ve always had a bit of a crush, but now it's stifling–incinerating you with the absolute truth of it. Even here at work it suffocates you, presses down in between the dark archives of old newspapers and preserved textiles. It's just another day of paperwork and organization, studying old books on Cherry Hill in hopes to find something that could help stop the impending gentrification.

Tim’s on his way with lunch, something Alfred cooked up to be sure, an exciting but slightly unnerving prospect. You’ve never been afraid of your best friend before, but you’ve also never kept a secret from him… you know it's not a big deal, so what if you and Jason had a sleepy drunken conversation at Dick’s birthday party? It wasn’t like you kissed! Hell, his hands barely even touched your skin except to wake you up, yet the fear of hurting Tim is so massive and encompassing you can’t help but feel like you need to hide it.

You hear him say hello to your coworkers, hear his graceful steps down into the basement, he takes the stairs two at a time. When he finally arrives in front of you, he is jovial–smiling wider than you’ve seen in awhile. He dawdles on, handing you your lunch and telling you about how Alfred made twice the amount so all his kids could have some. It’s nice to hear him speak about his family, you relish in it… how happy he sounds when he speaks of his brothers, Alfred and Stephanie, the smile in his voice when he tells you you’re invited to another Friday Dinner.

“Barbara and Kory are coming too, you’ll be there, yeah?”

“Yeah, Definitely,” You tell him, but your heart isn’t in it. Tim notices it, of course he does, but he doesn’t call it out. You’ve been acting strange lately, but he trusts that you’d come to him if you really needed help. He stays until you both finish your lunch, kissing you on the head before he heads back towards the WE building; the guilt creeps back in when he leaves, roots of shaming entangling you like vipers.

This routine follows you into the week, Tim bringing lunch and stories of Conner and Duke and the mischief they’ve gotten themselves into. Your work kept you busy, working late into the night– the book you found on the Founding of Gotham was interesting, and it was proving to be rather helpful in proving your suspicions that the original City Hall was located in the Cherry Hill suburb of Gotham City. You hoped you’d be able to find all the sources you needed, but it was becoming a bigger and bigger project than you ever realized–a project that was impeding on your life.

It was late into the afternoon when Jason came to see you, bringing with him a smile and something hidden in his book bag.

“Knock-knock, Little fairy, can I come in?” He asks you, halting on the last step. It's dark down here, lit only with lamps and reading lights, still he is beautiful–the white streak in his hair curling down over his eyes. He looks rather comfy, wrapped up in a sweater and a leather jacket, his book bag crossing over his chest and falling around his hip. God, he’s lovely, and he’s here… Why is he here?

“What are you doing here?” You ask, startled by his presence and the life it brings.

“I wanted to bring you some flowers,” He tells you, a secret smile playing on his lips. You look at his empty hands, a confused grin finding its way to your face.

“Where are the flowers, Jason?” You laugh, although it halts when that goofy grin emerges again. Looking at you slyly he takes something out from his bag, pulling out a stack of books and handing them to you. Still confused you shuffle the pile to read each title,

Dandelion Wine, White Oleander, The Chrysanthemums, Daisy Miller, The Secret Garden…

Oh dear, you think, how sweet is this boy? And why? After you’d ignored his message…

“Flowers,” he says, tilting his head towards you, that charming smile still living on his face.

Who is this wonderful, handsome boy? When his brothers speak of him, they describe him as gruff and unlikable–mean and sulky. Yet this Jason is bright and euphoric, sweet and happy and mischievous…

He brought you flowers… flowers that you could keep on your shelf forever; stories of life and sadness and magic.

“Oh my,” you say, “Thank you, Jason.”

“Of course, I wanted to make sure you were okay…” He hesitates for a minute before continuing on, “Y’know, you never answered my text and I thought maybe Dickie gave me the wrong number.”

“Oh, no it was the right number,” you sigh. “I just don’t want Tim to feel weird about the two of us becoming friends…”

“Are we becoming friends then,” he asks you, eyes brighter than before. He looks so young like this, starry eyed and grinning like he won a blue ribbon.

“I don’t know, Jason, are we?”

“I’m inclined to say yes, fairy girl. I don’t steal books from the library for just anyone.”

Shocked, you turn the books over and sure enough, the library's barcode sits against the hardcover.

“Jason! What the hell?! You can’t just steal from the library!” You yell, yet all he does is laugh. It’s such a pretty sound, deep and melodious like a song you can’t forget the words to. You wonder how often he really laughs like this, true and belly-full, like he means it.

“I work at the library, Sugar, don’t worry.” He rasps out, “I’m the person who has to buy the new books anyway… so don’t worry about it.” The pet name rolls off his tongue salaciously, finding its way into your tummy, filling you with warmth and a vision of him at Gotham City Public Library. You’re not sure how you never knew, how you never saw him there in your late night book runs for your work. It fills you with fondness and makes your smile somehow brighter than it already was.

“Well, thank you anyway, J.” You tell him. “Really, no one's ever given me flowers before.”

When his eyes meet yours the floor shakes beneath you, destabilizing you into nervous fidgeting and shy smiles. You can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe your mystery is standing in front you–vulnerable and handsome and smiling. He brought you flowers… God, what are you going to tell Tim?

You see he’s getting ready to leave, so you ask (quicker than you thought possible,) “Do you wanna stay for a while? I’m just reading through some sources, but it might be better with company?” The smile he gives you is serendipitous, magical and dreamlike.

He stays with you long into the night, reading all the left pages as you read the right and sharing his own suspicions. He mentions books at the library that might be useful, and tells you how cool he thinks what you’re doing is, he smiles the whole time. It's late when you finish, yawning and blinking away the strain, he looks more and more like that school picture you once fawned over– young and happy, Peter Pan.

He insists on walking you home, leading you through the still busy Gotham Streets with a hand grazing your back and a watchful eye on the city. Every once in a while he stops to make sure you’re going the right way, and to ask if you’re still alright, a question that brings a smile to your lips and goosebumps on your skin.

When you finally make it home, skin bitten cold and his jacket hanging off your shoulders, he smiles faintly at you, bringing his hand up to push a loose strand of hair back behind your ear.

As he turns to leave he tells you,

“Don’t forget to get those flowers in some water, see you Friday,” And with the way your heart stops, you know you’re doomed.

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

Tim Drake is lots of things, but a fool is not one of them. He sees how different Jason is acting during patrol: stumbling over ledges and pulling out the wrong gun. He’s been weird since Dick’s party, quicker to smile and more interested in you than ever before… he remembers seeing Jason try to covertly listen to the Comm when Dick asked Tim how you were,

“How’s Chicken Little doing, Timmy?”

But before he could answer, Damian swiftly responded:

“She doesn’t like it when you guys call her that, can’t you see her nose scrunch up in disgust? Honestly you’re all a bunch of buffoons.”

Tim, however offended he might be at Damian thinking he knows you better than him, couldn’t help but focus on Jason instead. His face might be covered by his mask, yet his body language is unmistakable–he’s more interested than he should be.

“Might I remind all of you, she is off limits, do not disturb, dead end… I will kill you and send your entrails to Lex Luthor to make some weird clone of you if you even think about it.” This message is for all of them, but you’d have to be stupid to not realize it was really only for Jason–Dick and Kory have been basically engaged since they were 20 and Damian still drinks bug juice for God’s Sake… the only other person it could be is Duke, but if the gagging sounds he’s making over the comm mean anything, he doesn’t need to be worried.

Nobody says anything for a second, laughter from Dick and Duke creeping in through his ear piece, yet it all stops when Jason speaks up for the first time that night.

“You know, you really should let her make her own decisions… She’s not a little girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, Hood?” Tim asks, getting actually truly angry for the first time. There’s a reason why he tried to keep you to himself in the beginning of your friendship, he knows you think it’s because he didn’t want you to date his brothers, but really he didn’t want to have to share another thing. So much of his life belongs to his family, he just wanted one thing to belong to him.

“Don’t get angry, please, Birdie?” Jason replies, there's no heat in it, just exhaustion.

“What. Do. You. Mean? Hood?” Tim says again, getting more and more frustrated by the minute.

“I just mean she’s a grown up, and she should be allowed to talk to whoever she wants to, even if it weirds you out.”

It strikes Tim as something that wouldn’t bother him if it was about anyone but you, if it was Steph or Bart or Cassie, it wouldn’t have mattered. But it is you, the first friend he’s had that's entirely his own–you’re his best friend in the entire world, the person he loves the most, and he doesn’t need anyone, especially not Jason Todd, telling him how he should act with you.

“Keep your advice to yourself, Red Hood,” Tim barks out to his brother, yet there's a piece of him that's thinking about what he said, a voice in the back of his head that tells him maybe he should listen.

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

When Tim calls you to tell you not to come to family dinner, you can’t help but be confused and a little hurt. Sure, he said he’d just come over to yours instead, but the thought that someone was upset with you, or worse that Tim used his brilliant brain to suss out your crush before you could tell him, and now he’d never let you back around his brothers again, whittled its way into your heart and wouldn’t let go.

You never wanted to do anything that would hurt Tim, he’s the person who you trust most in the world, the only person you could say confidently that you would kill or be killed for. You love him, infallibly and wholly, and thinking that he might be hurt by something you’ve done, even as innocent as a couple moonlit conversations with his brother, consumes you into a hellmouth of anxiety.

He arrives at seven, the time he said he’d pick you up for family night, but instead of meeting you at your door, he barrels in. There’s a wild look in his eyes, a look you’ve only seen once– when your Philosophy 204 professor fell over and began to aspirate through a seizure–it’s painful and worried, and you wonder what's making him so upset now. However, when you ask, all he does is shake his head, almost like he’s trying to shake out the worries, pound them out like water in your ears. He looks beyond you, into your kitchen and his sighs become heavier and more sporadic, did he run here?

“I’m trying to figure something out,” He tells you, his voice kinder than his body language made it seem like it would be, yet you’re not surprised–in the five years of being his friend, he’s never once raised his voice at you.

“Okay, what's up?” You ask, anxious.

“Are you and Jason in love? Are you having some sort of gross affair?”

“What?!” You exclaim, sure you have a crush on Jason, and yes you think it would be quite easy to fall in love with him, but come on… Two conversations and childhood crush don’t suddenly turn into an affair.

“Don’t “what” me, Chicken! I have Jason telling me to treat you like a grown up and now I walk in here and his jacket is hanging from my chair… MY CHAIR!” He says, shocking a laugh out of you, “The chair I sit in, god what has life come to?”

“Timmy, we’re not having an affair, he just walked me home after bringing me something at work.” You approach him like a snake tamer, slow and kind in your steps–the same steps you saw the zoo keeper take the last time you and Tim brought Damian to Gotham Zoo.

“But you like him?” He asks, suspicious and guarded. You can’t tell what’s happening in his head, can’t seem to read his mind like you usually can, so instead you let your hands fall onto his shoulders–fingers splaying out to run through the hair on his neck.

“Yes,” You say, quiet as a mouse. “Is that okay?”

Tim lets his head fall into your tummy, blowing out a big gasp of air into your shirt, which makes you laugh and push him away.

“Of course it’s okay, Chicken… I just want you to be happy.” He sighs, “I just don’t really know if you will be happy with him… my brother he’s,” He hesitates, thinks about how he should say this without ruining anything, before he continues: “Jay’s complicated, what happened fucked him up… really bad. And I love you, more than him, more than anyone–you’re my girl. I don’t want you to feel trapped in a bad situation, and feel like you can’t come to me cause he’s my brother… I’ll always be on your side.”

You smile and let out what feels like all the air in your lungs. How you love your stupid, silly, best friend, as if Jason would ever make you feel trapped and horrible when all he ever wants to do is be free?

“You don’t have to worry about me, Timmy, I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself.” The nickname makes him smile, brings him back to college when all you guys would do was watch Chicken Little and drink bottled sweet tea, when you’d call him Timmy and beg him to let you prank call his dad. Yet, the sentiment makes him sad, how are you a big girl if you’re both still just kids? He doesn’t feel that grown up yet.

“That’s what he said you know,” He replies. “Just, why didn’t you tell me?” He’s watching you, looking at you in that way that makes you spill all your secrets, so you tell him,

“I didn’t want to upset anyone, and I don’t know if he even likes me back, so..”

“Are you crazy?! Of course he likes you, my brother hates literally every single person he interacts with other than Alfred, yet he’s coming to your work to surprise you? Come on.” He’s laughing though it sounds a little pained. It does little to comfort your swirling thoughts. You’re so happy Tim’s not angry, so happy that he’s not throwing you onto the curb like you expected, but he still seems so sad.

You wish you could swaddle him up and make everything okay, promise that you’d never stop being friends, make sure he knows that you’re not going away–that all of this is a little dramatic for a little crush.

“Are you okay, Timmy? With the chance that something might happen between me and Jason?”

“Yeah, Chickadee, just…” he sighs, “Don’t forget what I said, okay? About him being complicated.” You nod, but before you can say anything, he speaks up again. “And, Chicken? Remember our pact about getting married for taxes… it’s you and me spending our afterlives together, not you and Jason.”

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

You wake the next morning a bundle of limbs and sleepy energy, Tim is barely conscious next to you and the apartment smells faintly of cheetos and ramen; you’d spent the night watching Avatar: The Last Airbender and reminiscing about the good old days. You told him about everything that's happened with Jason, starting from that first sight of his missing poster and ending with the bouquet of books. He was obviously a little grossed out to be talking about his brother in this way, but it felt good to see you so giggly and happy.

He’d felt bad for making you skip out on family night, a feeling of guilt that shook in his bones as his father and eldest brother texted him about skivving out on family bonding. But, he wouldn’t go back to change it, he was so afraid he was going to lose you, that you’d get tired of him and make friends with other people, that having this night with you was well worth all the lectures he was going to have to put up with.

He’s watching you now, anxious and blushing, and he can’t help but feel in awe of you–his pretty best friend, really crushing on someone for the first time. Some part of him is glad that person is Jason, at least then he won’t feel too bad about breaking his nose if he starts any shit with you.

“Everythings gonna be okay,” He says, using your first name in a rare scene of seriousness.

“Yeah, I know.” You tell him. “I just, don’t wanna ruin anything.”

“You know, he’s working today… might wanna bring him some flowers.”

⋆.ೃ࿔.𖥔 ݁ ˖*:･༄

The library is alive, warm and inviting like a lover’s embrace. It smells like parchment and dust and clorox wipes, a combination that instantly brings you back to school–elementary crushes and schoolyard gossip.

There’s not very many people here, too early on a school day for anyone to really be finding solace between the aisles, but you see him. Jason sits behind the front desk, wiry glasses settled on his nose and a book in his lap. He hasn’t noticed you yet, too absorbed in his work to really be paying attention. For a minute, you just stand and admire him–this mysterious creature who walked into your life and never left. All these feelings are brand new and ancient… romantic and friendly, respect and admiration. It would all be so easy, with him–to lose yourself in love and friendship–you want it so badly.

You can see it so vividly, waking up with him and spending nights intertwined, reading together and researching maniacally. Falling for him is easy, loving him will be hard you know, but seeing him now: pretty and warm in the afternoon light makes the decision rather easy.

“I’d like to return some books,” you say once you’ve reached him, startling him out of his reverie.

He can’t believe it’s you, beautiful and bright–like a protagonist out of an Austen novel. He thought he’d never be allowed near you again, thought he ruined it all by bringing you up to Tim, but here you were–lovely like the morning. You’re carrying books, flowers, and your smile is starlight.

“Well, right this way, Ma’am.” He tells you, once he finds his voice. “I didn’t realize you could replant flowers after you’ve picked them.” He’s teasing you, but really he’s not sure why you’ve brought the books back–is it a way to let him down? Or are you just returning the favor?

He leads you into the back, unprofessional sure, but he needs to be alone with you. You’re so anxious, he can tell… he needs to be able to reach out and feel you.

“I just felt like you deserved flowers too, Jay.” You tell him, sweet and lovely like always.

“Hmm, well I refuse them… they’re all yours, I already replaced them.” His eyes are mischievous again, burning with joy as they stare into yours. You’re reminded of that night on the stairs, when he made you drink water and burned you alive.

“I talked to Tim,” You tell him, watching as his smile drops.

“Let me guess, he told you I’m bad news and doesn’t want you around me, right?” He asks, rough with the hurt of past bruises.

“Actually, he told me you’re bad news but he’s trusting me to be able to handle it.” Jason looks surprised, his summer green eyes wide with shock. He guessed he never really thought Tim would be okay with it…

He remembers seeing you for the first time: soft and gorgeous in the lowlight of the manor, he was sitting with Damian and remembers how the breath shot out of his lungs at the sight of you. Dami’s been teasing him about it for years now, bringing you up to piss Tim off and making plans for you to bring him to the planetarium on days when Jason said he’d pick him up–like a goddam parenttrap. He thinks back to that night on the stairs a few weeks ago, you looked so pretty spinning around with your friends, like Thumbelina. When he found you on the stairs he was panicked: worried about you and worried about Tim who never left your side, but you were still just so pretty.

He can’t believe you here now, bringing him flowers and his brother’s approval. He’s waited for this for so long, for the okay from the one person dearest to you, the one person who could make Jason actually care about listening to him.

“He really said that?” Jason asks you, hesitant and careful like he’s worried you’re playing a joke on him.

“He really said that,” You reply, laughing when Jason pulls you into a hug. He holds you for a few minutes, feels the air in your lungs press into his belly as you breathe in and out, it feels so good to have you here, to know that he’s not making anything worse by wanting you.

“So that means you’ll go out with me then, fairy girl?” he asks you, his rough fingers moving up to grasp your chin, tilting it up so you’re looking into his eyes. He waits for you to nod, then waits for the word, yes, to emerge from your pretty lips, before lowering down to kiss your forehead. He feels you sigh, feels your hands shake from their place on his arms, his kisses move down down down until they meet the corner of your lips. You're smiling slightly, like you’re having a happy dream, and when he kisses you for real that smile becomes a big grin.

It’s all teeth and laughter and the awkwardness of a first kiss, but Jason holds you up and lets you gasp into his mouth and swallows your sighs. He licks into your mouth and clashes his teeth against yours and calls you his fairy, his magic girl come to take him back to Neverland. He holds you tighter and tighter, and feels you shake under his affection, how lovely it is, how badly he wants to make your bones rattle.

“I’ll bring you more flowers on our date, sugar.” He tells you, kissing the underside of your jaw, before pulling away. He’s sad he has to let you go, frustrated that he has to stay at work while you get to go and hang out with Tim and Damian at the Museum all day, but the kiss you press into his hand–innocent and earnest–makes it worth it.

He leads you out of the back room and into the well-lit main entrance, pausing only to grab his book from the front desk. “By the way, I found this while I was stacking shelves, I thought it might be useful for your project.”

In his hands is a book titled Gotham City’s Founding Buildings, and on the cover, miraculously an illustration of Cherry Hill.

It’s too easy to fall in love with him, you think again, smiling as you pull him into another kiss.

1K notes · View notes

tomiek111 · 26 days ago

Text

Red Lights Pt.2

pairing *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ F1 driver!Jason Todd x fem!reader

disclaimer *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ angst. fluff. suggestive content. themes of mental health and depression. swearing. insecurities. non-canon complacent. jason is an idiot. not proofread.

a/n *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧ So here's part two. I didn't wanna split it but oh well. Requests are open so feel free to send them. Comment, Like and Reblog (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶)

comment to be added to taglist

Part 1

“Jason, I think you should see this.”

Jason’s brows drew together as Dick held up his tablet. On the screen was a Twitter post already gaining traction—photos of Jason in Venice. Not alone. Y/N was beside him in every frame, though mercifully, her face was either obscured or turned away. Only Jason’s features were clear, caught in candid moments of laughter or strolling beside her down cobblestone streets.

“It won’t be long before the tabloids catch wind of this,” Dick said quietly. “And once they do, you know how fast it spreads. So… is there anything we need to prepare for? A statement? Clarification?”

Jason stared at the images for a beat too long, his jaw tightening. “There’s nothing to announce,” he said, his voice low, laced with simmering anger.

This—this—was what he hated most about the life he’d inherited. The fame, the scrutiny, the constant invasion of privacy. People didn’t just watch; they obsessed, they speculated, they twisted everything into headlines and hashtags. And they never knew when to back off.

He pulled out his phone, opened the app, and found the same post. He scrolled through the comments. Some expressed harmless curiosity. Others congratulated him or gushed about how “cute” the mystery woman looked from behind. But the rest? Cruel. Jealous. Misogynistic. Disgusting.

He could already picture Y/N’s face if she saw them—how her smile would falter, how those bright eyes would dim. The internet could be vicious and if anyone recognized her, they’d tear into her without hesitation. She didn’t deserve that. Y/N was kind, full of joy, and effortlessly warm in a way that made the world feel easier to exist in when she was near. She wasn’t built for this toxic attention and she shouldn’t have to be.

Jason’s fists clenched at his sides.

They could say whatever they wanted about him. They always had. But Y/N? She was off-limits. Untouchable. And he would make damn sure it stayed that way.

Jason shoved his phone deep into his pocket, the screen still burning with the comments he'd been scrolling through—each one a fresh ember beneath his skin. The device felt heavier than it should have, weighted down by implications and what-ifs. Across the room, Dick's gaze lingered on him with that infuriating older brother intuition, the kind that could read silence like an open book. Jason hated it—being seen like that—but more than that, he hated feeling powerless.

“I’ll handle it,” Jason bit out, the words sharp enough to carve distance between them as he moved toward the door.

“Jason.”

Dick’s voice was softer than Jason deserved, laced with a caution that had been earned through years of watching headlines twist and private moments splatter across tabloids. The warning wasn’t judgment—it was experience.

“Just... be careful,” Dick said, the words measured. “You know how this stuff spirals. One photo turns into a headline, and the next thing you know, she’s being followed. Whoever she is.”

Jason froze mid-step, his spine locking. The unspoken implication hung between them: I see you. I see what this means. Dick didn’t press further. He didn’t need to.

“That’s exactly why I’m going to handle it,” Jason ground out, the promise rough in his throat.

A beat passed. Then another.

Finally, Dick gave a single nod—not approval, not surrender, just acknowledgment. Permission to go, if that’s what Jason needed.

And Jason did.

Because standing still meant thinking. And thinking meant admitting how much he couldn’t control—the press, the speculation, the way his pulse kicked at the thought of Y/N caught in the crossfire.

Jason’s thumb hovered over the contact for a long moment before pressing call. The phone rang twice before that familiar, graveled voice answered - the one that had talked him through contract negotiations and sponsorship deals since he was a teenager.

“Uncle Harvey. I need your help.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth. Harvey Dent wasn’t who Jason wanted involved in this fragile, unnamed thing with Y/N. That honor should have gone to Alfred, with his quiet wisdom and endless patience. Or Cass, who understood the weight of public scrutiny better than most. But this wasn’t about introductions over tea—this was damage control. And when it came to protecting what mattered, Harvey was the most ruthless legal mind in Gotham.

On the other end of the line, Jason could hear the squeak of leather as Harvey leaned back in his office chair, the distant hum of Gotham traffic thirty floors below. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of decades navigating the Wayne family’s most sensitive affairs.

“Son, listen to me carefully.” A pause. The clink of ice in a glass. “You say you’re fond of this woman, but you don’t know how she feels about you. Or this situation. And with the championship rounds coming up?” A humorless chuckle. “It’s like pouring jet fuel on a bonfire.”

Jason’s grip tightened on the phone. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office, Harvey watched a news helicopter circle the Gotham skyline - a reminder of how quickly private lives became public spectacle.

“Driver-presenter relationships aren’t unheard of, no. But let’s not pretend this industry has evolved since Clark Kent and Lois Lane.” A bitter edge crept into Jason's voice. “Unless your girl happens to be a Pulitzer-winning journalist with skin thicker than Lane’s and let’s be honest, you’re no ‘America’s Sweetheart’ like Clark was—she won’t survive unscathed.” The lawyer continued, his dual-toned voice measured.

Jason’s free hand clenched into a fist. He could already see the headlines: “Distraction in the Paddock?” “Is Wayne Racing’s Comeback Kid Losing Focus?” Worse, the vile comments that would inevitably target Y/N— questioning her professionalism, her motives, her very right to be in the paddock.

“So what’s the best course of action?” Jason ground out, hating the helplessness in his own voice.

Harvey sighed, the sound distorted by the scar tissue on the left side of his mouth. “You have three options, kid. One: you walk away now, before this gets complicated. Two: you go public on your terms, with every legal safeguard we can put in place. Or three...” A pause heavy with implication. “You keep this quiet until the season ends, and pray to God no paparazzi catches you two in a compromising position.”

Outside, the first drops of rain began to streak down Harvey’s windows, turning Gotham into a blur of neon and shadow. Just like the night half his face had been melted away by a rival’s acid attack. He knew better than most how quickly the world could turn on you.

“The clock’s ticking, Jason,” Harvey murmured. “But whatever you decide— we’ll handle it.”

We. The word should have been comforting. Instead, it settled like a lead weight in Jason’s stomach. While walking our of the garage, he caught his own reflection in the hallway mirror—jaw clenched, eyes dark with something too close to fear.

Y/N hummed softly to herself as she folded another sweater into her suitcase, the fabric still warm from the dryer. Outside her window, the afternoon sun cast golden streaks across her bedroom floor, illuminating the carefully curated pile of items she was bringing to Zandvoort—a notebook filled with sightseeing ideas, her favorite camera for capturing the Dutch coastline and her prettiest outfits, just in case Jason happened to glance her way during the broadcast.

Every moment with him played on a loop in her mind—his laughter during their disastrous pottery attempt, the way his eyes softened when he thought she wasn’t looking, the rare, unguarded smiles he reserved only for their quiet conversations. She had loved him for years, long before she ever stepped foot in a paddock, back when he was just a face on her bedroom posters and a name she whispered to the TV screen during races. But now? Now, she was falling all over again, deeper and harder than before and it terrified her.

Because how could she ever tell him?

The fear sat heavy in her chest, an anchor dragging her back to reality whenever her thoughts drifted too far into fantasy. Jason had once confessed, in an old interview she’d memorized, how much he despised obsessive fans—the kind who crossed boundaries, who saw him as an object rather than a person. And Y/N? She had been that girl once. She had run fan accounts, written embarrassingly earnest posts, even sketched him in the margins of her notebooks like some lovesick teenager. If he ever found out, would he look at her with disgust? Worse—would he see her as just another face in the crowd, another person who loved the idea of him more than the man himself?

The mere thought made her stomach drop.

Stephanie had rolled her eyes when Y/N voiced her fears. “You’re not some random fan anymore,” she’d argued. “You’re his friend. You know him. Tell him.”

But it wasn’t that simple.

Jason had dated models before—women with legs that went on for miles and faces that belonged on magazine covers. Y/N knew she didn’t compare. She wasn’t polished in that effortless way; sure she could be professional but that's that. She was all sharp edges and nervous energy, too loud when she was excited, too quiet when she was overthinking. And Jason? Jason was a legend. A champion. He deserved someone who matched his brilliance, someone the world would approve of—a supermodel, a pop star, anyone but a presenter whose biggest accomplishment was not tripping over her own words during live broadcasts.

And then there was her career.

Relationships between presenters and drivers were messy. The internet would dissect every glance, every interaction, until the narrative was no longer about her work but about who she was sleeping with. She had seen it happen to other women in the paddock—their credibility erased overnight, their achievements overshadowed by speculation and rumours.

But God, if Jason ever looked at her and asked, she would burn it all down in a heartbeat.

Her career. Her reputation. Every carefully constructed boundary she’d put in place to protect herself.

She’d do it without hesitation.

Because he was worth it.

Worth the risk. Worth the fall.

Even if he never felt the same.

Her eyes fell to the matching bracelets he had bought for them from a night market and a soft smile found its way to her lips. For now, this was enough.

It had to be.

The buzz of her phone against the bedsheets startled her, pulling Y/N abruptly from her thoughts. She reached for it with slightly trembling fingers, her breath catching when she saw the name flashing across the screen— Jay💞.

The little heart emoji beside his name, something she’d added weeks ago in a moment of foolish hope, now felt like a cruel joke.

Jay💞: Can we talk?

Her stomach twisted. That wasn’t his usual style. No teasing remark, no dry observation about whatever hobby she’d been rambling about last. Just three simple words that carried an unsettling weight.

Y/N: Sure. Wassup?

Before she could even process sending the message, her screen lit up with an incoming call. Her pulse skyrocketed, fingers fumbling as she nearly dropped the phone in her haste to answer.

“Hi,” she breathed, forcing lightness into her voice even as her chest tightened with inexplicable dread.

“Hey.”

That single word confirmed it. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Jason’s voice was strained, the usual warmth replaced by something tense and unfamiliar.

“How are you doing?” he asked, the question stiff, like he was reading from a script.

Y/N’s fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater. “I’m good,” she replied, forcing a laugh. “Missing me already, are we Todd?”

It had only been six days since they’d last seen each other—six days since they’d wandered the streets of Monaco after dark, sharing a single gelato while arguing over which historical monument was the most overrated. He’d tugged her under an awning when the rain started, his arm brushing hers and for a fleeting moment, she’d let herself believe there was something more in the way he looked at her.

“Somethin’ like that,” Jason muttered, but there was no humor in it. No warmth. Just a hollow imitation of their usual banter. The dread in her stomach solidified into something heavier.

“And how—” she started, desperate to fill the silence, but Jason cut her off.

“We should stop this.”

The words hit like a ton of bricks, sharp and sudden, as if he’d ripped them out of himself before he could reconsider.

Y/N’s breath stuttered. The room tilted.

Stop what? she wanted to scream. Stop texting? Stop laughing together? Stop looking at me like I’m the only person in the room?

But all she managed was a choked, “Stop what?”

Please say I’m imagining this. Please say I’ve misunderstood.

“This. Us. The whole thing.” His voice was rough now, edged with frustration—a tone he’d never once used with her.

A voice in her head, cold and mocking, slithered through the haze of her shock.

What did you think would happen? That someone like him would ever want someone like you?

The tears came then, hot and unstoppable, but she clenched her jaw, refusing to let him hear them.

“I understand,” she whispered, the words barely audible past the lump in her throat.

It was a lie. She didn’t understand. Not when he’d looked at her like that in Monaco. Not when he’d kept every book she’d ever given him. Not when he’d promised to take her to see the tulips next spring.

But she wouldn’t beg. She wouldn’t make this harder for him.

“It was fun while it lasted,” she forced out, her voice cracking. “I wish you all the best, Jason.”

She hung up before he could respond.

The phone slipped from her fingers, landing soundlessly on the bed. Around her, the room blurred—the half-packed suitcase for Zandvoort, the notebook filled with plans she’d never get to share, the dress she’d bought because it matched his eyes.

All of it, gone in an instant.

The phone slipped from Jason's fingers, clattering onto the marble countertop with a sound that echoed through the hollow silence of his penthouse. The screen had gone dark, just like the numbness spreading through his chest—but her voice still rang in his ears, sharp and clear despite the distance between them.

“I understand.”

The way her breath had hitched—just once, just barely—before she’d hung up. The way she’d tried so hard to sound composed, even as her voice cracked on those final words.

“I wish you all the best, Jason.”

As if he deserved her kindness. As if he hadn’t just taken something fragile and beautiful and shattered it with his own two hands.

A wave of self-loathing crashed over him, so visceral it knocked the breath out of him. He braced his hands against the counter, head bowed, shoulders trembling with the force of keeping himself upright.

You made her cry.

The realization was a knife to the ribs. Y/N, who laughed in the face of his sarcasm, who teased him mercilessly but never cruelly, who looked at the world with a wonder he’d forgotten existed—he’d hurt her.

Rage ignited in his veins, white-hot and directionless. At the paparazzi who’d snapped those invasive photos. At the team managers who’d warned him about “distractions.” At the entire goddamn world that had made this feel like the only choice.

But mostly—mostly—at himself.

The voices in his head, the ones he usually drowned out with engine roars and podium cheers, rose in a venomous chorus.

She would’ve left eventually. You’re not someone people stay for. You ruin everything you touch.

A sweeter, softer voice tried to interject—You were just trying to protect her—but the others drowned it out with mocking laughter.

Protect her? Or protecting yourself from the truth? That you’re terrified she never loved you at all?

“Shut up!” The words tore from his throat raw and ragged.

His vision blurred. His hands shook. The anger needed an outlet, needed to burn, and before he could think, he grabbed the nearest object—

The ceramic pot.

Their pot.

The one they’d painstakingly shaped at Nonna Gianna’s, their fingers brushing over wet clay. The one Y/N had painted with his racing number in that terrible, crooked script of hers, grinning as she declared, “Now everyone will know the great Jason Todd made this masterpiece.” The one he’d secretly kept on the shelf, where he could see it first thing every morning.

It shattered against the wall with a sound like a gunshot.

The moment it left his hand, he regretted it.

Jason was across the room before the last piece hit the ground, collapsing to his knees amidst the wreckage. His hands trembled as they gathered the broken fragments, as if he could somehow piece them back together.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, over and over, voice breaking.

To the pot. To the memories. To her.

The jagged edges bit into his palms, drawing blood, but he barely felt it. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony of knowing—

He’d broken something far more precious than clay.

Y/N slid down the length of her bedroom wall, her legs giving out beneath her as she collapsed onto the hardwood floor. She pulled her knees to her chest, arms wrapped tightly around them as if she could physically hold herself together. The tears came in relentless waves, hot and suffocating, each sob wracking her body with a violence that left her gasping for air.

She had known this would happen. Had braced for it from the moment she first realized her feelings for him had grown beyond professional admiration. So why did it feel like her chest had been cracked open? Why did it hurt to breathe, as if every inhale was lined with shards of glass?

Her phone buzzed incessantly on the carpet beside her, the screen lighting up again and again with notifications she couldn’t bring herself to check. Calls. Texts. Maybe even an explanation—though what could he possibly say that would undo the way his voice had sounded when he said those words?

We should stop this.

Had he found her old fan accounts? The embarrassing posts from her teenage years? Or worse—had he simply realized she wasn’t worth the trouble? That whatever this was between them had been a mistake?

The questions swarmed in her head like angry hornets, relentless and poisonous. She pressed her forehead against her knees, nails digging into her arms as if the physical pain could distract from the gaping hole in her chest.

Time lost meaning. The sunlight that had streamed through her windows when the call ended had long since faded, replaced by the dim glow of streetlights filtering through the curtains. Her tears had dried up, leaving her hollow and numb, her body too exhausted to produce any more.

She didn’t hear the frantic knocking at her front door. Didn’t register the sound of it swinging open, or the hurried footsteps that echoed through her apartment.

“Y/N? Y/N!”

Stephanie’s voice cut through the fog of her grief, sharp with panic.

Y/N barely lifted her head as her friend skidded into the bedroom, eyes wide with alarm. Behind her, Tim hovered in the doorway, his usual easygoing expression replaced with concern.

“Oh my god—” Stephanie dropped to her knees in front of her, hands hovering as if afraid to touch her. “Tim, go get water. Now.”

“Hey, Steph,” Y/N murmured, her voice raw and broken. She didn’t have the energy to force a smile, didn’t even try to wipe away the tear tracks staining her cheeks.

Tim returned moments later with a glass of water, which Y/N accepted numbly. The coldness of the glass against her palm was the first real sensation she’d felt in hours.

“You didn’t show up at the airport,” Stephanie said, her voice trembling. “You weren’t answering calls or texts. And then we saw the news report—”

Y/N’s fingers tightened around the glass. “News report?”

Stephanie blinked. “You... didn’t know?”

Tim wordlessly pulled out his phone, swiping through his feed before turning the screen toward her. Y/N set the glass down with a shaky exhale. “That explains a lot.”

Stephanie’s brow furrowed. “Wait, what do you mean by that?”

And so, in halting, broken sentences, Y/N told them. About the call. About the way Jason’s voice had sounded—like he was forcing the words out, like he hated every single one. About how she’d hung up before she could break completely.

By the time she finished, Stephanie’s face had darkened with a fury Y/N had never seen before.

“That motherfucker,” she hissed, pulling out her phone and her hands balling into fists. “I swear to God, I’m going to—”

“Steph,” Tim interjected gently, though his own jaw was clenched. “Let’s just... focus on Y/N right now, okay?”

Stephanie nodded slowly and put her phone down begrudged, “But mark my words, he’s not getting away with this. Not after everything. Not after you.”

Y/N didn’t have the strength to stop her. Didn’t have the strength to do anything but stare at the floor, the numbness settling deeper into her bones.

Zandvoort was everything Y/N had imagined it would be—the roaring crowd, the salty sea air mixing with the scent of rubber, the vibrant banners waving proudly in the stands. The Dutch Grand Prix had always been one of her favorites, and she had been looking forward to this weekend for months.

But now, standing in the middle of the bustling paddock, she felt strangely detached from it all.

The night before had helped, at least. Steph and Tim had refused to leave her alone, bundling her onto their private jet with a duffel bag full of all her comfort foods. They’d let her cry when she needed to, let her rant when she wanted to and then, when the worst of it had passed, they’d distracted her with terrible B-movies and enough popcorn to feed a small village. By morning, the raw edges of her heartache had dulled into something more manageable—something she could tuck away behind a practiced smile and a layer of expertly applied makeup.

She still wore the dress she’d bought for the weekend. A deep emerald green with accents of blue, the color of the ocean under storm clouds. She’d picked it weeks ago, imagining how the fabric would flutter in the coastal wind, wondering if Jason would notice. But of course, there was no use of thinking such thoughts now.

The race had been chaotic, the kind of edge-of-your-seat spectacle that normally would have had her buzzing with adrenaline. Jason had podiumed—P3, when he could have easily taken P1 if not for a series of uncharacteristic mistakes. The commentators speculated about pressure getting to him, but everyone in the paddock knew the real reason. The photos. The rumors.

She had avoided him all weekend, sticking to the media zones where she knew he wouldn’t venture. But now, as the post-race interviews loomed, her luck had run out.

Cass was first—stoic as ever, gracious in victory, her answers concise and humble. Konner Kent followed, flashing that trademark Kent charm, all cocky grins and playful winks that had the crowd eating out of his palm.

And then, before she could brace herself, Jason was stepping into the interview pen.

“Hello, Jason.”

Her voice didn’t waver. She had spent years perfecting the art of professionalism, and it didn’t fail her now. The smile she gave him was polite, detached—the same one she’d give any driver.

“Mind walking us through your race?”

For a moment, he just stared at her.

The noise of the paddock faded into the distance. The cameras, the reporters, the fans—none of it mattered. His gaze searched hers, desperate, as if he could find some answer in the cool detachment of her expression.

Are you okay? his eyes seemed to ask. Did I ruin everything?

But she gave nothing away.

“Jason?”

Her voice was calm, measured, the perfect cadence of a professional doing her job. The microphone in her hand didn’t tremble. The smile on her lips didn’t waver. But her eyes—those dark, expressive eyes he’d spent months learning to read—were utterly unreadable.

He blinked, startled back to reality like a man waking from a dream. “Uh—yeah. Sorry.”

The apology tasted bitter on his tongue. Sorry for what? For zoning out during the interview? For breaking her heart over the phone like a coward? For the way his chest ached just standing this close to her, close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume—something floral and soft that reminded him of the lazy afternoons in cafes of Milan?

He cleared his throat, dragging a hand through his sweat-damp hair as he launched into the mechanical race recap every driver had memorized by their rookie year. Tire degradation. Track conditions. The usual corporate-approved talking points.

But his gaze never left hers.

He watched for any crack in her armor—a flicker of hurt, a flash of anger, anything to prove she still felt something. But Y/N? She was impeccable. Nodding at all the right moments, smiling when the script demanded it, her posture relaxed as if this was just another interview with just another driver.

Not the man who’d danced in the rain with her in Austria. Not the man who had a polaroid of them on his nightstand. Not the man who was currently dying inside.

“So,” she continued smoothly, glancing down at the cue cards in her hand, “any plans after the race?”

The question was innocuous. Routine. He swallowed hard. “I did have plans for going to the beach, maybe the museums...” His voice trailed off, the ghost of a humorless laugh escaping him. Plans with you. “But those fell through.”

For the briefest second, something flickered in her expression. Then it was gone.

“Well,” she said, her tone light but her knuckles whitening around the microphone, “I think you should still try to go regardless.”

Their eyes locked. The paddock noise faded to static.

Even if we’re done, her words whispered between them, don’t stop living.

Jason’s throat tightened. He wanted to say so much more—to explain about the lawyers, the paparazzi, the team. To tell her that walking away was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

But the cameras were rolling. The world was watching.

So all he said was, “Yeah. Maybe I will.”

The days after the interview bled together in a monotonous cycle of exhaustion and emptiness. Jason fell back into his old ways—wake up, train, eat, sleep, repeat. The discipline that had once been second nature now felt like a prison sentence, each repetition chipping away at what little remained of his spirit.

He still raced. Still won, even. The muscle memory was too deeply ingrained for anything less. But the fire that had once driven him—the fierce, unrelenting need to prove himself—had been reduced to smoldering embers. Without her in the stands, without her texts dissecting his performance with that sharp insight and playful teasing, the victories felt hollow. The cheers of the crowd, once electric, now grated against his nerves like static, a shrill cacophony that only emphasized the silence where her voice should have been.

And yet, like clockwork, the messages still came.

Every new city, every race weekend, his phone would light up with clinical, meticulously researched recommendations—museum tickets booked under his name, reservation details for hidden-gem restaurants, phone numbers for local guides who could show him the sights. The messages were stripped bare of her personality—no ridiculous emojis, no witty remarks, no absurd cat memes that used to make him groan even as he saved them to his camera roll. Just facts. Just logistics. As if she couldn’t bear to cut him off completely but couldn’t bring herself to be anything more than professionally courteous.

See? She still cares about you, a voice in his head whispered, equal parts hopeful and cruel. Even after everything.

And what had he done in return?

The taunts came harder now, unrelenting and deserved. There was no defense, no justification. Not anymore. He had made his choice, and this was the consequence—a half-life, a world drained of color.

He tried, at first, to follow her suggestions. Walked through art galleries, stared at masterpieces he couldn’t appreciate. Sat through a lion dance show in Singapore, the dancers’ passion only underscoring his own numbness. Each attempt ended the same way—with him standing in the middle of some crowded plaza or quiet museum hall, struck by the unbearable weight of her absence.

What would she say right now?

The thought was involuntary, intrusive. He could almost hear her voice, the way she’d poke fun at the overly serious museum descriptions or make up ridiculous backstories for the portraits. The memory of her laughter, bright and unselfconscious, twisted like a knife.

Even reading, once his solace, offered no refuge. The books she’d given him sat untouched on his nightstand. When he did try, he’d find himself staring at the same paragraph, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. His mind, usually so sharp, so focused, was a fog of regret and what-ifs. Half an hour. That was all he could manage before the emptiness became too much. Before he had to leave, shoulders hunched against the weight of missing her.

And then, slowly, he began to notice her absence in the paddock, too. Fewer sightings in the media pen, fewer flashes of her familiar silhouette in the crowd. He didn’t know if it was intentional, if she was avoiding him as deliberately as he was avoiding her, or if the universe had simply decided to spare them both the agony of crossing paths.

A blessing, he told himself. A mercy.

But the truth was worse.

Because every time he turned a corner and didn’t see her, every time he scanned the pit lane and found it empty of her presence, the hole in his chest grew wider.

He missed her.

Not just the idea of her, not just the comfort she’d brought—but her. The way her nose scrunched when she laughed. The way she’d bite her lip when concentrating. The way she’d looked at him, really looked at him, as if she saw something worth saving beneath the wreckage.

And now, without her, he was adrift. A champion with no one left to race for. A man who’d pushed away the only person who ever made him feel alive.

The Mexican Grand Prix had been brutal—not because of the track or the competition, but because every turn, every straightaway, seemed to whisper memories he couldn’t escape. As Jason stood in the quiet of his driver’s room, the adrenaline of the race still thrumming under his skin, his mind drifted unbidden to a conversation from what felt like a lifetime ago.

“You have to try my friend’s abuelita’s quesadillas,” Y/N had told him, her eyes alight with excitement. “They’re legendary. I’ll take you there after the race this time.”

This time.

The words echoed hollowly in his chest. There would be no this time for them. No shared meals, no laughter over burnt tongues from too-hot cheese, no moments where the world faded away and it was just the two of them, tangled in the simple joy of being together.

He slumped onto the couch, scrolling mindlessly through his phone in a futile attempt to distract himself. Then, like a punch to the gut, Tim’s Instagram story appeared.

A photo.

Tim, grinning as always, arm slung around his girlfriend—the blonde stylist Jason vaguely remembered from a few events. And there, standing beside them, radiant in a golden dress that seemed to catch fire under the evening lights, was Y/N.

But it wasn’t just her presence that sent a sharp, jagged pain through his heart.

It was Danny.

Danny, with his easy smile and his arm draped casually around Y/N’s shoulders, pulling her close. Danny, who had known her longer, who had history with her, who was now standing where Jason should have been.

Jason’s grip on his phone tightened until his knuckles turned white.

Anger surged through him, hot and irrational, a wildfire he couldn’t control. It wasn’t just jealousy—it was something deeper, something primal. The sight of her smiling, glowing, laughing with someone else, doing all the things they used to do—it carved something raw and feral out of him.

She wasn’t his.

She had never been his.

And yet, the possessive fury that coiled in his gut refused to loosen.

Why?

Why did the thought of her happiness without him feel like a betrayal? Why did the idea of her moving on, of her finding joy in someone else’s company, make him want to slam his fist through a wall?

It was selfish. Hypocritical, even. He was the one who had ended things. He was the one who had pushed her away. And yet, here he was, seething at the mere idea of her being someone else's.

Pathetic.

He tossed his phone onto the table, the screen still illuminated with that damn photo and dragged his hands over his face. The weight of his own contradictions pressed down on him—the guilt, the longing, the anger, all tangled into an unbearable knot. He had no right to feel this way. But that didn’t stop the ache.

And it didn’t stop him from wondering, with a bitterness that tasted like regret, if she had already forgotten him.

The quiet hum of the garage was interrupted by a hesitant knock, followed by the creak of the door swinging open. Jason looked up from where he sat, his phone still clenched in his hand, the screen now dark as he placed it face-down on the table. The familiar voice that followed sent a jolt through him—one he hadn’t realized he needed until now.

“Can I come in?”

Roy Harper stood in the doorway, his frame silhouetted against the harsh fluorescent lights of the paddock outside. Even after all this time, the sight of him brought a flood of memories—both painful and cherished. Roy had been more than just a friend; he’d been Jason’s fiercest rival, his most trusted confidante, the only person on the grid who ever truly understood the weight of what it meant to race at this level.

And then, in the blink of an eye, everything had shattered.

Jason swallowed hard, forcing himself to nod. “Roy?”

The name came out rougher than he intended, laced with surprise and something deeper—something like guilt.

After the crash, Roy had been consumed by it. The guilt, the self-blame, the crushing weight of believing he’d been the one to end Jason’s career or worse, his life. Jason had heard the stories in hushed tones from the team: Roy’s downward spiral, the overdose, the way he’d disappeared from the paddock entirely. And Jason? He’d stayed away, too, convinced that seeing him—seeing the scars, the aftermath would only drag Roy back into that darkness.

It was almost laughable, in the cruelest way. Roy blamed himself for the crash. Jason blamed himself for Roy’s suffering. And yet, neither of them had ever once blamed the other.

But time, therapy and an insistent, stubborn woman named Y/N had changed things.

Roy had been the first to seek help, pulling himself out of the abyss with a determination Jason had always admired. And Jason? Well, he’d had Y/N. She’d been the one to gently but firmly suggest he talk to someone, too. And when the time came, she’d been the one to nudge him toward reconciliation with Roy, insisting that they both needed it.

“You can’t keep carrying this guilt,” she’d told him, her voice soft but unyielding. “And neither can he.”

Another thing he owed her. Another thing he couldn’t repay.

“I didn’t know you came to see the race,” Jason said, forcing himself back to the present.

Roy stepped fully into the room, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “Jade and I were in the country, so we thought we might as well.” He paused, then added with a grin, “Oh, and Lian came too. Had her wear a mini 02 jersey.”

He pulled out his phone, swiping to a photo of his infant daughter swaddled in a tiny onesie designed to mimic Jason’s livery. A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. “You’re turning her into a fan already?”

Roy’s grin widened. “Gotta teach 'em young, amiright? And don’t think I forgot—you still owe her a proper godfather gift. None of that ‘signed merch’ crap, either.”

Godfather. The word settled over Jason like a weight—a responsibility, a promise, a second chance he hadn’t realized he needed. Lian had been born not long after he and Roy had finally sat down and talked, after the apologies and the tears and the long-overdue acknowledgment that neither of them had been at fault. That day, Roy had clasped his shoulder and declared Jason the godfather without hesitation, as if it had always been inevitable.

Jason’s thumb hovered over the phone screen, tracing the curve of Lian’s round cheeks in the photo. The tiny onesie, a perfect miniature replica of his own racing colors, sent an unexpected warmth through his chest. For a moment, the tension in his shoulders eased, replaced by something softer, something like wonder.

“She’s perfect, Roy.”

The words came out quieter than he intended, almost reverent.

Roy’s expression shifted, the usual sharp edges of his smirk softening into something more tender. “Yeah,” he agreed, voice thick with a pride Jason had never heard from him before. “She is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t the heavy, suffocating kind they’d endured after the crash. This was different—comfortable in a way Jason hadn’t realized he missed. The kind of quiet that only existed between people who had seen each other at their worst and still chose to stand side by side.

It didn’t last.

Roy, ever incapable of leaving well enough alone, broke it with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball.

“So,” he drawled, leaning back against the equipment crate with practiced nonchalance, “you gonna tell me why you look like someone kicked your puppy or am I supposed to guess?”

Jason exhaled sharply through his nose, fingers raking through his sweat-damp hair. The motion did little to dispel the restless energy coiled beneath his skin. “It’s nothing.”

The lie tasted bitter on his tongue.

Roy didn’t even dignify it with a response. Just raised one eyebrow, the look on his face screaming bullshit louder than any words could.

Jason opened his mouth—to deflect, to argue, to say anything that would make Roy drop it—but the words died before they could form. What was there to say? That he’d been staring at a photo of Y/N like some lovesick teenager? That the sight of her smiling with someone else had carved a hole in his chest he couldn’t seem to fill?

Roy took one look at his face and groaned, dragging a hand down his own. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Jason scowled. “What?”

“You’re moping.”

“I’m not moping.”

The protest was automatic, but even Jason could hear how petulant it sounded.

Roy rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “You absolutely are. Look, if you’re this torn up about it, just talk to her.”

Jason’s jaw clenched, the muscles ticking under the strain. “It’s not that simple.”

“Why?” Roy challenged, leaning forward. “Because you’re scared?”

The question landed like a punch, sharp and unrelenting.

Jason didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Roy sighed, shaking his head with a mixture of exasperation and something dangerously close to pity. “Man, I never thought I’d see the day Jason Todd was too chickenshit to fight for something he wanted.”

The words stung, but not as much as the ones that followed.

“Look, Jay,” Roy continued, shifting forward, his tone losing its edge for something more earnest. “I talked to Y/N once. Really talked to her. And you know what she told me?” He paused, letting the weight of the moment settle. “This whole ‘hobby hunting’ thing you’ve been doing? It’s not about finding some obscure pastime to kill the hours. It’s about you. About you figuring out who the hell you are when you’re not behind a wheel.”

Jason’s throat tightened.

“She wanted you to realize that your worth—your whole damn existence—isn’t defined by what you do on track. That you’re more than just a driver. That you matter, with or without racing.” Roy’s gaze hardened. “And I’ll be real with you—Y/N? She was it for you. The best match you could’ve ever hoped for. Someone who actually saw you—all of you—and chose to stay. Because she knows you're worth it, whether you believe it or not.”

He leaned back then, arms crossing over his chest, his next words deliberate, final.

“So if you let her go? If you really let her walk away without a fight?” Roy leveled him with a look that stripped Jason bare of his defenses. “Then you’re not just scared, Jason. You’re a goddamn fool.”

Jason stayed silent. What could he say? That Roy was right? That he’d known from the moment Y/N walked into his life that she was different, that she saw him in a way no one else ever had? That the thought of losing her for good was enough to make his hands shake?

Roy wasn’t done. “Look at me and Jade,” he continued, voice dropping into something more serious. “Daughter of a rival team’s sponsor. People talked shit—still talk shit—but we made it work. You’re letting your self-hatred and anxiety ruin the one good thing you have.” He jabbed a finger at Jason’s chest. “Snap out of it.”

A beat. Then, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes:

“Also make up with her, because you race like shit when you’re emo. Can’t have Lian watch her godfather embarrass himself like that, now can I?”

The attempt at humor fell flat, but the message was clear.

Jason had a choice to make. But the question was, could he?

Roy’s words lingered in Jason’s mind like an unshakable shadow, gnawing at him long after they had been spoken. He wanted Y/N—desperately, irrevocably but the weight of his own turmoil held him back. The desire to claim her as his own warred violently with the fear of dragging her into the chaos that followed him like a curse. He couldn’t bear the thought of the world’s cruelty—the relentless hate, the hollow pity, the performative sympathy—tainting her perception of him. What if she started seeing him through the same fractured lens he saw himself? The possibility was unbearable.

When one of his managers suggested yet another PR relationship—this time with a model, just to divert attention from that godforsaken Twitter post—Jason nearly recoiled in disgust. The idea of replacing Y/N, even superficially, made his skin crawl. There was no comparison. She wasn’t just another face in the crowd; she was the only one who had ever truly mattered.

Then came Las Vegas.

During free practice, Tim had been called in as a last-minute replacement after Cass sprained her wrist. Jason had expected the usual awkward tension between them—Tim’s hesitant politeness, his quiet deference despite Jason’s habitual coldness. But this time, something was different. Tim moved through the garage like a ghost, his gaze sliding right past Jason as if he were nothing more than empty air. The one time their eyes did meet, Tim’s expression twisted into something sharp and disdainful, a look so foreign that it sent a ripple of unease through Jason.

This wasn’t about racing.

Jason knew, with a sinking certainty, that this ran deeper than motorsports. Tim and his girlfriend were close to Y/N— always had been. If Tim despised him this openly, then Y/N’s feelings toward him now must be even worse. The thought was haunting.

Three times, Jason tried to bridge the gap, to force some kind of conversation. Three times, Tim shut him out with icy indifference. But Jason wasn’t about to back down. He needed answers. He needed to know—how much damage had been done, whether there was even a sliver of hope left. And if there was, he’d claw his way through hell itself to reach her.

By the time FP3 ended, Jason had resolved himself—he needed answers, and Tim was the only one who could give them to him. He waited, patience fraying, until the garage began to empty out, the mechanics packing up equipment and the hum of post-session debriefs fading into the background. Then, as Tim zipped up his bag, shoulders drooping with exhaustion, Jason moved.

He blocked the exit, not aggressively, but firmly enough that Tim couldn’t just slip past him. The younger driver let out a long, irritated sigh, finally lifting his gaze—not in acknowledgment, but in resignation. He knew this conversation was inevitable.

“What is it?” Tim muttered, voice flat, as if he were already bracing for an argument.

Jason swallowed hard. For a man who thrived on confrontation, he suddenly felt uncharacteristically unsure. But he had come this far, he couldn’t back down now.

“How is she?” The words came out rougher than he intended, laced with a desperation he hadn’t meant to reveal.

Tim’s expression darkened. “How is who?” he shot back, feigning ignorance with a deliberate eye roll, his tone dripping with sarcasm. The act was flimsy, almost insulting in its lack of effort.

Jason’s jaw tightened. “You know exactly who I’m talking about. Y/N.” His voice was low, urgent. “I haven’t seen her around the paddock lately.”

A bitter smirk twisted Tim’s lips. “Didn’t you hear?” he said, mockingly casual. “She asked her higher-ups to switch her from F1 to IndyCar for presenting.” A pause, then the unspoken words hung between them like a blade: Because of you.

Jason stiffened. “But F1 is the pinnacle of motorsports. Why would she just—throw away everything she’s worked for?” The idea was unthinkable. Y/N had clawed her way into the F1 world through sheer determination. She loved this sport. She wouldn’t just walk away.

Something in Tim’s demeanor snapped. His grip on his bag tightened, knuckles whitening, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw with fury.

“Why the fuck do you care?”

Jason opened his mouth, but Tim wasn’t finished.

“Oh, save it,” he spat, cutting him off before he could even form a reply. “Look, Todd—” The deliberate use of his last name was a slap in the face. “—I never had anything but respect for you as a racer. When I first came to the paddock, yeah, you were an asshole to me. And you know what? I got it. Your life sucked. Fine. But then you had to drag someone like Y/N into your bullshit. You used her and then you broke her.”

Tim’s voice cracked, his composure slipping for the first time. “And it wasn’t just her heart, you selfish bastard. You broke her spirit. She was light, and you stole it from her. So tell me—” He took a step forward, eyes blazing. “—was it fun? Stealing the light from behind her eyes?”

The words hit Jason like a physical blow. He had no defense, no retort. Because deep down, he already knew the answer.

And it destroyed him.

“Tim, please—just listen—” Jason’s voice was rough, pleading, but Tim wasn’t having it.

“No, I won’t listen to this shit!” Tim snapped, cutting him off with a sharp gesture. His usual calm demeanor had completely shattered, replaced by something jagged and furious. “She shouldn’t have to suffer just because you decided you were done with her. Like she was some fucking toy you got bored of. And you know what the worst part is?” His voice dropped, trembling with barely contained rage. “She still doesn’t blame you for it. Even now, after everything, she defends you even after how you played with her.”

That stung worse than any insult.

“I DIDN’T PLAY WITH HER!” Jason roared, surging forward before he could stop himself. His hands fisted in Tim’s collar, shoving him back against the garage wall. His entire body was coiled tight with fury—because as much as he understood the young driver's anger, as much as he deserved it, this accusation was too much. He loved Y/N. The idea that he had treated her like some fleeting amusement was revolting.

Tim didn’t even flinch.

“Then what, huh?” he shot back, voice icy despite the fire in his eyes. “What was that cowardly bullshit of telling her over the phone? If she meant so much to you, why couldn’t you even look her in the eye when you broke her heart?”

Jason’s grip faltered. The fight drained out of him as suddenly as it had surged, his hands dropping away from Tim’s collar like he’d been burned. He took a shaky step back, dragging his hands through his hair, fingers tangling in the strands as if he could physically pull the right words out of his own skull.

“I—I wasn’t playing with her,” he said, voice cracking. The admission came out raw, stripped bare. “I love her. I was just—”

His throat closed. The words wouldn’t come.

Hot tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, blurring his vision. He blinked hard, refusing to let them fall, but the weight of Tim’s glare—of Y/N’s absence—pressed down on him like a physical force.

Tim didn’t relent. “People who love people don’t ditch them over the phone like that,” he said, each word a precise, deliberate strike. “If you really loved her, you would fight for her. Not run.”

Jason exhaled sharply, like the words had knocked the air out of him. “I was scared, okay?” The confession tore out of him, ragged and desperate. “I was scared of how the media would react, the pressure it would put on her. I did it to protect her.”

Tim let out a mocking, incredulous laugh. “You don’t get to decide what she can and can’t handle,” he said, shaking his head. “So tell me—was it really to protect her? Or was it to protect yourself?”

Jason stood there, the weight of Tim’s words pressing down on him like a physical force. They were the same ones Roy said, the same ones the voice in his head asked. His chest ached with a pain he couldn’t articulate— part guilt, part longing, part sheer desperation. The garage around them felt suddenly suffocating, the distant sounds of mechanics working and engineers talking fading into a dull buzz in his ears.

“I thought...” Jason started, then swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I thought if I pushed her away first, it would hurt less when the world inevitably turned against us.” His voice was barely above a whisper now, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But I was wrong. God, I was so fucking wrong.”

Tim crossed his arms, his expression unyielding. “You don’t get to make those choices for her. She’s stronger than you gave her credit for.”

A bitter laugh escaped Jason’s lips. “I know that now. Christ, do I ever know that.” He looked down at his hands— the hands that had held her, that had pushed her away. “She deserved better than a phone call. She deserved... she deserves everything.”

For the first time since their confrontation began, Tim’s stance softened slightly. “Yeah, she does.” He studied Jason’s face, seeing the genuine torment there. “But it’s too late for regrets now. She’s gone, Jason. She left F1 because being here hurt too much. Because everywhere she looked, she saw you.”

Jason’s head snapped up at that. “Where is she now?” There was a new urgency in his voice, a spark of something that hadn’t been there before. “Tim, please. If there’s even a chance—”

“A chance for what?” Tim interrupted. “For you to waltz back into her life and mess with her head all over again?”

“No.” Jason shook his head vehemently. “For me to apologize properly. To tell her... to tell her I was an idiot. That I love her. That if she’ll let me, I’ll spend every damn day proving I’m worthy of her.”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words and lingering anger. Finally, Tim sighed. “She’ll come to watch my race in Qatar, I’ll arrange for you to talk to her.” He fixed Jason with a hard look. “But if you hurt her again, I swear to God—”

“You won’t have to do anything,” Jason finished quietly. “Because I’ll never forgive myself if I do.” He took a deep breath, his mind already racing with plans. “Thank you, Tim.”

Tim just nodded tersely before turning to leave. As he walked away, he threw one last comment over his shoulder: “Don’t thank me yet. She might not even want to see you.”

Jason just nodded. “I know but i have to try.”

The Qatar Grand Prix arrived before Jason had time to process his swirling emotions. From the moment he stepped into the paddock, there was an electric energy coursing through him— a singular focus that hadn’t been there in months. Every turn of the wheel, every press of the accelerator brought him closer to his real finish line: her. Tim’s reluctant information about Y/N’s hotel and availability window after the race had become his holy grail, the coordinates that had rewired his entire nervous system to operate on one frequency— get to her.

As he strapped into the car, the usual pre-race adrenaline felt different. Sharper. More purposeful. The commentators noted how Jason Todd drove like a man possessed. Every overtake wasn’t just for position— it was another minute shaved off the countdown to seeing her. The chequered flag wasn’t just the end of the race— it was the starting pistol for the only competition that truly mattered now.

When P1 flashed on the boards, there was no surprise in his team’s eyes. They’d seen this laser focus before races before, but never with this... hunger. Jason barely registered the champagne spray, his eyes constantly flicking to his watch. The carbon-fiber face ticked away mercilessly, each passing second tightening the knot in his chest. He gave clipped answers in the post-race interviews, the smile not reaching his eyes— the world only saw the champion, not the man counting down until he could escape the spotlight.

The moment the live feed cut away, Jason was moving. Not the usual victorious stroll, but the determined stride of a man on a mission. He bypassed the debrief, the data review, everything, heading straight for where he’d parked his personal car earlier. Not just any vehicle, but the one that still carried fragments of her presence: the scarf she’d left during that rainy weekend in Monaco— he’d never returned it, both because the faint trace of her perfume lingered in the fibers and because she’d complained the fabric texture aggravated her sensory sensitivities, the forgotten fidget toy wedged in the dashboard cubby, even the passenger seat still adjusted to her preferred position.

The drive to the hotel was a blur of speed and suppressed panic. Jason barely registered handing his keys to the wide-eyed valet, the young man’s mouth falling open as he recognized both the car and its still-suited driver. The lobby’s polished floors echoed with the sound of his racing boots as he approached the front desk, his breathing uneven from the sprint from the parking lot.

“Room 1608 - is the guest available?” The words came out rushed, tinged with a desperation that made the concierge blink. The poor man’s professional composure faltered as he took in the sight: Jason Todd, still in his fireproof race suit, smelling of champagne and gasoline, hair damp with sweat, eyes wild with something between hope and terror. The concierge’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, caught between protocol and the surreal reality of a Formula 1 legend panting before him.

“Y-yes, Mr. Todd. The guest just checked in about...” A glance at the computer screen. “...twenty minutes ago.” His eyes darted to the room key card dispenser, then back to Jason’s face, clearly wondering if he should ask for ID from someone whose face was currently on every sports channel worldwide.

Jason didn’t wait for formalities. A curt nod and he was moving again, weaving through the lobby with the same precision he’d shown on track earlier. The elevator ride to the 16th floor lasted both an eternity and no time at all, his reflection in the mirrored walls showing a man he barely recognized— someone capable of throwing away every carefully constructed defense for one chance, one conversation, one... her.

When the doors slid open, Jason realized he hadn’t actually planned what to say. The hallway stretched before him, room numbers ticking up with each step: 1602... 1604... 1606...

And then there it was. 1608.

The moment of truth, marked by a simple brass number plate. Jason’s hand hovered near the doorbell, his breath coming too fast. This wasn’t a racetrack. There was no engineering solution here, no team radio to guide him. Just a door, a choice and whatever lay beyond it.

The chime of the doorbell echoed through the hallway, sharp and final—like a starting gun signaling no turning back. Jason’s pulse hammered in his throat, his body still thrumming with the residual adrenaline from the race. His fingers flexed at his sides, still gloved, still streaked with traces of rubber and sweat. He hadn’t even bothered to change. Every second had mattered. Every second still mattered.

Silence.

Then—movement. The faint shuffle of footsteps from inside the suite, the muted click of the lock disengaging. The door swung open, and there she was.

Y/N stood framed in the doorway and the sight of her hit Jason like a train. The subtle changes in her were devastating— the slight hollowing of her cheeks that spoke of missed meals, the way her shoulders carried a weight that hadn’t been there before. But it was her eyes that destroyed him most— those eyes he’d once seen spark with laughter now dulled, the vibrant light dimmed beneath a film of quiet melancholy. The ghost of a smile that flickered across her lips never reached them, dying before it could truly form.

Tim’s words roared back in Jason’s skull with brutal clarity: “You stole the light from behind her eyes.” His hands curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms. The urge to turn around and drive his fist through a wall warred with the need to fall to his knees and beg forgiveness. He remained frozen instead, caught in the devastating gravity of what he’d done.

The silence between them wasn’t just absence of sound— it was a living thing, thick with all the words they’d never said, all the moments they’d lost. Jason could hear his own pulse thundering in his ears, could see the subtle rise and fall of Y/N’s chest as she breathed. Waiting. Always waiting for him to catch up.

“I, uh—” His voice emerged rough, cracking like dry earth after a drought. He swallowed against the desert in his throat, tasting copper and regret. “I didn’t know if you’d answer.”

Her eyes flickered over him— his disheveled hair, the racing suit still molded to his body by sweat and effort, the faint tremor in his hands that had nothing to do with adrenaline crash. “You drove here straight from the podium,” she observed, not a question but a statement.

No greeting. No ‘hello Jason’. Just this— an acknowledgement of his reckless, desperate need to see her that he couldn’t disguise if he tried.

“Yeah.” The single syllable carried the weight of his truth. He’d abandoned post-race protocols, interviews, celebrations— all of it meaningless compared to this moment.

The quiet stretched between them, fragile as spun glass. Then, so soft he almost missed it: “You won.”

Jason didn’t hesitate. “I had a reason to.” The words dropped like stones into the space between them, ripples spreading through the charged air. He’d driven today not for glory or points, but for the chance to stand here now. Every overtake, every perfect apex had been measured in seconds ticking away to his arrival time.

Y/N’s lips parted slightly— a sign he knew so well, the prelude to words carefully considered. But whatever thought had formed died unspoken as she exhaled, a slow release of breath that seemed to deflate her slightly. She stepped back, holding the door wider in silent invitation. “You should come in,” she murmured, her voice carrying a weariness that aged her. “Before someone recognizes you in the hallway.”

Jason crossed the threshold in two strides, the familiar scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a ghost’s embrace— that light floral note with a hint of citrus underneath, so intimately known it made his chest ache. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound final as a judge’s gavel.

When Y/N turned to face him fully, the question came not with anger or accusation, but with a quiet resignation that cut deeper than any blade: “Why are you here, Jason?”

The detachment in her tone was worse than shouting. Worse than thrown objects or tears. This calm acceptance, this emotional distance— it meant she’d already begun the process of letting go. And that realization terrified him more than any outburst ever could. Because anger would mean she still cared. This? This sounded like goodbye.

Jason’s words tumbled out in a raw, unfiltered torrent—each syllable laced with months of pent-up regret and longing. His voice cracked under the weight of his confession, rough with emotion.

“Y/N—” His throat tightened, as if his own body was resisting the vulnerability he was forcing himself to show. But he pushed through, the words spilling out like a dam breaking. “I’m sorry. God, I’m so fucking sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I thought—” He dragged in a shaky breath, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides before clenching into fists. “I thought if I pushed you away first, I could shield you from the media circus, from the scrutiny, from all the bullshit that comes with being tied to me. But it was cowardly. It was selfish. And I—” His voice wavered, eyes burning with unshed tears. “You’re the only person who ever made me feel like I was more than just a driver. Like I was worth something beyond the track. And I get it if you can’t forgive me, but please—” His voice dropped to a whisper, ragged with desperation. “Please don’t let me lose you.”

Y/N stood frozen, her lips parted in stunned silence. Her eyes, those eyes he had memorized in every shade of emotion, widened in disbelief. All this time, she had believed his rejection was about her, about some perceived inadequacy on her part. That he had been ashamed of her. That she hadn’t been enough.

But this?

This was something else entirely.

The realization struck her like lightning, stealing her breath.

“Say something,” Jason pleaded, his voice rough. “Please.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, her own emotions threatening to spill over. “Jason, I—” She swallowed hard, her fingers twisting nervously in the fabric of her top. “I thought you did it because you didn’t want me ruining your image. That you were—” She cut herself off, unable to voice the insecurity that had festered in her chest for months.

Jason’s expression twisted in anguish. “I was what?” he demanded, stepping forward without thinking, his hands rising to cradle her face. The contact was instinctive, electric—his calloused thumbs brushing against her cheeks as if to wipe away every doubt she’d ever had. “Embarrassed of you?” His voice dropped, low and fierce. “Fucking hell, doll. You’re the best goddamn thing that’s ever happened to me. Why the hell would I be embarrassed of you?”

The warmth of Jason’s hands against her skin sent a shockwave through Y/N’s system, awakening sensations she’d tried so hard to forget. His touch had always been her undoing— those strong, capable hands that could manhandle a race car at 200mph now cradling her face with heartbreaking tenderness. She could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the way his breath hitched when their eyes locked.

“You really thought that?” Jason whispered, his voice breaking. “That I could ever be ashamed of you?” His thumbs traced the curve of her cheekbones, wiping away tears she hadn’t realized were falling. “Y/N... you’re everything. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last before I sleep. Even when I was being a stubborn bastard and pushing you away, you were all I could fucking think about.”

Y/N felt her pulse stutter at the intensity in his gaze— that particular shade of stormy blue green she’d always loved. Now those same eyes bored into hers with near-frantic sincerity, the kind that couldn’t be faked. The kind that left her foundation shaking.

When she finally spoke, her voice emerged softer than intended, frayed at the edges. “You let me believe...” A shaky inhale. “For months, Jason. You let me think I wasn’t enough.”

Jason’s entire body flinched, his hands sliding back to cradle her head as if offering protection from his own failures. “I know,” he choked out. “Christ, I know. And I’ll spend every fucking day making that up to you if you’ll let me.” His forehead dropped to rest against hers, their noses brushing. “Just tell me what you need. Scream at me. Throw something. Hell, slap me senseless— I probably deserve it.”

A watery laugh escaped her, the sound startling them both. It was so quintessentially Jason— this brash, all-or-nothing approach that had first drawn her in. The same intensity that made him a champion on the track, now turned entirely toward her.

Her hands, which had hung stiffly at her sides, finally lifted to grip his wrists. Not pushing away. Not pulling closer. Just... holding. Anchoring. “I need you to stop deciding what’s best for me,” she whispered. “I need you to trust me enough to choose for myself.”

“Done.” Simple. Absolute. The way he said everything when he meant it.

The words left Y/N’s lips before she could stop them—lighthearted, teasing, a fragile attempt to diffuse the tension still humming between them. “So... are we like friends again?”

Jason’s breath caught almost imperceptibly, his fingers stilling where they’d been tracing absent patterns along her arm. He would’ve been lying if he said the word didn’t prick at him, sharp as a needle to the chest. Friends. After everything—after the way his heart had just laid itself bare at her feet—that label felt painfully inadequate.

A forced chuckle escaped him, low and rough. “Darling,” he murmured, his thumb rising to brush deliberately across her bottom lip, “I don’t think what we have can be labeled as just friendship.”

Y/N’s breath hitched.

The contact sent a jolt of electricity straight through her, her knees threatening to buckle beneath her. Was this really happening? The moment she’d fantasized about since the first time she’d seen him—since that initial, earth-shattering realization that Jason Todd wasn’t just another arrogant driver but someone who could unravel her with a single glance—was it finally unfolding right in front of her?

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to cry.

She wanted to kiss him with every ounce of pent-up longing she’d been carrying for months.

But fate, ever the cruel puppeteer, had other plans.

The shrill ring of her phone shattered the moment like glass, making both of them jump apart. Y/N turned away with a frustrated exhale, her fingers closing around the offending device where it lay on the table. The caller ID glared up at her: Dan-Dan.

Goddammit, Danny.

She swiped to answer, pressing the phone to her ear just as Danny’s voice exploded through the line, frantic and tinny. “Y/N, I think I’ll be late. Jason just took off to god-knows-where after the race, and we can’t reach him. I swear, if he keeps pulling this disappearing act—” A heavy sigh. “—this is going to ruin our entire championship run.”

Y/N’s eyes flicked reflexively toward Jason, who was watching her with an unreadable expression. “Okay, Dan,” she muttered, her voice carefully neutral. “Take your time. There’s no hurry.”

She ended the call before Danny could respond, her pulse hammering in her throat. Before she could even turn around, she felt him— the heat of Jason’s body pressing against her back, the solid weight of his arm sliding possessively around her waist. His other hand came up, fingers brushing the hair away from the nape of her neck with deliberate, agonizing slowness.

Then his lips were at her ear, his breath warm against her skin as he murmured, “So. This Dan of yours... does he know about us?”

The question—low, teasing, laced with something darker beneath the surface—sent a shiver down Y/N’s spine. She froze, her fingers tightening around her phone.

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

The world narrowed to the searing heat of Jason’s touch, his fingers leaving invisible brands through the thin fabric of her shirt. His voice curled around her like smoke— dark, intoxicating, impossible to escape. Every coherent thought evaporated from Y/N’s mind, leaving only the frantic hammering of her pulse and the dizzying awareness of how close he stood. She couldn’t have strung together a sentence if her life depended on it— not when his breath fanned on her skin, not when every nerve ending screamed for more of his touch.

Y/N gasped as electricity crackled down her spine, her fingers clutching the edge of the table for balance. Then realization struck like lightning— he thought... he actually thought...

“How can you be with another man,” Jason continued, his voice dropping to a growl that sent shivers through her, “while wearing my racing number at the back of your neck like you’re mine, hmm?” His teeth grazed the sensitive skin where her tattoo lay hidden beneath her hair, the digits inked there in his signature font.

The possessive anger simmering beneath his words finally jolted Y/N into action. She whirled around so fast she nearly lost her balance, her hands coming up to brace against his chest. “Jason,” she blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush, “Danny’s my brother.”

The moment their karts screeched to a halt in the pit lane, Jason ripped off his helmet with enough force to make the straps snap. His face was flushed with adrenaline and indignation, sweat-dampened hair sticking to his forehead as he stormed toward Danny.

“Hey, dude! You totally pushed me off on Turn 5!” Jason yelled, his voice carrying over the hum of engines and the chatter of nearby spectators. His hands gestured wildly, replaying the move in the air between them. “That wasn’t racing—that was attempted murder!”

Danny, already unbuckling his own helmet, shot him an unrepentant grin as he hopped out of his kart. “You gave me no choice!” he called over his shoulder, already striding toward the pits where his family waited. “You left the door wide open!”

Jason gaped after him. “That’s not—! Ugh!” He threw his hands up in frustration before stomping after Danny, muttering under his breath the entire way. “Wide open, my ass. I was taking the racing line. Since when is ‘door open’ an invitation for vehicular assault?”

When they reached the pits, Danny peeled off toward his team, leaving Jason to fume alone. But Jason had a plan. If Danny wanted to play dirty, then fine—Jason would escalate this properly. He beelined for his own pit area, where Alfred stood waiting with his usual unflappable calm, a neatly wrapped sandwich in hand.

“Now, now, Master Jason,” Alfred said, his voice the epitome of reason as he extended the food toward the seething teenager. “Might I suggest refueling before launching your campaign for justice?”

Jason snatched the packet, tearing into it with a vengeance. “Danny totally pushed me off,” he declared through a mouthful of bread and filling. “It was clear as day! It was unfair. And worst of all—” He swallowed hard, pointing an accusing finger in Danny’s general direction. “— I know he smiled while doing it!”

Alfred’s lips twitched, though his expression remained otherwise neutral. “A truly heinous crime,” he agreed solemnly. “What do you propose we do about it?”

Jason’s eyes lit up with the fire of a thousand war strategies. He swallowed the last of his sandwich in one heroic bite, then jumped to his feet. “We fight him. And his team.” He jabbed a finger toward the offending party. “Full-scale retaliation. No mercy.”

Alfred chuckled, unable to fully suppress his amusement any longer. “Shall we call Mr. Dent as well, in case we require legal support for this… operation?”

Jason paused, considering this with all the gravity of a general preparing for battle. Then he nodded sharply. “That would seem prudent.”

Jason strode toward Danny’s team garage with the exaggerated stance of a warrior preparing for battle—chin lifted, shoulders squared, chest puffed out with righteous indignation. Behind him, Alfred followed at a measured pace, the faintest hint of amusement playing at the corners of his mouth as he observed his young charge’s theatrics.

But the moment Jason crossed the threshold into the rival pit area, the wind was abruptly knocked from his sails.

What he had expected—stern mechanics, maybe a few glares from Danny’s teammates—was nowhere to be found. Instead, the garage had been transformed into something out of a child’s fantasy. Vibrant streamers crisscrossed the ceiling, balloons in every color bobbed along the floor, and a cacophony of laughter and chatter filled the air. It was chaos. It was celebration.

Before Jason could process the scene, Danny’s mother spotted him. Her face lit up with recognition, and before he could protest, she had him by the shoulders, steering him firmly toward the center of the festivities. “Jason! Perfect timing!” she exclaimed, as if his arrival had been eagerly anticipated rather than an intrusion.

And then he saw her.

Perched proudly beside a lavishly decorated table stood a little girl—Danny’s sister, he realized. She couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven, dressed in a frilly pink-and-purple dress that shimmered under the garage lights. A tiny plastic tiara sat slightly askew atop her head and in one hand, she clutched a glittering fairy wand. Before her, a similarly coloured cake proclaimed “Happy Birthday!” in looping, pastel letters.

Jason froze.

Danny had mentioned his sister in passing—usually with a mix of exasperation and affection—but Jason had never actually met her. Now, faced with this tiny, beaming human, all his earlier fury evaporated like morning dew.

The birthday song started up and Jason found himself clapping along awkwardly, suddenly hyperaware of his grease-streaked racing suit amidst the pastel decorations. Any thoughts of confrontation fled his mind entirely when a paper plate bearing an enormous slice of cake was thrust into his hands.

Soon, he was perched on a stack of tires, happily devouring his cake with the single-minded focus of a teenager who’d been deprived of sweets for too long. Bruce monitored his diet with the vigilance of a prison warden—every carb counted, every calorie tracked. This impromptu sugar rush felt both like rebellion and reward.

Jason was so engrossed in his illicit cake consumption that he didn’t notice the tiny figure approaching until a shadow fell across his plate.

The birthday girl stood before him, her frilly dress swaying as she rocked back and forth on her shiny Mary Janes. Up close, her tiara glittered even more and her smile was so bright it could’ve powered the entire racetrack.

“Hello,” she chirped, her voice dripping with the effortless confidence of someone who’d never known rejection.

Jason blinked, hastily swallowing his mouthful of cake. “Uh. Hey,” he managed, wiping frosting from his chin with the back of his hand. His usual bravado had abandoned him entirely—what did one even say to a tiny human in a princess costume?

Undeterred by his awkwardness, she clasped her hands together and leaned in conspiratorially. “So I made a birthday wish,” she announced, as if sharing state secrets. “Mama said I shouldn’t tell anyone my wish or it won’t come true... but it’s you, so it’s okay.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up. There was something deeply alarming about being entrusted with this information. “What did you wish for?” he asked, against his better judgment.

“You!”��she declared, bouncing on her toes with enough force to make her hair bounce.

The piece of cake Jason had just shoveled into his mouth became a dire choking hazard. He coughed violently, pounding his chest as frosting threatened to exit through his nose. “W-what?” he wheezed, eyes watering.

She beamed, utterly oblivious to his near-death experience. “I wished to have you as my boyfriend,” she clarified, butchering the word with adorable finality. “Mama said birthday wishes always come true. So...” She clasped her hands behind her back and batted her eyelashes. “Will you be my boyfriend?”

Jason’s brain short-circuited. His gaze darted around the garage in panic, searching for Alfred—surely the man wouldn’t abandon him to this nightmare—but he had vanished without a trace.

A cold sweat broke out along Jason’s forehead. This was a minefield. Say no and he risked reducing a birthday princess to tears—an unforgivable sin. Say yes, and he’d never hear the end of it from Danny.

“I, uh...” Jason’s voice cracked. He cleared his throat, scrambling for a diplomatic out. “That’s... that’s really flattering, but—”

Her lower lip began to tremble.

Oh god.

Jason’s stomach plummeted. He was not equipped for this. Where was Alfred? Where was Danny? Where was a natural disaster when you needed one?

He shifted uncomfortably on the stack of tires, suddenly finding the remnants of his cake far more interesting than the expectant gaze of the fairy princess looking girl before him. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck as he searched for an escape route that wouldn’t end in tears.

“Umm, I’m kinda... concentrating on karting right now,” he hedged, gesturing vaguely toward the track outside. The words came out stilted, his usual cockiness nowhere to be found. “So, you know... not now.” He punctuated this with an awkward shrug, hoping it would be enough.

The birthday girl’s face fell slightly, her fairy wand drooping in her grip. “Then when?” she pressed, her earlier enthusiasm dimming just enough to make Jason’s stomach twist with guilt. The tiara atop her head seemed to lose some of its sparkle under the fluorescent garage lights.

Jason’s mind raced. He needed an out - something that would satisfy her without making any actual commitments. “When I make it to F1, maybe?” he blurted, the words tumbling out before he could reconsider. That should buy him at least a decade or so, he reasoned. By then, she’d have forgotten all about this ridiculous conversation— probably forgotten him entirely.

But her reaction wasn’t what he expected. Her eyes lit up like fireworks, all traces of disappointment vanishing in an instant. “You promise?” she gasped, bouncing on her feet with renewed excitement.

He hadn’t anticipated this turning into some sort of binding agreement. “Uh...” he stammered, his gaze darting around the garage for any possible escape. Alfred was still conspicuously absent and he could feel multiple sets of eyes on him now— Danny’s family watching with barely concealed amusement, mechanics pretending not to eavesdrop.

Before he could formulate a proper response, she extended her small hand toward him, pinky finger raised with solemn determination. “Pinky promise?” she demanded, her voice taking on an unexpectedly serious tone for someone dressed head-to-toe in princess attire.

Jason stared at the tiny outstretched finger like it was a live grenade. With a resigned sigh that seemed too world-weary for a fourteen year old, he reluctantly hooked his own pinky around hers, the gesture feeling absurdly formal.

“Promise.”

Jason’s laughter rang out, rich and unrestrained, as the pieces finally clicked into place. “You’re her? The fairy princess with the tiara and wand?” His eyes sparkled with delighted amusement, shaking his head in disbelief. “All this time I was ready to throw hands with Danny and he’s just your brother? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Y/N’s cheeks burned crimson as she fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, unable to meet his gaze. “Because it was mortifying enough the first time!” she burst out, her voice climbing an octave. “I didn’t need my childhood... whatever that was... haunting me now that we’re adults.” The memory of her ten-year-old self boldly proposing to a flustered teenage Jason still made her want to crawl into a hole.

With a tenderness that contradicted his usual brash demeanor, Jason crooked a finger beneath her chin, gently tilting her face up until their eyes met. “Hey,” he murmured, his thumb brushing along her jawline, “you made me promise you something pretty important that day, remember, doll?”

Y/N’s breath hitched. The warmth of his touch, the proximity of his body, the way his eyes darkened with unspoken meaning— it sent her higher brain functions into overdrive. Panic flared through her system and before she could stop herself, she planted both palms against his chest and pushed him back with surprising force. “We can’t do this now,” she blurted out, her voice unsteady.

Jason stumbled half a step, confusion and hurt flashing across his features. “Y/N—”

“You have a race in a that will decide the entire season! The driver’s championship, the constructor’s championship— Bruce is counting on you, the whole team is counting on you.” Her words tumbled out in a frantic rush. “You can’t afford distractions, especially not... not because of me.”

Jason opened his mouth to protest, but Y/N - suddenly unable to bear the intensity of the moment— pivoted with forced lightness. “Besides,” she said, adopting a teasing lilt she didn’t quite feel, “my standards for a boyfriend have gotten significantly higher since I was ten.”

Jason’s eyebrows shot up, catching her shift in tone. Crossing his arms, he leaned back with exaggerated nonchalance. “Alright, princess, let’s hear these lofty standards then.”

“Okay,” Y/N began, tapping a finger against her lips in mock contemplation as she circled him. “First, he has to be kind. Like, genuinely kind, not just when people are watching.” She held up a second finger. “Sweet, but not cloying— there’s a difference.” A third finger joined the count. “About... yea high,” she stretched onto her toes, holding a hand level with Jason’s forehead.

Jason snorted. “Demanding.”

“Blue eyes,” she continued, ignoring his interruption as she stepped closer, “with just enough green in them to make you wonder what color they really are.” Her finger came up to trace the air near his face, not quite touching. “Devastatingly handsome, obviously.” She took a final step back, folding her arms with a challenging smirk. “And a four-time world champion. That last one’s non-negotiable.”

Jason pretended to consider this, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Hmm. So I’ve got the height, the eyes... the devastating handsomeness is subjective I suppose.” He shrugged. “That last one though... guess we’ll have to see about that.”

Y/N’s smirk softened into something more genuine as she reached up to adjust his racing suit collar. “Oh, that last one’s the most important part,” she murmured, her fingers lingering against the fabric near his pulse point. “But something tells me you’ll manage. We’ll finish this conversation then.”

Jason’s answering smile was slow and devastating—the kind that had melted hearts on magazine covers worldwide. But this? This was just for her. Without a word, he held out his hand, his pinky finger extended in silent question.

Promise?

Y/N’s breath caught. The gesture—so simple, so them—unraveled something deep in her chest. She nodded, her vision blurring with unexpected tears as she hooked her pinky with his, their hands slotting together like they were made to fit.

“Promise,” she breathed.

When they unlinked their fingers, Jason did something that stole the air from her lungs—he brought his thumb to his lips, pressing a kiss to it before gently transferring the touch to her mouth. The warmth of it lingered long after he pulled away, a silent vow sealed between them.

The scorching Abu Dhabi sun beat down mercilessly on the Yas Marina Circuit. Long shadows stretched across the pit lane like grasping fingers as mechanics made their final adjustments, the air thick with the smell of burning rubber and high-octane fuel. Jason Todd stood motionless at the edge of Wayne Racing’s garage, his custom-painted helmet tucked under one arm, its polished surface reflecting the frantic activity around him. His eyes tracked down the start-finish straight with laser focus, watching as the last of the support vehicles cleared the track.

This was it.

The culmination of an entire season’s worth of blood, sweat and tears distilled into a single race. Twenty-two punishing turns of the most technically demanding circuit on the calendar. Fifty-eight laps that would determine whether all his sacrifices had been worth it.

The championship standings couldn’t have been tighter— Jason and his arch-rival Kyle Rayner sat deadlocked on points coming into this final race. Winner takes all. No second chances. And if he somehow pulled this off, it wouldn’t just be his own driver’s championship on the line— Wayne Racing stood to claim their constructor’s title, continuing their stranglehold on the sport.

Logically, he knew Y/N would stand by him regardless of today’s outcome. She’d proven that much already, weathering his storms with a patience he didn’t deserve. But that knowledge chafed against the raw, hungry part of him that needed to prove—to her, to himself, to the damn world that he was worthy. That Jason Todd could deliver on his word when it mattered most.

A familiar weight settled on his shoulder as Bruce stepped beside him, his grip firm and grounding. “No heroics out there,” the team principal and father murmured, his voice barely audible over the garage’s controlled chaos. His steely gaze held Jason’s. “We don’t need spectacular—we need smart. Bring it home clean.”

Jason gave a terse nod, his racing instincts already kicking in, but his attention was inexplicably drawn past Bruce to the timing screens. There, amidst the sea of engineers and data analysts, stood Y/N. Her arms were crossed in that deceptively casual way she had when trying to appear professional, but Jason had spent enough time studying her to recognize the subtle tells— the tension in her shoulders, the rhythmic tapping of her fingers against her elbow, the way she kept biting the inside of her cheek when she thought no one was looking.

Their eyes met across the bustling garage. Without breaking contact, Jason’s lips quirked into a half-smile and he winked at her subtly.

The effect was instantaneous. Y/N’s professional mask shattered as a furious blush crept up her neck, staining her cheeks crimson. She immediately looked away, pretending sudden intense interest in a clipboard one of the engineers was holding, but not before Jason caught the way her breath hitched.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Alfred reminded him he probably shouldn’t be distracting himself right before the most important race of his career. But seeing her flustered reaction sparked something warm in his chest, cutting through the pre-race tension like sunlight through storm clouds.

The FIA official began waving drivers to their cars. As Jason turned to leave, he caught Y/N’s gaze one last time. No words were needed— the determination in her eyes mirrored his own as she gave him a slight nod. Whatever happened today, they were in this together.

Now all he had to do was win that world championship.

The moment the lights went out, the world erupted in a deafening rumble of raw power and desperation. Twenty Formula 1 cars exploded forward like bullets from a barrel, their engines screaming in unison, tires screeching as they fought for every inch of tarmac into the treacherous Turn 1. Jason Todd, locked in his #02 Wayne Racing machine, clenched his jaw and held his line with the precision of a predator—elbows out, refusing to yield an inch.

Kyle Rayner, in his blinding #10 neon green LC25, lurked in his mirrors like a specter, his front wing nearly touching Jason’s rear diffuser as he tried to force him toward the wall. The move was aggressive, borderline reckless, but Jason had expected nothing less.

“He’s playing dirty already,” Jason growled into the radio, his fingers tightening around the wheel.

“Ignore him,” Dick’s voice came through, steady as a metronome despite the chaos unfolding on track. “Stick to the plan. Tire management first. The race comes to us.”

For the first half of the Grand Prix, Jason did exactly that—measuring his pace meticulously, nursing his tires, preserving his fuel, all while keeping Rayner at bay. The laps ticked by in a blur of adrenaline and concentration, the desert heat baking through his visor, sweat trickling down his temples beneath his helmet. The championship hung by a thread—every overtake, every defensive move, every millisecond counted.

Then—disaster struck.

A backmarker, caught in the turbulence of the leaders, lost control in the final sector, spinning violently and slamming into the barriers. The safety car was deployed instantly, the field bunching up like a coiled spring, erasing Jason’s hard-earned three-second lead in the blink of an eye.

“This is it,” Dick’s voice crackled over the radio, the usual calm replaced by quiet intensity. “Final stint. No more calculations. No more waiting. It’s all on you now.”

Jason exhaled sharply, his grip on the wheel turning his knuckles white.

Just a little more.

A little more speed.

A little more courage.

A little more of himself poured into these last, fateful laps.

The moment the safety car lights went out, the pack surged forward like wild horses unleashed. Jason’s foot slammed the throttle just as the green flag waved, his car leaping forward with a vicious snarl. The final ten laps stretched before him. If he could just hold on, if he could just win, then he wouldn’t have to choose. Not between his love and his legacy. Not between Y/N and the championship.

He could have it all.

The high-speed Turns 5-7 complex stretched before Jason like a ribbon of liquid asphalt, its sweeping curves demanding absolute precision. His Wayne Racing machine danced along the knife’s edge of adhesion, the Pirelli tires screeching in protest as he carried impossible speed through the esses. The g-forces pressed him deep into his seat, his neck muscles straining against the lateral load as the car flirted with the track limits.

In his mirrors, the neon green livery of Rayner’s Lantern Corps F1 car filled his vision, its menacing glow reflecting off his rear wing. The rival machine clung to his gearbox like a vengeful specter, never more than half a second behind, waiting for the slightest mistake.

“He’s saving battery,” Dick’s voice crackled through the radio, tense but controlled. “Expect an attack on the back straight.”

Jason’s eyes flicked downward for a millisecond, just long enough to register his energy display. One last push remaining—a precious 4 seconds of overtake boost. He’d have to time it perfectly, deploy it at the exact moment when—

The track opened up onto the massive 1.2 kilometer back straight and suddenly the battle erupted in earnest. Rayner’s car darted left, then snapped right, his movements unpredictable as he searched for any sliver of clean air to mount an attack. Jason countered each feint, weaving defensively while trying to maintain his racing line.

At 310 km/h, the concrete walls transformed into a dizzying blur, the sheer velocity making the world narrow to a tunnel of light and noise. Jason’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat counting down the meters to the critical Turn 8 braking zone.

Then Rayner made his move— a desperate lunge down the inside. His front wheels locked momentarily, sending up puffs of smoke as he outbraked himself. For one terrifying second, Jason saw the neon green nosecone edging perilously close to his sidepod before Rayner somehow regained control, the cars avoiding contact by centimeters.

But the mistake cost Rayner dearly—his abrupt correction sent him wide, losing crucial momentum.

“These tires have no grip!” Jason snarled into the radio, his voice raw with adrenaline coursing through his veins. The once-reliable rubber now felt like blocks of ice beneath him, the degradation robbing him of the precise control he needed.

Through his visor, he could see the championship—his promise to Y/N—slipping away with every degrading lap. The desert air burned in his lungs, his fingers aching from their death grip on the wheel. Somewhere beyond the roar of the engine, beyond the screaming tires and the deafening rush of wind, he could almost hear the clock ticking down—

The final battle was coming. And neither man would yield.

“Push, Jason. Push.”

Dick’s voice cut through the radio, deceptively calm, but Jason could hear the razor-sharp intensity beneath the words. This was it—the moment that would define his legacy. Jason’s fingers locked around the wheel, his breath hitching as the walls of Turn 12 blurred past—too fast, too close. For a heartbeat, the track vanished.

Bahrain. The screech of tearing metal. The smell of burning rubber. The world flipping, crashing, darkness—

He blinked hard, forcing himself back into the present. The car shuddered beneath him, alive and responsive. Not then. Not now.

His eyes locked onto Rayner’s car ahead, studying every subtle movement. Then he saw it—the twitch in the high-speed corners, the slight hesitation as Rayner’s car fought for grip. His tires were fading. Fast. The rational part of Jason’s brain recognized the opportunity—the rubber was going, the gap was there but his pulse roared in his ears, a drumbeat of panic.

Breathe. Just breathe.

He could hear Y/N’s voice calling to him. She had held his hand and helped him out of a panic attack in his Monaco apartment. Soft, gentle, serene.

Jason held back, resisting the urge to pounce too soon. He conserved his battery, managed his energy, biding his time for one perfectly calculated strike.

The final lap began.

Through the sweeping Turns 11 to 14, Jason carved into Rayner’s lead, the gap shrinking to a razor-thin 0.3 seconds. The grandstands erupted as the two titans of the track roared past, engines howling, the air between them charged with rivalry. The crowd was on their feet, the roar of their voices lost beneath the scream of horsepower.

Then—Turn 19.

Jason played his hand. He feinted left, jinking toward the inside line, forcing Rayner to defend. This was chess at 200 miles per hour—every feint, every adjustment of throttle and steering wheel a calculated gambit. For a split second, Rayner’s focus flickered, his car drifting just a hair too wide on the exit. It was all Jason needed. And in that instant, Jason’s vision fractured.

The scent of scorched carbon fiber flooded his senses. The stomach-lurching sensation of his car crashing in Bahrain—the impact, the deafening silence afterward. His foot hovered over the throttle, muscles locking in phantom pain.

No.

He gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached. This isn’t Bahrain. This is now. And I’m not breaking.

Instinct took over.

Jason wrenched the wheel right, his car slingshotting to the outside with a violence that made his tires scream. The gap was barely wider than his car itself, but he hurled himself into it anyway, metal flashing past metal so close he could see the heat waves rippling off Rayner’s exhaust.

The world dissolved into sensation—the guttural roar of engines, the acrid taste of burning fuel, the vibration of the chassis trembling beneath him like a living thing. Rayner held firm, his car crowding Jason’s line, neither yielding an inch. For a heartbeat suspended in time, they were equals, locked in a duel where the smallest twitch meant triumph or disaster.

Then Jason’s mind cleared.

You don’t get to take this from me.

His car inched forward. Millimeter by millimeter, he clawed ahead, his tires biting into the track with vicious determination. The nose of his Wayne Racing machine broke free first, then the hood, then the cockpit—until suddenly, irrevocably, he was leading.

The checkered flag unfurled in his periphery.

1. TOD 2. RAY +0.2

The radio erupted in a deafening crescendo of pure, unfiltered joy—a chaotic symphony of screaming engineers, clattering headsets, and the thunderous roar of the Wayne Racing pit crew losing all semblance of professionalism. Dick’s voice, usually so measured and calm, shattered into raw, unbridled emotion as he shouted himself hoarse, the words barely coherent through the static. Somewhere in the cacophony, Jason heard his own name chanted like a war cry, over and over, as if the team couldn’t believe what they’d just witnessed.

But to Jason, it all sounded distant, muffled, as if he were hearing it through several feet of water. His hands, usually so steady and sure on the wheel, now trembled with the aftershocks of the race. As his car coasted down the main straight, the world seemed to move in slow motion around him. His chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven gulps, each breath burning through lungs that had been holding tension for fifty-eight grueling laps.

The adrenaline was still there—a live current under his skin, making his fingertips tingle and his pulse roar in his ears. But beneath it, something deeper pulsed. Something quiet. Something heavy. It settled into his bones, into the marrow of him, a weight that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Four-time world champion.

The words flashed across the timing screens in bold, triumphant letters. The commentators bellowed it into their microphones, their voices cracking with excitement. The crowd chanted it back like a mantra and fireworks coloured the skies. But the number meant nothing compared to the truth behind it. They didn’t account for the brutal crashes that had left him bruised and broken, the surgeries that had stolen months of his career, the endless rehabilitation sessions where he’d fought just to move without pain. They didn’t reflect those endless nights in anonymous hotel rooms, staring at water-stained ceilings while his mind replayed every mistake, every near-miss, every whisper of doubt that maybe— just maybe— Bahrain had broken something in him that couldn’t be fixed.

The doubt had been his constant shadow, a ghost that haunted every practice session, every qualifying lap, every overtaking attempt. It whispered in his ear when he pushed the car to its limits, reminding him of what happened last time he danced this close to the edge.

But today... today he’d grabbed that doubt by the throat and roared right back in its face. Every perfect apex, every daring overtake, every calculated risk had been a middle finger to his fears. That final, breathtaking pass hadn’t just been about beating Rayner. It had been about proving something to himself, to the world, to every person who’d ever wondered if he was done—that he wasn’t just back.

He was better.

“THE CHECKERED FLAG WAVES! JASON TODD, YOU ARE A FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION! THE WORLD CHAMPION! The Wayne Racing garage has LOST THEIR MINDS— Dick Grayson is vaulting over the pit wall like a man possessed, the mechanics are screaming themselves raw—and look at Todd in that car, absolutely spent, but MY GOD, WHAT A DRIVE!”

This wasn’t just another championship added to his record. This was redemption made tangible, a phoenix moment forged from fire and steel and sheer, stubborn will. History books would record it as another victory, but Jason would always know the truth.

He hadn’t just made history today. He’d seized it back with both hands.

The moment Jason Todd climbed out of his car, the world seemed to hold its breath.

He stood atop the scorching-hot chassis, his racing suit streaked with sweat and the ghosts of past battles. The grandstands, a sea of color and noise just seconds before, fell into an eerie silence—thousands of eyes locked onto him, waiting. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Jason clenched his fist and thrust it skyward.

The crowd exploded.

The roar that followed was deafening—a tidal wave of sound that shook the very foundations of the circuit. Cheers, screams, the thunder of stamping feet—it all blended into one overwhelming symphony of triumph. Jason let it wash over him, his chest heaving, his body still vibrating with the remnants of adrenaline. For a moment, he simply existed in the pure, unfiltered joy of it.

Then exhaustion hit him like a freight train.

He stumbled slightly as he stepped down from the car, his legs unsteady after two hours of punishing focus. But he still managed to wave at the crowd again, a tired but genuine grin tugging at his lips as he turned toward the pits.

His team descended upon him like a hurricane—hands clapping his shoulders, voices shouting in his ear, bodies pressing in from all sides as they celebrated their hard-earned victory. Every thump on his back, every shouted was a testament to the battle they’d all fought together.

But Jason only had one thought in his mind.

Y/N.

And then—there she was.

A glimpse of her through the chaos, standing in the Wayne Racing garage, her face alight with pride. She was wearing the team’s hastily printed “FOUR-TIME WORLD CHAMPION” shirt, just like everyone else, but on her, it looked different. On her, it felt like his.

Their eyes met.

For half a second, hesitation flickered across her expression—her gaze darting to the cameras trained on them, the ever-present vultures waiting to dissect their every move. But then something shifted. A quiet defiance. A silent “Screw it.”

And she ran.

Jason barely had time to react before she was crashing into him, her arms wrapping around his neck, her body pressing flush against his sweat-soaked suit. He could feel the dampness of her tears against his cheek, the way her fingers trembled where they tangled in his hair. Without thinking, he hooked his hands around her waist and lifted, spinning her in a tight circle as she let out a breathless laugh.

His helmet hit the ground with a clatter, forgotten.

Forehead pressed to hers, breathing her in, Jason felt something settle inside him—something warm and sure and right.

“So,” he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion and emotion, “that’s another one off the list.”

A shaky exhale against his lips. “Yeah,” she whispered back. “Yeah, it is.”

He swallowed hard, his grip tightening around her. “I know there’s still a lot of work left. A lot of races. A lot of battles.” A pause. A heartbeat. “But Y/N... will you be mine? Really mine?”

She let out a choked laugh, her eyes shining. “Jason Peter Todd Wayne,” she breathed,“ I’ve been yours for a very long time.”

As Jason set Y/N back down on her feet, the team descended upon them in a wave of unrestrained joy.

Dick was the first to reach them, throwing an arm around Jason’s shoulders with enough force to nearly knock him off-balance. “You absolute madman!” he crowed, shaking him slightly, his grin wide enough to split his face. “That last overtake—I almost had a heart attack!”

Danny slapped Jason’s back hard enough to make him cough. “We were screaming so loud in the garage, the FIA probably thinks we’ve lost our minds!”

“Too late for that,” another engineer chimed in, shoving a hastily opened bottle of champagne into Jason’s hands. “We lost those years ago working with you lot!”

Jason laughed, twisting the cap off and taking a long swig before passing it to Y/N, who wrinkled her nose but took a sip anyway. The second the liquid touched her tongue, she made a face, and Jason barked out another laugh, pulling her closer.

“Oh, come on, don’t be a lightweight now,” he teased, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“I’m not!” she protested, shoving at his chest half-heartedly. “That’s just objectively terrible!”

“It’s tradition!” Dick argued, snatching the bottle back and taking a dramatic swig before shaking it vigorously, sending foam spraying across the nearest group of mechanics. A chorus of shouts and laughter erupted as they retaliated, grabbing whatever bottles were within reach and shaking them like they were in a goddamn riot.

Bruce appeared at the edge of the chaos, looking as composed as ever—though the slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes betrayed his amusement. “Try not to drown the entire team in alcohol before the podium ceremony,” he said dryly.

“No promises dad,” Jason shot back, grinning.

Someone—probably Tim, because he was a little shit like that—sneakily dumped an entire bottle of cold sparkling water down Jason’s back. Jason yelped, twisting around to glare at the culprit, but Tim was already ducking behind a grinning mechanic, hands raised in mock surrender.

“You’re dead, Drake!” Jason threatened, lunging for him.

Tim bolted, cackling and Jason gave chase—only to be intercepted by Alfred, who appeared with a towel in hand. “Master Jason,” he said, voice dripping with disapproval, though his eyes were warm. “You’re tracking champagne and sweat all over the garage.”

Jason grinned, unrepentant, but took the towel anyway, ruffling his hair with it before slinging it over his shoulder. “Sorry, Alfred. Got carried away.”

“Indeed,” Alfred sighed, long-suffering. “However, it is well-deserved”

Y/N appeared at Jason’s side again, her fingers tangling with his. “You’re a mess,” she informed him, though she was smiling.

Jason tugged her closer, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Your mess.”

She rolled her eyes, but the way her fingers tightened around his told him everything he needed to know.

The team’s celebrations continued around them—champagne spraying, voices raised in laughter, the occasional curse as someone slipped on spilled alcohol. The cameras still hovered at the edges, capturing every moment, but for once, Jason didn’t care.

Let them see.

Let them see the team, the family, the love.

Let them see what it meant to fight—and to win.

The celebration swirled around them—champagne foam catching in the golden afternoon light, laughter ringing like church bells, the scent of tires and triumph still clinging to the air. But for Jason, the world had narrowed to this: Y/N’s hand in his, her fingers laced through his own like they had always belonged there.

The team moved around them in a blur of joy—Dick draping an arm over Tim’s shoulders as they both laughed. Bruce stood slightly apart, his usual stoicism softened at the edges, pride glowing quiet but undeniable in his eyes with Alfred quietly wiping the stray tear at the corner of his eye. And Cass stood off to the side, that rare, soft smile playing at her lips as she watched her family. The garage was alive, electric, every heartbeat in sync with the pulse of victory.

Jason turned to Y/N, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. The noise faded into something distant, something unimportant.

“You’re staring,” she murmured, a smile playing at the corner of her lips.

“Yeah,” he admitted, unrepentant. His voice was rough, scraped raw from shouting, from the sheer weight of everything he couldn’t put into words. “Just memorizing this.”

Her expression softened, something unbearably tender flickering in her eyes. “You don’t have to,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And that—

That was the real victory.

Not the gleaming trophy waiting on the podium. Not the headlines that would scream his name across the world tomorrow. Not even the deafening roar of the crowd still vibrating in his chest, echoing like thunder long after the storm had passed.

It was this.

Her.

The way her eyes held his like he was something worth keeping. The way she had stood by him through every crash, every setback, every moment he had doubted himself. The way she was here now, her palm pressed against his racing heart, as if she could feel the truth of it beating beneath her fingertips.

Jason leaned in, forehead resting against hers. Around them, the world kept moving—champagne bottles popping, cameras flashing, the announcer calling his name. But here, in this breath between seconds, it was just them.

“I love you,” he said, simple and sure.

Y/N’s smile was brighter than any checkered flag, any winner’s trophy, any sun-drenched finish line. “I know,” she whispered back, her voice thick with everything she didn’t need to say.

And when he kissed her—there, in the middle of the chaos, with the taste of victory and something infinitely sweeter on his lips—Jason knew, with absolute certainty, that this was the moment he would carry with him forever.

Not as the end of a race.

But as the first, glorious note of everything that came after.

╰┈➤ Masterlist

╰┈➤ Event masterlist

Tags: @joekitsu @sophiethewitch1 @hana-no-seiiki @thisisafish123 @ceramic-raven @millyhelp @blamedbisexual @trunkswithlonghair-blog @jasontoddthings @deans-spinster-witch @12134z03 @johnnysilverhandeeznuts @yasmin-oviedo @rosecentury @pierayanna @jinviktor @crybaby-21 @solarrexplosion @sahana28banana @ari-sama21 @princessbl0ss0m @fictionalwhor3 @leeleecats @lalalozer @shkosm @swamiiyasssss @lilyalone @cxcilla @one-pea-in-a-pod-blog @cooki3dough @misaki-kira8 @br0ke-b1tch @cherriespopsicle @lilithskywalker @multifandom-simp @hayleym1234 @sukaretto-n @idontwantthis22 @sarveshishwarishsuta @eclipse-msoul @aaaashiiii @wandabillywrites @star-born-mars @sinnamon-bunn @theendofthematerialgworl @mercuryathens @sugarwhiterose @lar3ine @raven-with-adhd @pezzeronii @federalprison78-4 @panacademics @itzmeme @pb-n-aj @4rachn3

A/n: I just winged the technical part of the race so please excuse that if there are any inaccuracies. There was so much more that I wanted to include, so i'll probably make another post with snippets of moments during, before and after the story. Feel free to request if you want to read anything in particular :)) Also do y'all want a smut fic of the championship celebration night with Jason? Lmk in the comments!!

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tomiek111 · 26 days ago

Text

little house in the woods | jason todd

cw: shy! reader, threats, angry jason, fingering, cum eating, smut, unprotected sex, corruption kink, pussy eating, feral jason, not beta'd MDNI

synopsis: You're a sweet recluse who allows her home to be Jason's safe house. What happens when he starts to get too close to her?

masterlist

The screen door creaks open late one evening. Jason Todd steps inside your little kitchen like it's a habit, almost as though he's lived here all his life. In truth, you'd only known Jason for about two months now since he came stumbling to your doorstep one stormy evening. Things seemed to pass in a blur since then.

Jason's shoulders are tense beneath the fabric of his jacket, bruised from the constant fights he participates in. His jaw is sore and his knuckles are split from punching again. He's already in one of his moods.

He kicks off his boots by the door without looking, the way he always does, listening to the familiar sound of dirty soles thunking against the wood floor. Then, he heads straight to the sink like he's on autopilot, having memorized the layout of your house like it's his own. He doesn't even need to look down to where the fluffy hand towels are as he dries his hands.

There's a plate of dinner waiting on the table that's still hot and steaming, and you're standing near the counter, looking at him like he didn't just come home covered in bruises and blood. You're smiling in the cutesy, innocent way you always do. The way that boils Jason's blood in both a bad, and really good way.

"Hi, Jay," you say, your voice smooth like honey as you look up at him with big, sparkly eyes, like he's just your husband coming home late from work.

Jason swears under his breath and marches through the kitchen, hovering around you for a moment, before muttering a gruff "Hello." in return, slumping down into his usual seat at the dinner table, looking down at tonight's dinner.

The plate's got roast chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, and a pile of vegetables on the side. It's very balanced. It looks like food you'd see in a magazine with a recipe underneath. You cooked. Again. Like you do every night.

"Thought you might be hungry," you say, cheeks all pink from the stove's heat, or maybe just from looking at him. You get so bashful when he stares. "You want me to get you a knife or anything else?"

"No. S' fine." he grumbles, picking up a fork to start stabbing at his vegetables. You nod, still smiling all cute as you take out a jug of lemonade for him and pour him a class without asking, setting it down beside his plate, right before leaning down to press the softest, most innocent kiss to his cheek. Right near the cut on his jaw, his sweet spot. "Glad you're home safe."

Jason goes still at the feeling, a little grunt leaving him involuntarily. The second your lips brush over him, it's as though every muscle in his body tenses. His eyes flick to you, but you're already walking away, humming to yourself like you didn't screw him over with that little gesture.

What the hell are you doing, letting a guy like him into your house? Letting him sleep in the extra bedroom you cleaned just for him and eat off your table without asking for compensation? What kind of sweet, naive girl lets a man with knives and guns in his duffel bag and scars up his back and shoulders stay in her house like he's not dangerous?

"You shouldn't do that," he grumbles as you have your back turned to him, a deep scowl on his face. You blink, turning back toward him, confusion soft in your eyes. "Do what?"

"You know what I mean. The kissin'. The..." his voice gets tight, jaw ticking, "...the 'Jay' with your little giggle. Don't."

"Don't act like we're friends?' you ask, so innocently, head tilted in a way that makes him want to pounce on you. "We are friends."

Jason clenches his jaw. His fingers curl around the fork, knuckles white. "You should be more wary, is all" he mutters, frowning as you respond with a little huff and a playful eye roll, going over to check on the pies you made for dessert that are cooling on a rack.

He stares at the curves of your body, gaze panning from your hips, down to your thighs, and back up to your ass, plump in the cute little nightgown you're wearing, with the hem riding up your thighs enough to show your panties if you bent over. He can't take his eyes off of you, not for a second. He's looking at you to figure out how someone like you could possibly be real, let alone a part of his life. You feed him. You made him a safe house with gingham curtains and a soft bed and dinner waiting on the table every night without fail.

He's coiled so tight it feels like his skin doesn't fit right, seeing you flutter around the kitchen like everything's fine, apron tied snugly around your waist. You turn and meet his gaze again as he continues.

"Why aren't you scared of me?" Jason mutters all gruff, pushing back his chair and standing. His eyes are all dark and stormy. "You let a guy like me in your house. You give me food, a bed, clothes. You let me walk around your kitchen like I belong here." He steps forward slowly. "You don't even lock your fucking door."

Your throat bobs as you swallow, but your expression doesn't change. That soft, quiet sweetness still on your face like you've never even heard a threat before.

"I don't have to lock it because the only person who comes around here is you, and I know you."

Jason's frown deepens, and he crowds your space, hissing at you coldly. "You don't know shit about me." He stares down at you, jaw clenched, breathing through his nose. He keeps coming closer and closer to you, all while you don't even realize what you're doing to him, standing there in your cozy little kitchen, smelling like a dessert.

His body pushes you back into the counter, his jaw is clenched and lips twisted in a snarl. You open your mouth, but he cuts you off, his voice rising. "You let me in here. You open your house up to someone like me and think I'm not gonna hurt you? You think I'm just gonna be your lil' prince charming?"

He shoves his hand against the counter beside you, trapping you in place. His face is inches from yours, but this time, you don't see the same tired, frustrated guy you've been taking care of. This time, all you see is the threat, the dangerous man who doesn't think you should have trusted him at all.

"I could strangle you, you know," he says all soft. His hand shoots out, quick and brutal, grabbing your neck just below your chin. "You think I wouldn't do it? You think I wouldn't snap your neck like a twig if I wanted to?"

Your pulse spikes. His grip isn't tight enough to suffocate you, enough to make your heart pound harder. "Or what if I wanted to cut you?" His thumb presses into the soft skin of your neck, a reminder of how fragile you really are in his hands. "What if I wanted to steal everything in your house and leave you with nothing?"

You look up at him, whimpering softly at the feeling of his huge hand wrapping around your throat. Your smaller one grabs at his wrist, staring up at him with big, glassy eyes. "J-jason..."

"What if I wanted to tear off one of those flimsy lil' dresses you wear around me and fuck you?" He lets out a low mumble, tipping your head up and rubbing his thumb over your lower lip. "You think they're cute, huh? You think I don't notice the way you dress like 'm not gonna want to tear you apart?"

Your breath hitches, and for a second, you can't find your words. He's crowding you now, pinning you to the counter so you have no way out. His thumb pushes harder on your lower lip.

You stare at him, your face flushed. Your chest is rising fast now, like you're trying to keep calm, like your body's betraying you even if your voice hasn't cracked yet. You're not saying anything, but your fear's loud enough without words.

Jason's still holding onto your throat, the heel of his hand digging into your pressure point while his thumb smushes against your soft lips. His chest heaves with each breath, his face twisted up even though deep down, he's thoroughly enjoying himself. He relishes in the slight tremble your body gives and the way you look up at him like you're starting to realize he's not savable.

He leans down to your level. "You scared now, sweetheart?" he mutters. You try to speak, but it catches in your throat. He can feel it under his hand, that flutter in your pulse. "Yeah," he breathes. "That's what I thought."

He tilts his head, leaning down to slot his mouth over your cheek, mocking the little kisses you always give him when he's home. He moans against your skin, starting to press sloppy kisses down to your jaw. He's done holding back, finally indulging in the terrible, heinous thoughts he's had about you since you let him into your home.

His hands roam under your dress, hiking it up to squeeze the plush globes of your ass, all while you moan softly, eyes fluttering shut.

He kisses up the side of your throat and up to your ear, huffing low inside so you hear every bit of how hot he is for you. "Lemme show you what bad men do to pretty girls who play house with 'em."

His grip on your throat stays steady, firm but not cruel. His other hand drags up the back of your thigh, slow like he's savoring it, slipping beneath the hem of your nightgown until his rough fingers find bare skin. His breathing is ragged now, lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he's trying to inhale you.

"You smell s'sweet," he growls, nose brushing the soft skin beneath your jaw. "Always smell so fuckin' sweet."

He's spreading you apart before your brain can comprehend it, lifting you up with his free hand to guide you up onto the counter, manhandling you like you weigh nothing. Slotting his body between your legs, he looks down at your pretty cotton panties. Just as adorable as you, all lacy and pastel like you didn't have a clue what they'd do to him.

Jason huffs a breath through his nose, low and unsteady, staring at the soaked little patch in the middle. "Fuck," he mutters, dragging his thumb over the wet spot slowly and teasingly. "Look at this. You want me like this." His hand grips your thigh to keep you open, his gaze locked on your panties as he takes two fingers and pushes them up against your panties so he can trace your plump little pussy through the fabric, firm enough to make you twitch.

You jolt, grabbing onto his shoulder while your tummy flips. "Mmh... i-its good... b-but 'm sensitive..." you warn softly, trying to fight against his grip ever so slightly, but he keeps you spread for him with his firm hand. Your breath catches when he starts tugging your panties to the side, baring the warm air of the kitchen onto your even warmer hole.

His hand grips your hip, anchoring you in place while he teases your entrance with the pads of his fingers, just barely pressing in. You let out a strangled little sound, back arching as he slowly presses a finger inside you with a low groan. Your body clenches around him and it makes him twitch, a guttural sound leaving his chest. "Fuck, you're tight," he mutters, nose nuzzling yours. "So fuckin' warm. This pussy's been waiting for me, hasn't she?" You nod helplessly, eyes wide, lips parted as he pumps his finger inside you slow and filthy. He watches you fall apart for him, cheeks flushed and pretty little moans leaving your mouth with every curl of his finger.

His thick digit curls just right inside you, slow and deep, while his thumb rubs circles around your clit, not too quick, just firm and steady like he's testing how fast he can get you to fall apart. You whimper again, your hips rolling into his hand without thinking.

He watches the little faces you make while you're in heat like this, as well as the way your body reacts to his touch. His eyes are locked on the place where his finger disappears inside you with that delicious squelch, and once you're relaxed, he slides in a second to fill you up even more. You jerk, nightgown bunching up more at your waist as he shoves his fingers deep inside you, wanting to see how tight you can squeeze around them.

"Damn," he mumbles, "You're squeezin' the fuck outta me." His free hand grabs your thigh harder when you flinch back, nails digging just a little into your flesh to keep you still and wide open for him. He leans in, breathing heavy against your cheek as he grinds the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers keep stroking inside you, that slow, steady rhythm that's driving you crazy because it's just enough to have you trembling, but not enough to tip you over.

You whine out a soft "Jay," all desperate and teary eyed, your grip on his shoulders tightening as your legs start to shake. You don't even realize you're grinding down onto his hand until he growls, "Yeah… that's it. Use your words. You need it that bad, don't you?"

He keeps his face close to yours, eyes flicking between your mouth and your eyes, watching how dazed you look already, lips all swollen and wet from how much you've been panting. "Feels 's good! M-more..." You whine, your body starting to move on its own, hips rolling into his hand, trying to chase the pressure that's curling in your gut.

Jason doesn't let up. He just keeps fucking you with his fingers, deep and slow, his thumb pressed firm to your clit, working you in tight little circles until your legs are twitching and your mouth is open like you're gasping for air.

"You're already gonna cum, huh?" he murmurs, voice low and thick. "Already cryin' on my fingers like a needy little thing." You nod, head falling back against the cabinet behind you, your breath coming in short, desperate little bursts. " 'M gonna...Jay, I...I'm gonna..."

"Come, then," he orders, eyes locked on yours. "Cum on my fingers like a good girl. Show me how sweet this fuckin' pussy is."

You shatter around him body locking up tight before it all melts down at once, your orgasm crashing over you so hard you can't even stay upright without holding onto him. Your whole body trembles and he watches it all, jaw clenched, eyes dark and blown wide with how fucked he is for you.

He keeps his fingers inside you even after, not pulling out until you're twitching too much to take it, and even then, he pulls back slow, glancing down at the mess he made of you. He brings his fingers to his mouth without even thinking, licking them clean while he keeps his eyes on your face.

Then he leans in, mumbling in your ear. "You made a mess on my hand,"

Jason's gaze drops down to the tent in his jeans, thick and straining against the zipper, and he lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl.

"Take my cock out," he says roughly, eyes never leaving yours. Your fingers tremble a little as they reach for his belt, heart hammering in your chest while you work it loose, the clink of the buckle loud in the quiet kitchen. Jason's eyes are burning into your face the whole time, watching the way you fumble a little, the way your lips part and your breathing gets uneven while you tug his belt free, then pop open the button on his jeans.

You slide the zipper down slow, hands shaking just the tiniest bit, but you don't stop.

He helps you just enough to shove his jeans down his hips, groaning softly when you reach into his briefs and wrap your fingers around him. He's thick and hot and already leaking against your palm, and the second you touch him, his whole body stiffens.

"Jesus," he mumbles, chest rising and falling hard. You glance up at him through your lashes, a little dazed and shy, but your hand stays wrapped around him as you stroke him once, then twice, making his head fall forward, forehead bumping into yours while he groans.

He looks into your eyes, his voice all rough and shaking with how close he is to snapping. "You're gonna do it, alright? Not me." he says, jaw clenched. "You're gonna show me how dirty you are, and take me in your hand, and you're gonna line me up with that sweet little pussy like this was your fuckin' idea."

You nod even though you're buzzing and feel your body burning, and he watches you slowly wrap your hand snugly around his cock, his face close to yours as you guide him between your legs.

"Yeah," he mumbles, watching your face. "Just like that." You whimper when the head of his cock bumps against your entrance, slick and warm, and Jason moans low in his throat at the feel of you, the head of him just barely pushing inside.

Your fingers tremble as you line the head of him up with your entrance, glancing up at him as you press him against your folds. "It's so hard," you whisper, all breathless. "Your cock..."

"I know," He responds, watching you continue to guide him, soaked folds parting around the flushed head, barely nudging it in just enough for both of you to feel that first slide. " 's... fuck... c-cause I want you s'bad." He hunches over you a little, mouth hanging open as you finally line him up just right. His tip catches on your soaked entrance and he groans deeply, forehead pressing to yours again like he's trying to stay tethered to something.

He pants, grinding the head against you, not pushing in all the way yet, smearing your wetness all over the flared head of his cock while your thighs twitch around his hips. You make a tiny noise, all high and breathy, and he grins against your cheek. His nose brushes your temple while he shifts his hips just enough for his tip to nudge inside, slow and heavy. "Fuck... there we go, sweetness. 'S suckin me in now."

He grabs your thigh with his free hand, pushing it up until your knee's hooked over his forearm, giving him more room, more access, more of you. He doesn't push all the way in yet, just slides in a few inches, slow and aching, just enough to make your mouth drop open and your nails bite into his shoulders.

"Keep lookin' at me," he hisses. "Don't you dare look away. You let me in, shit... now you're gonna watch what I do to you."

Your eyes flutter open again, all teary and glassy and overwhelmed, and he groans and thrusts in deeper, hips jerking forward like he can't help it anymore, burying himself with a low, breathless curse. Both hands grab your thighs to hold you wide open while his cock sinks alllll the way inside, thick and throbbing inside you.

He sinks in all the way, slow but deliberate, forcing your body to stretch and take every thick inch, and the second he bottoms out, he stays there, buried deep inside you, breathing hard through his nose like he's trying to stay composed, but he's not even close. His hands grip your thighs so tight it makes your skin dimple, holding you still like he's afraid you'll run, like he knows you're not ready for how far he's about to take this.

"Fuck, it's good," he mutters, voice wrecked as he stares down at where you're joined. "Look at that. Fuckin' swallowed me whole, didn't you?" He gives a rough roll of his hips, just enough to make you jerk and gasp under him. "Tight little pussy- already squeezin' like she wants to keep me."

Your head tips back as a choked little moan slips out, your hands clinging to his shoulders now, nails dragging across his back without thinking. He groans, fucking into you harder now, faster. Your body jerks with the impact of his rough thrust, and he moans, loud and low against your neck, his teeth grazing your skin before he bites down like an animal.

He keeps fucking into you with rapid, punishing thrusts, his body bracketed over yours, your legs forced wide apart so he can get deeper. You moan loudly, not bothering to hold back on being responsive. You're slicing into his back with your nails, mewling and panting his name harshly.

He growls at the pleasure pain you give him, rutting into you harder, like the sound of his name like that flipped some switch in him. "Say it again," he pants. "Say my fuckin' name."

You do, a little louder this time, all breathless and shaking. "Jason, mmh! please!"

"Fuck," he bites, his whole body shuddering as he pounds into you now, hips snapping forward again and again. "You're gonna let me ruin you, huh? That what you want, sweet girl? Gonna let me fuck the good right outta you?" You nod, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes, not even sure if it's from how good it feels or how deep he's inside you, but it makes him groan, deep and ragged, like he's never seen anything more perfect.

His voice is nothing but a harsh whisper now. "I ever catch you lettin' another man in this house, I swear to god-"

You cut him off with a soft little moan, too blissed out to process the threat, and Jason grunts, cock pulsing inside of you as he scrapes against your gummy inner walls. You let out a loud, high whine, clenching tight around him, and he curses under his breath, leaning forward to kiss you rough and messy, dragging his tongue across your bottom lip.

The taste of you is too much for him, and he groans loudly, grabbing onto the back of your head so he can fully suck your tongue into his mouth and buck into you faster, like a dog in a rut. "Gonna cum f'you, sweetness." He grunts, tearing out of you suddenly.

You whine at the loss of the full feeling inside your belly. and he grabs onto your plush thighs again, squeezing his throbbing, flushed cock and pumping it a few times before splurting all over your pussy. You pant, heart pounding in your chest.

He cums load after load on you, before dropping onto his knees and stuffing his face into your cunt, needing you to cum for him too. He doesn't want to wait for your sensitivity or that coil to fade away, and so he thrusts his tongue deep inside your sopping hole, eating out your cunt like it's the only dessert he needs.

You scream, ecstasy washing over you so suddenly that you can't even warn him when you cum into his hot mouth, watching him eagerly drink it all up and tongue fucking you through your orgasm.

He groans at your taste once again, unable to get over how sweet you taste. He stands and scoops some of the cum off his thighs and pushes his fingers lightly to your mouth. "Open f'me, sweetness." He mutters, watching you oblige with a dazed look in your eyes. He feels his cock twitch to life once more at the sight of you tasting him and looking into his eyes like he's just ruined you, which he has. Your hair is a mess and your lips are swollen, and your lower half is soaked with his cum.

"That's my sweet girl."

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tomiek111 · 1 month ago

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WHEN LOVE MET WAR

Greek God AU | Reader x Jason Todd

divider by: @cafekitsune & @thecutestgrotto word count: 2k synopsis: The goddess of love. The god of war. A love that even death couldn’t end. a/n: Still working through requests! Work’s been kicking my ass lately, and for some reason, my brain decided to spiral into a Greek mythology mood. A little different from my usual writing and sorry if it feels rushed.

On the marble steps of your rose-draped temple, you the goddess of love stood still as stone, watching the sun bleed across the sky. It set in streaks of gold and crimson—colours that once reminded you of warmth, of flushed cheeks and tangled limbs, of whispered promises spoken beneath starlight. Now, they only reminded you of blood. Of his blood.

Jason.

The name still ached when it crossed your thoughts, still clung to the edges of your immortal heart like the scent of a dying flower. Jason, the mortal born so beautiful even the gods were jealous. Jason, whose laugh rang like bells in your ears. Jason, who looked at you not with awe, but affection. Not like a deity, but a woman.

The two of you had danced in fields of lavender, lay beneath silken skies, whispered secrets into each other’s skin. you, divine and eternal. He, gloriously human. And though you both knew the tragedy of that pairing, you dared to hope. Dared to love. For he was promised by the head of the pantheon, Bruce the God of night and Justice that he would be ascended to godhood.

But mortals die. Even beautiful ones.

Before he could be ascended, he fell—brutally beaten and cut down by a jealous god who dared believe that, in his absence, you might turn your affections elsewhere—you wept until rivers rose and gardens withered. The earth mourned with you, the skies dulling to ash, as though the heavens themselves recognized the injustice of his death.

The other gods whispered that you’d gone mad. That you were foolish to mourn so deeply for a mortal man.

But none of them had known Jason like you had.

The centuries passed like mist—soft, aimless, unbearably hollow. No touch warmed your skin. No glance stirred your spirit. No heart called to your’s the way his once had.

And for that arrogant god who thought you so fickle, so shallow, as to discard the truest love you had ever known…You made him pay for his foolishness.

Death, you decided, was far too kind. Instead, you wanted him to suffer eternal torment and cursed him with a mania so strong he would never know peace. Never to know what the warmth of love would feel like yet forever aching for it, forcing him to search for it like a man in a desert parched for water.

He burned offerings at temples you never visited. Tore open his own chest seeking your favour. Begged the stars, the sea, the wind—to return what he had destroyed.

But love had turned its back on him.

Because he had defiled it.

His passion became prison. His desire, disease. And you watched from afar—silent, unblinking—as mania bloomed like a vine around his soul and slowly choking away the god he once was because compared to you, he was nothing. Seldom was a force stronger than love and he scorned the very embodiment of it.

No god dared to go against your punishment. The gods, in all their hubris, had all forgotten that love and war were not so different. Passion. Devotion. Ruin. Your soft beauty and lilting laughter had made them forget that beneath the silks and sweetness, you too were considered to be apart of the deities of war. Just as capable of wrath as you were of love. Your's was the battlefield of hearts, and you had long since learned that love—real love—was worth waging war over.

Yet, no amount of vengeance could fill the hole left in your heart, forcing centuries you grieved. Because even with your enemy broken, it did not bring him back.

Jason was gone.

Your temples faded into shadow. The world moved on, colder now, more empty. You wandered through centuries draped in sorrow, a goddess without purpose. Love came and went in mortals like tides against the shore—brief, fleeting, insubstantial.

Until one day, the earth rumbled with a new name.

The mortals whispered it in fear. One unlike the other gods. A scarred brute, they said, who neither sought glory nor revelled in carnage for sport. He did not charge into battle for honour or conquest. He moved like a storm driven only by rage and something darker—revenge.

They said he was mad. That vengeance had hollowed him out and filled the void with fury.

It was in the smoke-choked ruins of a battlefield—where the sky split with thunder and the ground ran slick with blood—that the gods gathered. They came not with swords drawn, but with questions. To see for themselves the new god born of vengeance and death. To witness if he would be friend or foe. To determine whether he was to be welcomed… or destroyed.

And then he stepped through the haze.

You staggered.

Your breath left you.

Because it was him.

Jason.

But not the Jason you had known—not the boy who pressed wildflowers into your hands or traced constellations across your bare skin with laughter in his eyes. That boy had been soft in the ways only mortals could be. He had lived with wonder in his heart and warmth in his touch.

That boy was gone.

Death had stripped him bare. It had carved the softness from his bones and replaced it with steel. It had turned his heart into something fiery and full of anger. Whatever mercy had once dwelled in him had long since been buried beneath the weight of pain.

He had been reborn in divine fire, not as the son of justice he was meant to become, but as something else entirely—something terrible, something untouchable. The boy you had loved was now a deity of war, the God of Death and Vengeance.

He hadn’t remembered his past at first. Not fully. Dreams came in shards—flashes of golden fields, of laughter and soft hands, of a voice that called his name with devotion. Yet, the sight of you brought forth more of the shattered remains of what life he once had lived.

You whispered his name, no louder than a breath, the one word filled with shock and reverence. The gods fell silent. None dared speak as you stepped forward—toward the once-mortal, the boy who had been your undoing, the man death had remade. You didn’t wait. Didn’t care what it meant or how he came to be.

You crossed the blood-soaked earth barefoot, unflinching. The ruin of war clung to your feet, but you moved as if drawn by fate, as if the threads of your soul had never stopped pulling toward his.

Your gaze devoured him, taking in the new divine version of him. Your hand lifted, trembling, and you pressed your palm to his cheek. He was taller now. Armoured. Broad-shouldered and blood-streaked, his golden skin was no longer unmarked—burns curled along one arm trailing up to his neck, a jagged scar traced up from cheek to brow, and his once-gentle mouth was a hard, unsmiling line. His eyes, once the soft shade of summer storms, now burned like steel in winter.

His jaw tightened beneath your touch.

Among the gathering of gods stood four figures, two of which who had once considered Jason as family.

At the forefront stood Bruce cloaked in shadows and silence. His face betrayed nothing, but the air around him felt taut, like a bow pulled too tight. He had not spoken since Jason stepped through the smoke. He only watched.

It was said Bruce had found Jason in the ruins of a battlefield long ago—an orphaned mortal with enough fire, he dared to steal the wheels of Bruce’s midnight chariot. It was this fire that made Bruce choose to raise him as his own bringing him to Olympus where he eventually met and fell in love with you.

Dick, Bruce’s eldest son, the god of light and duality, also once a mortal ascended to godhood stared at Jason with a gaze was bright with disbelief.

Beside him stood Tim, god of foresight and knowledge, lips pressed thin. His brilliant mind, always quick to calculate, struggled now to reconcile the impossible. His eyes flicked between Jason, you, Bruce, and Dick as if trying to read a history long before his time.

And then there was Damian, youngest and most volatile—god of wrath and beasts. His green eyes narrowed, not in malice, but suspicion. Like Tim, he had never truly known Jason. Not the boy with a crooked smile or the mortal brother with a quick temper and a quicker wit. Jason existed to him only in fragments—in stories passed down in whispers.

And the figure standing before him was no story.

This was the god who ravaged lands, who left cities smouldering in his wake, who painted rivers red with blood. The war-born storm whose fury bent steel and scattered armies.

Not one of them said a word. Because in that moment, they knew, only you would be able to reach him.

“I thought I’d lost you,” you whispered, your thumb brushing gently over the jagged scar that marred his cheek like a bolt of lightning etched into flesh. “He took you from me.”

“He did,” Jason rasped, voice low and raw, torn from somewhere deep inside him. “That man you remember… he’s dead. I remember little of him—just flashes. But one thing has never left me…” His gaze darkened, steel-hard. “…I want the head of the god who killed me.”

You didn’t hesitate.

“He’s yours, if you want him,” you said, voice calm, almost casual in its finality. “Though I already ensured he would suffer eternally for the pain he caused you and I.”

Jason’s eyes slid past your shoulder, lingering on the looming figure of Bruce—the god of night and justice—his divine father. There was a flicker of something in Jason’s gaze, some buried expectation, as if Bruce might protest or claim otherwise.

But Bruce said nothing.

Only his jaw clenched, ever so slightly, as he looked away.

Jason’s focus returned to you. “You would give him to me so freely?”

“I would rip out his heart and place it in your hands if that is what you wished,” you answered without pause, your voice low, unshaking. “I would die for you. I would give you anything you desire.”

Something shifted behind his eyes. A storm, held back for centuries, calmed at the edge. Never would it be fully gone but something about your presence was stilling it. And in that moment, with war’s fire in his blood and your hand on his face, Jason realized one thing. He had been reborn not just by rage, not only by death—but by the echo of a love so powerful, it had called him back from the ashes.

His expression cracked. Just barely. A flicker of the man he had been.

“The man you once knew is gone,” he said quietly.

You lifted your chin, defiantly, beautifully. “Then I’ll love what rose in his place.”

His eyes flickered, but his tone remained cold. “I’m not gentle anymore,” he warned, voice darker now, coiled tight with the weight of all he’d become. “I don’t feel softness. I don’t remember how to be… that.”

“Then be war itself,” you said fiercely, “I’ll still love you.”

Because while you had loved him at his most radiant, this version, forged through pain and fury, was no less worthy. He was not the same—but neither were you. Love had never asked for perfection. Only truth.

His hands—bloodstained, trembling—rose slowly, hesitantly, as though he feared you were a mirage. He caught your wrists, holding them with reverence, with desperation. Then his forehead touched yours, and in that simple gesture, something ancient and sacred passed between you. Something that neither time nor death had managed to sever.

A goddess born of love.

A god reborn of war.

And in his arms, when he finally pulled you close, the goddess of love found her heart again—not in beauty, not in peace, but in ruin and rage, in the bloodied hands of war itself.

They had taken him from you once.

But not again.

You had crossed eternity to mourn him.

Now, you would cross it again to stand beside him.

Because whether mortal or divine, broken or whole, he was still yours.

And you were still his.

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tomiek111 · 1 month ago

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melting | 18+

take one look at you, you’re heaven’s incarnate; what is this spell, baby, please show some mercy.

or; after a long, grueling patrol, jason comes home to your sleeping figure laid temptingly on display for him. [3.1k]

jason todd x f!reader; SMUT‼️ CW: soft sex😛somnophilia/free use(prev. consent implied), thighjob, unprotected p in v, cockwarming. + a lil biting; needy touch starved jason😈😈 but then fluffy; based on ask!!; can you tell i'm ovulating.

It’s almost dawn when Jason climbs in through the window of your shared bedroom, tossing his gear bag on the ground and landing after it with barely a sound. His limbs are heavy and bone-tired from the last five hours spent beating up criminals on the street, and he wants nothing more than to plant face-first into bed and pass out for the next twelve hours. The ceiling fan whirs on the highest setting in your bedroom, and the cool current is a welcome change from the dry summer heat outside. He runs a hand through his hair, still damp from the haphazard shower he took at the safe house where he peeled off his suit and stashed it away in his bag.

He slides the window shut as his eyes adjust to the darkness, making sure to draw the blinds to keep the sunrise from disturbing his sleep. And then he sees it.

Right there, on display like an oil painting in a museum, blankets pushed aside, your naked form lies draped across the bed like a marble sculpture in a museum. You’re lying on your side with your back to him, which only accentuates the dip of your waist before it rounds into the curve of your waist, like the perfect handle for him to grab onto and squeeze until you make that high-pitched gasping sound you always do when he grips you with the promise of purple and red stains the next morning. His gaze traces down your body leaving a burning trail in its wake until he lands on the plump lips of your perfect cunt that peek through your thighs.

His heart speeds up in his chest, a burst of adrenaline and anticipation coursing through him. He dares to take a step closer, though he knows that the closer he gets, the less control he’ll have. What was the agreement? Right— wearing pajama bottoms meant you didn’t want to be disturbed, but anything else was fair game. He can count on one hand the number of times he has felt compelled to do this— he much prefers you awake so he can hear the sound of your pleading moans begging for more, feel your nails sinking into his skin and clawing down his back when your release is too intense to bear. But tonight, after the debilitating patrol he just endured, after you so kindly put your perfect body on display for him, he needs this release— needs you.

Jason takes off his shirt and tosses it on the foot of the bed, with the rest of his clothing quick to follow. The clink of his belt buckle, the ceiling fan static; all are drowned out by the roaring blood rushing from his head and straight to his dick. He feels desperate—pathetic, even, with how much his body trembles as he gingerly crawls onto the mattress, careful not to jostle you around and wake you. He kneels over you and rests a hand on your hip. The feel of your warm, soft skin punches out a shaky breath from him, and he drags it down your figure, following your body’s dips and valleys down to your thigh. He gently grips the skin tighter, groaning lowly at the feeling of your soft body moulding to his touch. His fingers trail back up, tracing the slit of your pussy with his middle finger. You hum lazily in your sleep. He slips his finger between your lips and runs it up and down, circling your entrance and stopping just before he reaches your clit. He leans down and brushes feather-light kisses up your arm, inhaling your scent and savoring the warmth and growing wetness.

“My pretty girl,” he whispers into your shoulder.

His dick is fully hard now, but he can’t bring himself to stop. He loves this feeling, loves you and the heat of your body, enough to get lost in it for hours. A sigh escapes your sleepy lips when he circles your slick entrance again, and your hips move forward. His finger slips out of you, covered in your essence. Jason pants, already breathless as he spits in his hand and strokes his cock with a mixture of his saliva and you. He gives himself a few pumps and presses his tip to the juncture of your thighs.

He pushes it in, biting back a groan at the feeling of your soft thighs encasing him. He fucks himself between them, captivated by the sight of it slowly slipping in and out. His hand jumps from your hip to the bed, and he fists the sheets between his fingers, clenching his jaw so hard it might pop. Though he keeps his thrusts slow, your silken skin feels so good around his dick, and he can feel pearls of precum dribbling from his tip, which his strokes smear against the inside of your thighs, painting you with him. His length is sliding against your pussy, gathering more of your slick. He pulls himself out far enough for his head to drag against your folds, and you moan softly in your sleep. Jason peeks at your face; your brows are drawn tightly together, teeth pressed a fraction of an inch into your bottom lip as your hips start moving back and forth of their own volition.

You want more, and he’ll gladly give it to you. But he knows that if he gives in too quickly, he won’t last more than a minute before he’s spilling inside you, and he needs this to last. The visual itself in his mind—finding his release in your warm pussy, pumping his hot come inside you and watching it leak out of you and all over your thighs, dripping onto the bed and ruining the sheets—he’s throbbing between your legs. He needs to pull away from you completely so that the image alone doesn’t make this end before it has even started.

He lets out a pained whimper, leaning back into a kneel with his hands fisted so hard into the sheets that they’ve turned a stark white. His breathing is labored, and his cock aches from the deprivation of you. His entire body is clenched so tight it hurts, bringing tears to his eyes.

But then, you move. The loss of him, hard and heavy, and rubbing against your lips, makes you whine. You turn over in your sleep, pressing your thighs together tightly to abate your need, and your back hits the bed, baring to him your full face, your tits your stomach. Jason curses under his breath when your knee falls open and reveals your wet, leaking pussy practically begging for him to fill it with his cock

He can’t stop staring at you, though. You are so beautiful, he thinks. And you’re all mine. And I’m all yours.

Jason adjusts himself so that he’s kneeling over you, caging you between his legs. One hand finds the bed right beside your head to hold him up, and the other comes to cup your face. His thumb lightly traces your cheek, and he lowers himself to brush his lips against your forehead, then moves lower to your lips, and then continues, blazing a trail down your throat with his mouth, his hand following suit.

He kisses down to your breast, all around your nipple, before finally using the flat of his tongue to press into it and mimic a similar sensation on the other with his thumb. He keeps his touches feather-light, enjoying the way your body unconsciously responds: the faint moans that get stuck in your throat, the sharp breaths that escape from your lips. Your body twitches when he takes it into his mouth and sucks, and your back arches slightly off the bed, but he releases you before you can get too worked up.

His cock is heavy and aching, and his whole body feels hot with an urgent need to be inside you. He takes it in his hand and pushes the tip between your lips. He slides it down to your entrance to feel your wetness before dragging it back up and pressing his head to your clit. Your hips jump at the sensation, and it only pushes him harder against you. A groan escapes him at the same time as a breathy whine blows through your lips.

“I know, baby,” Jason mutters quietly. “'M gonna take care of you.”

When he slides into you the first inch, his entire body shudders. Your sleeping figure twitches as he withdraws to his tip, then thrusts in further. Slowly, he continues, pulling out and pushing back in a little further until his hips are flush against yours. He’s holding himself up on two trembling arms with raggedy breathing, and you’re sleepily, mindlessly grinding against him.

He whispers your name into the darkness, and his voice is so soft, so enamored with every part of you. With the way your hair spills perfectly over your shoulders, your fluttering eyelashes, and velvety lips that are drawn into a pout as you search for a pleasure only he can give you. Your body, your nipples that have hardened to stiff points against the night air, the fading teeth marks on your shoulders, the red and purple love bites scattered over your hips. Enamored by how much you love him, enough to not only give your body to him like this, but also to trust him with it. He remembers the first time you were in his bed, when he was so nervous about messing this up, about losing control and scaring you away. And how you cradled his face in your hands and kissed him all over, whispered those four words against his lips, and he knew he was forever gone for you—

I trust you, Jason.

Then, he starts to fuck you— really fuck you, with slow, deep strokes that send shockwaves through his entire body. He pushes your legs out a little wider so he can fuck you even deeper and angles himself just so, in the way that always makes you throw your head back and squeeze him until he sees spots— and that’s exactly what you do. You clamp down on him hard, and he whimpers brokenly, dropping his head to rest next to yours. Your breathing is much heavier now, tiny whines escaping from your throat with each breath.

What started as long, hard strokes has turned to shallow, messy rutting, with Jason reduced to simply grinding his hips against yours. He buries his face into your pillow to muffle the embarrassingly desperate moan that comes from you gripping him so tightly. It’s so good, but he needs more. He speeds up the movement of his hips, keening into the pillow because he’s so needy it hurts, but it still isn’t enough.

But he can feel the pattern of your breathing change, feel your heart rate increase, and he knows that you’re both on your way there. He pushes himself up on one hand to hover over you, and lets the other hand slide under your lower back and lift it by a few inches. He drags his cock out, all the way to the tip, and thrusts it hard back into you. Your head falls back with a sharp gasp. He does it again, and your legs tremble, eyelids fluttering as you begin to stir. He keeps going, both of you close to coming and moaning through your half-asleep pleasure.

Your legs are practically quaking now, and your back arches of its own volition as your cunt leaves a creamy white ring around the base of his cock. Jason’s hand slides around to your front and his thumb rubs circles over your clit. All it takes is one more thrust and your eyes flutter open, hands fisting into the sheets and mouth falling agape with a silent scream.

“Jason,” you gasp, followed by a loud, broken moan as you come. Your walls clench and contract, and his forehead drops to your shoulder with a choked gasp as he follows right behind you. Your cunt spasms around him and he finishes inside you with hot, sharp bursts of come.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans. He rides out his orgasm with wet, sloppy thrusts, and you keep grinding against him throughout yours; all the while his pressure remains even and firm on your sensitive clit.

“Baby,” you whine. You’re stuffed so full of him, you can feel him in your bones. But he’s still coming; it leaks out of you and drips down your thighs, around his balls, onto the sheets.

He moans into your neck as the spurts of come begin to die down, and his thrusts slow. You’re out of breath, breathing heavily into his hair when it’s over and still trembling from aftershocks. Your hands release the sheets and slide up to wrap around him. He does the same with your waist, holding you so tight, as if you’ll disappear if he loosens his grip. One of your hands finds his hair, and you scratch at his scalp.

“I thought I was having a very vivid, very good dream about you,” you joke quietly, still panting.

Jason chuckles into your neck. His breathing is rapid, and your hearts beat frantically against each other.

“I missed you,” he breathes, so quietly that you wouldn’t have heard it if his lips weren’t moving right against your skin.

“You have a nice way of showing it,” you mumble back, tired but still feeling giggly and fucked out.

You use your grip on his hair to pull his head up to yours. His eyes are shiny, gazing at you like you’re a sight to behold. You guide him to your lips, capturing him in a kiss so sweet his body feels like warm honey is seeping through it.

He keeps kissing you as he turns to lie on his side next to you. He hugs you tight, pressing your back against his chest. He cradles your jaw, and you make a soft sound when his dick brushes against that spot inside you.

“I love you,” you whisper into his mouth, but it gets lost in a sigh when he sucks on your bottom lip.

You’re in love with the taste of him, the feel of him pressed against you, inside you. So you hold him tight, not letting him leave you, staying intertwined, living on stolen breaths and drunk on the afterglow.

He breaks the kiss to pull the blanket over your damp, sticky bodies.

“Can never get enough of you,” Jason says into your hair, sounding utterly wrecked.

Your hands settle over his, drawing shapes on the arms wrapped around your torso. “You’ll always have me,” you say softly.

And when you wake again a couple hours later, worked back to the brink with his hands on your hips and him groaning whispers of praise and declarations of love into your hair as he fucks you again, this time from behind, your hand reaches up behind you to thread through his hair and push your lips to his. You moan into his mouth when his thick cock fills all the space you give him, dragging along all the right spots.

“Baby,” he whispers, mouthing along your jaw and down your neck, across your shoulder.

You sigh dreamily when he nips at your ear.

“Feels good?” He asks.

“Faster,” you moan, tipping your head back to fall on his shoulder.

He tightens his grip on your hips and fucks you faster. The sound of his skin slapping against yours rings in your ears.

“’S that better, baby?” Jason croons, and you can only moan in response.

He grins into your hair and wraps one arm around your waist to keep his grip on you, while the other slips between your legs to rub your clit. He does it hard and fast, and pain melds with pleasure in the short moment it takes for you to break once more. You shudder around him, quieter and more relaxed than the first time, but your body is set alight all the same. You roll onto your stomach, pulling him along with you, deaf to his confused protests. Your mind is tunneled on feeling, gone completely blank except for the feverish desire to have him harder, deeper, more.

He gets the message and follows you. Your salacious noises are buried in the pillows and your back arches, pushing your ass against him as he pumps into you through his own strenuous moans. His weight is heavy on top of you, but it only feeds into your desperation to be surrounded by him.

“So—ugh—so good, baby,” Jason slurs into your skin, his voice rough and guttural from where sleepiness meets euphoria.

The chain hanging from his neck taps against your back with each of his thrusts before following the length of your spine when he kisses his way down each vertebra. You feel the cool metal scraping back up when he licks his way back to your neck, tasting the sweat that beads along the column.

His palm slides up your side to grab a handful of your breast, which he squeezes and kneads with a searing grip.

“Gettin’— fuck.” He buries his face in your shoulder, letting his words turn to unintelligible whines.

“Jay,” you whimper. “I’m—I need—”

“Me too,” he groans. “T-touch that pretty clit for me, honey.”

You reach between your legs to find the swollen, sensitive bud of nerves. Your cunt flutters and drips your arousal around him. His cock makes a wet, squelching sound as he fucks you harder. His rutting gets more erratic until he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and comes again with a final slam of his hips. The pressure in your core builds and builds, and it reaches its crescendo when you feel the sting of the bite and his warmth spilling inside you. You arch into him with a loud cry and come all over his cock, just in time for your body to give out and collapse on the sheets. Jason goes down with you, going limp atop your back. The weight is welcome and grounding.

The two of you lie there for some time, enjoying each other’s heaving breaths that fill the silence as you float back into your bodies. You must drift off again, because the rest of the early morning is hazy and you only recall brief flashes of sensation; sticky come from now and before spilling out of you when Jason lifts himself up, something warm and damp running over your thighs and your center.

And when a warm weight settles in at your side, and your forehead is ghosted with a kiss, whispered into your skin is something that sounds like thank you.

is it unrealistic that reader stays asleep through all that😭tbh idc i like that she stays asleep until right before her orgasm i think it's hot. and anyway why am i worried about a fanfiction about a superhero vigilante who was resurrected from the dead by a magical immortality pool being realistic! get a grip girl!

anyway. this was fun to write because i just like the idea of obsession + devotion + complete trust w someone & writing that manifestation in somno. idk. i rlly put my hole heart and soul and julussy into this lmfao

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tomiek111 · 1 month ago

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🜼 ⋆ continuation of where toji now fucks your gut deep into a missionary.

he flips you over slow, easy, like he’s cradling you, not wrecking you. your body’s so limp it barely helps him, legs trembling and slick, chest heaving as you feel the mattress dip and his hands slide beneath your thighs, lifting them with care like they’re something fragile. the moment your back hits the sheets, you’re blinking up at him, dazed—skin still buzzing, pussy clenching on nothing, your whole body high off of him. and toji’s looking at you like he never wants to look away.

his gaze rakes over your chest, your stomach, the shake in your thighs, and then lands right back on your face. his eyes dark, hooded, patient. hungry. but soft around the edges in that way only he can be—half fuck-you smirk, half this-is-mine. you feel it all over again when he leans forward and presses a kiss just beneath your eye.

“still with me, baby?” he asks, voice low and syrup-thick.

you nod without sound. it’s all you can do. your lips are parted, your fingers twitching at your sides, every nerve under your skin aching for him again. and when he lines himself back up, thick tip slick and hot against your entrance, you feel your whole body tighten—throat closing, legs tensing—like it doesn’t know whether to brace or beg.

he watches your face the whole time he sinks in.

you gasp, one hand flying up to his arm, nails dragging along his bicep like you’re trying to hang onto something real. and toji just groans, low and deep in his chest, dropping his head to your shoulder as he slides all the way in, no resistance—just soaked heat and muscle and stretch and him, all of him, filling you slow until your breath shudders out of your lungs.

“jesus,” he mutters against your skin. “you’re still so tight, baby. still fuckin’ flutterin’ like you want more.”

your legs wrap around his waist without meaning to. the way he fits in you—it’s too much. it’s perfect. like he belongs there. and then he starts moving, hips rolling with a slow, deliberate rhythm, long, grinding strokes that drag the head of his cock right against the spot that makes your eyes blur. there’s no hurry. he’s not chasing anything. he’s fucking you like you’re a secret he wants to memorize. like he could do this all night. like watching your face twist beneath him is the whole damn reward.

his palm comes up to your jaw, thumb brushing your bottom lip.

“look at me,” he says, voice hoarse. “don’t blink.”

your eyes meet his. and it’s overwhelming.

because you’re open to him—completely—and he’s looking at you. like he sees all of it. the flush in your cheeks, the tears collecting in your lashes, the slick sheen across your collarbones. he sees the way your mouth trembles when his cock pushes just a little deeper, the way your fingers dig into his shoulder like you’re scared of falling through the bed. he sees it, and he fucking loves it.

“you feel that?” he whispers, grinding into you slow. “that’s me. right here. all the way in, stretchin’ you nice and full.”

you whimper. his voice wrecks you—low and sweet and so calm while your body is spiraling. his hips don’t change pace. they keep rocking, steady and thick, filling you over and over, a deep, slow pump that makes your stomach clench. you can hear it—the wet sound of his cock fucking in and out of you, your own breathy moans, the soft thud of the headboard tapping behind his back. it’s everything. he’s everything.

“you wanna come again?” he asks, dragging his thumb along your cheek. “you can, baby. i got you. i’ll stay right here. just keep lookin’ at me.”

you nod, voice caught in your throat. you’re already trembling. already climbing. the stretch is too good, too warm, his cock grinding so perfectly against your walls that your toes curl, your thighs start to shake. his pelvis brushes your clit with every grind. you’re gonna—

“there she is,” he whispers, fucking just a little deeper now, pushing his chest against yours, mouths barely an inch apart. “that’s it. come on, baby. let go.”

you fall apart with your eyes wide open.

the orgasm hits hard—ripping through you sharp and deep, pussy clenching down on him so hard it drags a curse out of his throat. he doesn’t stop moving. he fucks you through it, holding your face, watching you cry his name, guiding your body with soft hips and steady praise.

and when he feels you start to come down—blinking slow, shaking, breath broken in your chest—he lets go too.

“fuck,” he groans, burying his cock deep inside and staying there, his hands cradling your face like he can’t stand to let you look away. “you’re gonna take it, yeah?”

you can’t even answer. your body says yes before your mouth can—pussy clenching one more time around him, greedy and soaked and wanting it. and toji fucking gives it to you.

he comes with a long, breathless groan, hips rocking into you slow as he pumps you full—thick, warm, heavy. his cock twitches inside you while his forehead rests against yours, mouth parted, chest shaking like the pleasure took something from him.

he stays there, breathing. whispering.

“that’s it, baby… goddamn. you’re so good for me.”

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tomiek111 · 1 month ago

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🜼 ⋆ reverse cowgirl with toji f. holding your hand, guiding your hips, whispering “that’s it, baby” while you melt on his cock. (part two)

you’re already shaking, and toji hasn’t even moved.

you’re straddling him backwards—knees spread wide on either side of his thighs, back arched, fingers gripping the sheets behind you as he watches from underneath, breath slow and hungry.

his cock sits thick and heavy inside you, stretching you open from below, already soaked from how slow you took him—inch by inch, gasping through every second of it. he just watched. let you do all the work, even though his thighs twitched under you, even though his chest rose and fell like he was holding back.

“toji…” your voice breaks, breathless. “it’s—fuck—it’s too deep.”

his hands settle on your hips.

big palms, warm, steady. he doesn’t grip or rush—just holds, fingers smoothing over your skin, guiding your rhythm without forcing it.

“yeah?” he murmurs, voice low and sweet behind you. “you feelin’ full, baby?”

you nod. one tiny, desperate motion.

“you are,” he hums. “takin’ all of me. every fuckin’ inch.”

your thighs burn as you lift, just barely, then sink down again—and the way he fills you is obscene. thick and long, curved just enough to catch every spot inside you. the drag of it makes your walls flutter, makes you clench, and toji feels it. groans low and gravelly like it hurts him to stay still.

his hands start to move then—slow and guiding, dragging you back, then up, then back again. setting the rhythm with patience, rocking you on his cock like he wants to savor it.

“ride it nice and slow, baby,” he whispers. “lemme feel all of you.”

he leans forward a little, chest brushing your spine as one hand slides up to your belly, pulling you back against him.

you feel him shift beneath you—his abs tensing, his lips grazing the dip of your shoulder. his other hand moves down, spreading your ass so he can watch himself disappear into you with every roll of your hips.

“look at that,” he mutters, breath hot against your skin. “look how pretty you fuckin’ take me.”

you moan, knees slipping from how wet your thighs are. your body’s going soft, melting into his touch.

“too much?” he whispers, voice gentler now.

“no,” you breathe. “i just—I can’t keep the pace—”

“that’s okay, baby.” he kisses your shoulder, then your neck. “i got you.”

he tightens his arm around your waist, holds your hand from behind—fingers laced, palm flat to your stomach—and guides your body again. up, down, slow circles. small movements. deep drag.

you stop fighting it. let him lead.

let his cock fill you the way he wants—deep, warm, perfect. your body trembles with every grind, skin sticking to his, mouth open around every breath. he doesn’t stop talking, doesn’t stop touching.

“sooo tight,” toji drags his word as he groans, voice rough with restraint. “squeezin’ me like you were made for it.”

you lean back against his chest, dizzy. full. whimpering.

his mouth presses to your jaw. “you gonna come like this? sittin’ pretty on my cock?”

you nod, barely. you’re so close. your muscles ache, your clit throbs, and every time he helps you down again, his cock hits so deep your vision blurs.

his hand leaves your belly and slides lower—fingers finding your clit with slow, steady strokes.

your hips jerk. he kisses your temple.

“there it is,” toji breathes. “that’s my girl. c’mon, baby. fall apart for me.”

you don’t mean to—but you do. hard.

your body locks, thighs twitching as you cry out, walls clenching down around him in waves. it crashes over you like a blackout—wet and hot and loud—and he holds you through it, hand never leaving yours, voice soft at your ear.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “just like that. shit, you’re so good for me.”

you slump back into his chest, trembling, spent.

and he’s still inside you. twitching. thick. full.

you feel him kiss your shoulder again.

“still with me, baby?” he murmurs, voice sweet, cock still pulsing.

you nod weakly, hair sticky and your skin sweaty and then you hear him smirk.

“good. now sit up for me.” his hand runs up your belly. “wanna watch you ride it again.”

my man needs some love likeee lmk if you guys want part two, cause ending is lowkey open — update: posted!

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tomiek111 · 1 month ago

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୨୧ FAMILY CHAOS ୨୧

♡ — 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: one year ago, you & your husband, Satoru, adopted two of his teenage students, Yuji & Megumi. Also, your biological daughter is now five years old, and it seems that every member of the Gojo household is experiencing their fair share of troubles and keeping secrets, yourself included. What exactly is going on this week?

♡ — 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓: 18+ ONLY || fluff, angst, brief description of smut, brief descriptions of violence, canonverse, fem reader, mentions of depression, skipped meals, & suicidal thoughts, pregnancy, & gojo being the best dad and husband ever!

♡ — 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: . . . 9k . . . :)

♡ — 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑’𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: this fic is part of my dad!gojo series, but reading the other parts isn’t necessary. || artwork by @/3-aem, ribbon dividers by @/cursed-carmine!

YOUR STORY — DAY ONE

Two positive pregnancy tests rested in the palm of your hand, one showing two vertical pink lines, while the other casually presented the utterly life-changing word: Pregnant.

How unsurprising.

It was only a matter of time — after all, your husband was like an animal, tossing, turning, and twisting you every possible way whenever he could get some alone time with you.

It was impossible to know which night of love-making had led to your current conundrum: Was it the night all of your kids spent their Saturday evening elsewhere? Or, perhaps, the time Satoru had you in a mating press position on a hotel bed? No, it had to have been the time he returned home from a mission amidst your solo shower, and his lack of patience led to him slipping in behind you, and furthermore, slipping into you, all the while his hand-

“Ready?”

Satoru’s voice suddenly snapped you out of your thoughts. He stepped out of the master bathroom, buttoning up his shirt as he walked. You quickly hid the pregnancy tests under your thigh while his all-knowing blue eyes weren’t on you.

“Ready for what?” You said nervously.

“Don’t tell me the same person who rambled on and on about wanting to go to the festival already forgot about it,” Satoru glanced at you briefly. He approached your dresser, grabbing his blacked-out sunglasses. “The kids are waiting. I don’t think Yuji’ll be too happy if he misses the lantern show. And you and I need to do that thing where we share a churro and kiss at the end-”

“Okay, okay, I’m almost ready.”

Despite your words, you hadn’t yet risen from your spot on the edge of the bed.

Satoru turned to face you. He frowned with concern. “You alright?”

The truth was that you weren’t ready to tell Satoru that, soon, there would be another addition to the Gojo household. Your hesitation was odd. This was something you both wanted, and yet . . .

And yet, the news, while delightful, was also worrisome, as the Gojo household was currently experiencing its fair share of troubles within the past couple of months — and you weren’t quite sure what adding a newborn baby to the mix would do.

Stressful times tended to occur when over half of the beloved household fought curses and curse users, both of which were more active during the summer season.

Satoru was occasionally away on important trips to other countries and continents. Your adopted teenagers, Megumi and Yuji, — who had been part of your family officially for a solid year now — were often injured in battle. Meanwhile, Maya, your biological daughter, was arriving closer and closer to starting elementary school.

Your little girl learning all sorts of things about math, animals, and books that were longer than ten, twenty pages was a beautiful sight to see.

She was no longer a toddler, but rather, a child now, and was learning all sorts of things such as numbers that went beyond ten, beyond twenty, and even beyond fifty. There were animals — insanely cool ones, more exciting than the cows and sheep she learned about in preschool — who lived in either the forests or the sea!

There were moments of tragedy of course, such as the day she learned that her dear parents, her beloved mom and dad, were not named Mom and Dad.

Oh, the poor girl cried and sobbed, her chubby cheeks puffy and wet with tears, all while Satoru held her and softly explained to her that he would always be her daddy, she would always address him as so, but in truth, his name was Satoru Gojo.

And your name was not simply Mom or Mommy.

What a troubling day.

But that part was fine. Everything from giggling while you or her dad marked her height by using a pencil to draw a line above her head on her doorframe, enthusiastically saying, “you’re getting so big now!” to learning to sing and dance along to classic Barbie films, to crying her eyes out when she fell down during a game of tag with her friends were all parts of getting older, and it was fine.

Her having to go days or weeks at a time without seeing her dad was not.

Having to soothe her worries and fears whenever Yuji and Megumi returned home from missions with new scars and scratches decorating their skin was not.

And, worst of all, her becoming aware of her own cursed energy and being able to see those terrifying creatures was not.

A few weeks ago, after Maya saw her very first curse across the street while going down a slide at a playground, Satoru had to sit his daughter down and explain everything to her. It was a task that broke his heart.

Afterwards, he crawled into bed with you, sighing heavily.

“She was just learning about the alphabet around what, one, two, three years ago?” Satoru exhaustedly rested his head on your lap, staring up at you with sad, blue eyes. “God, I can’t keep up. She’s growing up so fast. And now she’s seeing curses. I knew this day would come, but now her childhood will never be the same.”

You turned on the lamp on your nightstand with a light tap at the base of it. With your other hand, you gently stroked the spot between Satoru’s furrowed brows with your thumb as his long legs stretched out across your enormous bed.

“We just have to teach her not to be afraid of them. Just as we explained what curses are, we have to explain to her who she is.”

The daughter of the world’s strongest sorcerer, she was.

“I thought I was ready for this. Looking after Megumi when he was a kid, learning about his power, and trying to protect him from that sick Zenin clan . . . thought that experience would prepare me for this. I thought I was ready, but I’m not. Now we have to teach our muffin and protect her from the jujutsu society as a whole.”

“Tell me about it,” you frowned. “I get at least ten emails daily from the higher-ups, all of them wondering if she’s ready to start training. She’s five years old. I told them all to go to hell.”

Satoru laughed softly, then he yawned before he started to speak again.

“I’m sure she’ll want to become a sorcerer, but if she does, I want it to be her decision. I don’t want her to feel pressured to follow in my footsteps, get what I mean?”

Your fingertips started to mess with the strands of Satoru’s white hair.

“I think the best choice would be to work with her, make sure she understands what curses are and what she can do, but also do everything we can to give her a normal life. I don’t care if she learns a cursed technique before she learns how to multiply, but no one will take her childhood away from her.”

With that, you and Satoru sealed off the end of your conversation with a kiss, but nothing more, as about five minutes later, gentle pitter-patter could be heard from the hallway as your daughter made her way to your room and hopped into your bed, snuggling right in between you and Satoru.

After seeing her first curse, she was much too scared to sleep alone.

Dealing with Maya’s current situation had your hands full. Along with all the additional chaos surrounding your entire family, you were also busy being the multitasking mother and wife everyone needed you to be. Keeping everyone fed, healthy, and happy was quite the challenge, especially when you could do very little to keep them safe in a world possessed by such evil — and they were the ones who had to fight against it. Not to mention the horrific fact that your son was quite literally possessed by the embodiment of evil — Sukuna.

Oh! And if that wasn’t enough, Satoru’s other students, old and new, often came to you for motherly love and affection they could never experience elsewhere. Though you welcomed everyone with open arms, you were tired.

Tired, and, apparently, pregnant.

—

“Alright, everyone ready? Everyone have their coats? Anyone have to pee before we hit the road?” Satoru, who stood before the double front doors of your home, scanned his watchful eyes over the bunch.

“The festival’s only fifteen to twenty minutes away,” Megumi said.

“And I bet Yuji’ll have to pee in ten.” Satoru darted his eyes across the dark-haired boy’s casual outfit, which amounted to a short-sleeved black shirt and a pair of grey jeans. “And you’re not wearing a coat.”

Suddenly, Satoru felt a tiny tug at the back of his pants leg. Turning around, he caught sight of Maya — just when did she get behind him?

With a smile, he reached down to ruffle the young girl’s hair, noting the nervous look on her face. After her first experience with a curse, it was quite rare for the young girl to not have eyes that glistened with pure fright.

“At least this one’s being so well behaved, aren’t you, muffin?” Satoru said sweetly.

“Can you pick me up?”

“Of course, sweet girl, hang on.” Satoru raised and turned his head to where Yuji was standing. “Yuji, did you-”

He cut himself off. There was nothing except an empty space where Yuji once stood. “Where’d he go?”

“Bathroom,” you mumbled.

“Right,” Satoru gave you a quick smile — he noticed your silence today. It was nice to hear your voice at all.

Looking at his other teenage son, or, rather, his uncovered arms, Satoru said, “Megumi, go get your coat.”

“But I’m not cold.”

“You can thank our new heated floors for that, but it’s cold outside, buddy, and you had a fever a couple days ago. I don’t want this bipolar weather making you sick again.”

“Cold weather itself doesn’t make someone sick, it’s actually-”

“I’m back!” Yuji’s sudden appearance interrupted Megumi.

“Daddy, pick me up! Pick me up!” Maya whined, tugging on Satoru while her small feet impatiently tapped against the floor; the new, heated one, which was part of the renovations made to your home last month. More chaos.

“Hold on, forgot to wash my hands. Be right back,” Yuji suddenly said, and vanished as quickly as he had arrived.

Satoru didn’t sigh with annoyance, didn’t let his face reflect even the slightest hint of frustration. Instead, he continued to grin, handling the chaos just as easily as he handled curses.

“Come here, I gotcha,” Satoru lifted Maya, holding her in his arms. “Ya know, daddy’s gonna have to put you down to drive, right?”

“No!”

Maya leaned her head against his shoulder. Satoru turned to face Megumi yet again, noticed his lack of a coat yet again, and said playfully, “Megumi, put on a coat or jacket or else I’ll ground you for twelve to fifteen years, kid.”

“Fine,” the teenager rolled his eyes before walking off.

Gently, Satoru gave his daughter’s chubby cheek a little pinch — she squealed from the ticklish feeling — and he then placed his large hand over the little ear that wasn’t leaning against his shoulder before he shouted, “anyone who isn’t in the car in the next three minutes is getting left behind!”

“I would’ve been in the car if you weren’t making me grab a coat,” Megumi called back.

“You’ll thank me when you’re not dying of pneumonia,” Satoru shouted, then mumbled under his breath, “again.”

And with that, you watched as, somehow, someway, Satoru effectively managed to get a moody teenager, a hyper one, a clingy child, and you, his oddly quiet wife, to the annual Night Lights Festival.

—

The lakeside festival was a crowded, yet beautiful display of festive red and yellow decorations and lanterns that brightened the night sky. Live musicians banged on drums or strung their instruments, playing upbeat tones. A parade of dancers passed by, and lively chatter surrounded you.

Around thirty minutes into the festival, Yuji’s face was decorated with face paint, neck adorned with beads and necklaces dancers tossed at him, blush-pink hair covered by an enormous red and yellow hat, and he held a bag of popcorn in one hand and his favorite soda in the other.

Megumi, on the other hand, wasn’t a fan of the large crowd and never-ending music. He did, however, notice a person doing magic tricks with their two enormous dogs, and he stopped to watch the show. Maya, who was previously sitting on her dad’s shoulders, eagerly climbed down, eager to watch the dog show as well.

And by then, Yuji had seen something exciting and ran off. Yet again.

That left you alone with Satoru. Your smiling husband took hold of your hand. Though you gave him a smile back, it didn’t reach your eyes, and he could tell.

Guiding you away from the flow of traffic and closer towards the red bridge that stretched over the beautiful lake with lights dancing above the water — where fewer people mingled, fortunately — Satoru said, “What’s the matter, baby? You’re awfully quiet.”

“Sorry,” you shrugged, unable to look him in the eye. Not while you were telling a lie. “I was just thinking about how well you handle our chaotic family.”

“You know me. Handling chaos is just what I do. I think part of me loves it, actually, considering we’re trying to add on a new member to the family.”

His words made your heart skip a beat. The topic of pregnancy and having another child was nearly a daily discussion between you and Satoru, that was a fact, but now, when your pregnancy test came back positive and you hadn’t yet found the nerve to tell him, hearing those words struck a chord of fear within you.

“I don’t know, honey. I thought that I could handle all this. Don’t get me wrong, please don’t get me wrong, but . . . Megumi and Yuji are at that age where fighting curses is the last thing they need to worry about. Being a teenager is rough enough as it is. Megumi’s attitude is-is just . . . and Yuji stinks sometimes no matter how often he bathes. He just stinks. And seeing them and their friends covered in wounds after a mission . . . it’s just too much. I can’t help but wonder if we’re mature enough to handle it. It’s not like we’re the same age as most parents who have teenagers. Remember what happened a couple of months ago when I treated Nobara, Yuji, and Megumi to the movies and a shopping spree? Two cashiers at two different places thought I was friends with all of them. Friends!

Then there’s Megumi’s depression. I’ve been researching therapists, specifically ones I trust who work with young sorcerers, but there’s only like, two. And I doubt I could get him to talk to someone anyway. Oh, and while I was doing the laundry the other day, I found a crumpled-up piece of paper with a phone number written on it in Yuji’s pocket. I’m thinking a girl gave it to him. That means it’s time to talk to the boys about dating and everything that comes with it, right? I mean, we pretty much raised Megumi long before we adopted him, so I-I know he’s . . . educated, but what about Yuji? Do we just assume that his grandpa taught him everything he needs to know about, well, everything? What if his grandpa taught him things that we’d disagree with morally? No . . . Yuji’s a sweet kid, I doubt that.

I don’t know, I’m just so overwhelmed. Then there’s Sukuna, and what the higher-ups want to do to Yuji because of Sukuna . . . is that why we adopted him? To give him a good life before he’s executed? Or did we truly think we could find a way out of this? Because I love him more and more with every passing day and . . . and don’t even get me started on everything going on with Maya right now.

I don’t just mean the curse thing, either. My friend Jane told me that she stopped carrying her son when he turned four. Maya’s five now, and it seems like she doesn’t ever want to be put down. I have no idea if that’s normal. She’s a sweetheart, and she’s always been a bit clingy and sensitive, but there are certain things that-that she hasn’t grown out of yet and with this curse bullshit, she’s even more dependent on us than what my research says a five year old should be. I bet you being away for weeks at a time is part of it. I know I cling to you like a koala to a tree when you come back home, and part of that is because I’m always so terrified of what might happen to you while you’re away. I love you too much. The idea of something happening to you kills me, Satoru.

I thought that I was this amazing person who could take care of everyone who stepped through our door, but here I am, freaking out while we’re just trying to enjoy a nice festival. Maybe I should just-”

“Momma! Dad! There you are!” Yuji suddenly returned, this time, with a tiny tray of lantern-shaped cookies and a bag of souvenirs. “C’mon, the lantern show’s about to start!”

The excitable teenager once again started to dash away, and you started to follow, when Satoru’s large hands suddenly grabbed onto your shoulders, halting your footsteps.

“Hey, hey, wait,” he said. His fingers found your chin, turning your head in his direction. He planted a kiss that held all the gentle love he felt for you right on your lips. “I hear you, sweetheart. We’ll talk about it later, alright?”

“You say that as if we can ever have a moment of peace and quiet, but thanks for listening.” You gave him a sad smile, and he kissed you yet again.

The night ended with you and Satoru holding onto a beautiful lantern and releasing it together into the starry night sky. Watching your lantern join the countless other ones in the sky as you leaned against your husband’s chest was a temporary moment of relief from the chaos.

MEGUMI’S STORY — DAY FOUR

It happened.

The breaking point.

The final straw.

Reaching the limit — whatever it was, it happened.

Megumi told you something the day after the Night Lights Festival. Something that he now regretted as he slipped on his black hoodie.

“Megumi, let’s go!” You shouted from the foyer.

As you waited for him, your eyes darted up at Satoru, who was adjusting the hood on your head. It was a rainy, gloomy day, after all. Oh, a gloomy day it was.

“Hey, it’ll be alright. I know it. And I know you’re busy, but when you have the time, we should talk. We never finished our conversation from the other day. The one we were having at the festival,” Satoru said.

“Right, well,” you paused, hearing Megumi’s quiet footsteps approaching. “It’ll have to wait.”

“Let’s go,” you said to Megumi, all the while trying — trying — to ignore the pained look of betrayal in his eyes.

—

The car ride was a long, quiet one.

The atmosphere was tense. Odd. Heartbreaking. Therefore, you clenched the steering wheel and made the tough decision to speak to the boy in the passenger seat.

“Megumi? After your session, I was thinking we could stop by a bookstore, see what’s new in the nonfiction section. Get some black coffee, pick up some ginger chicken, whatever you want.”

“Sure.”

“And don’t worry. The first session is usually nothing more than you and the therapist getting to know each other. And the psychiatrist will mainly just ask you a bunch of questions. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Alright.”

You slowed to a stop at a red light. A sigh escaped from you.

“I know you don’t wanna go, but we’re doing this ‘cause we care about you. We’re worried about you.”

Megumi turned his gaze away from the raindrops on the car window. A therapist. A psychiatrist. A collaborative care plan.

“You think there’s something wrong with me.”

“No, not at all!” You looked at him, your eyebrows pinched. “You’ve gone through a lot, and there’s nothing wrong with needing some help. Everyone needs it at some point.”

“I haven’t gone through anything Yuji hasn’t, and I don’t see him in the car.”

You were silent for a moment. Nothing could be heard except for the raindrops splattering against the roof of the car. The traffic light changed colors.

“When will this competition end? Comparing yourself to your brother?” You paused. “You’re both very different people with very different needs, and-”

“And you think there’s something wrong with me.”

There wasn't that familiar attitude in Megumi’s voice. There was pain. But, heartbreakingly, that pain was a familiar tone as well.

You wanted to look at him, grab his shoulders, and shake some sense into him, do something. Anything. But you could only crank up your windshield wiper and make a left turn.

“You were getting better, Megumi. I saw it. But now? Now it feels like you’re moving backwards. You and I have started to bond, haven’t we? We’d spend quality time together, even if it was just the two of us washing dishes. You even called me mom once. You came to me the other night for comfort and advice, and now I-I feel like you’re just . . . slipping away and I won’t just sit back and let it happen. Please stop pulling away from us, okay? I’m here for you. Your family is here for you.”

“I told you the truth the other day, and look where it’s gotten me. You think I’m fragile. Like I’m weak and I’m gonna break. And now you’re dragging me to meet a therapist and psychiatrist. Being honest with you has only backfired, so . . . I think it’s best if I pull away.”

“What do you expect me to do when my son, my son, looks me in the eyes one night and tells me he doesn’t see the point in living anymore? Do you just-just expect me to, what, sit back and do nothing as I watch you continue to skip meals again? Stay curled up in bed? Hear from your friends over and over again that you were careless with your own life in battle?” You slowed down as you drove; you could barely see, not only because of the heavy rain, but also the tears brimming within your waterline. “This is what it means to be loved by a family, Megumi. I know you didn’t ask for this, and you can hate me and your dad all you want, but I suggest you get used to it, because I’m not giving up on you. None of us are. You understand me? Do you understand me?”

Megumi’s gaze returned to the raindrops on the window. His hands were starting to tremble — he wanted to cry. He didn’t answer you, not now, because he didn’t understand.

He thought he did once. He thought he wrapped his mind around familial love and understood that he was loved and cared for — and he still does. Part of him, the logical side, knows he’s loved and cared for, but maybe, just maybe, that was part of the problem.

He got sick easily. Got injured easily. Didn’t like very many things. Turned away from affection. Was a picky eater — it made him feel like a burden to his family, who he knew loved him and went out of his way to make him comfortable, be it you preparing ginger chicken over a bed of rice while everyone else dined on honey-garlic glazed salmon, or giving up loud family movie nights to play quiet board games with him occasionally.

But right now? It didn’t matter to him whether he understood the concept of familial love or not. He trusted you with something, and this betrayal? He couldn’t understand it.

But right now? When his spirit was crushed and he dreaded every sunrise that marked another day of living? When you parked in front of the beige office building and took him inside for his very first session?

He could understand one thing: his desire to have never been born.

YUJI’S STORY — DAY FIVE

It was warm today. The rapidly changing weather switched back and forth between hot and sunny or cold and rainy as if it couldn’t decide which of the four seasons it wanted to mimic, nevermind what season it actually was.

And, damn it all, Satoru took advantage of temporary warm weather by standing over his smoking outdoor grill, but not because he craved warmth and anything that reminded him of peaceful summer days, but because one of Yuji’s favorite foods happened to be Satoru’s grilled burgers, and Yuji was having a bad day today.

With one hand, Satoru flipped the burgers over with a spatula. They still needed quite a bit of cooking. With the other hand, he raised his blacked-out sunglasses, gazing at the back of his house.

It had been a while since he last checked on the moping boy. His other moping boy, Megumi, was fast asleep after Satoru coaxed him into eating by bringing a food tray to his room that held an apple he sliced, a basic sandwich — Megumi didn’t like too many toppings — and his new antidepressants.

A short distance away, Maya was plopped down in her sandbox, digging around with a colorful, tiny shovel.

“Muffin?” Satoru called out. When the young girl looked at him and tilted her head a bit, he asked, “Want a juice box, sweet girl?”

She eagerly hopped to her feet, took a moment to shake off as much sand as she could, singing under her breath, “shake, shake, shake, shake off the sand . . . shake, shake, shake, shake off the sand.”

Afterwards, Maya and Satoru stepped through the back door. Once he sat the young girl down at the nook table in the corner of the gourmet kitchen, gave her a juice box and told her to stay put — only after putting his lips on the skin of her arm and blowing a raspberry to make her giggle, of course — he then headed upstairs to go check on Yuji.

—

“I wanna kill that annoying punk you call your father first.”

It was Sukuna’s rotten voice. Yuji was digging through the drawer of clothes in his spacious bedroom when the king of curses manifested himself on the side of Yuji’s face.

“Shut up,” Yuji mumbled.

“Who would be fun to kill next? Let me think . . . that pretty mother of yours? Your little sister? That little girl’s becoming sensitive to cursed energy now, right? Does your family know she won’t come near you anymore, ‘cause she can sense me? The evil inside of you? We made her cry and run away the other day. Remember that?”

“Shut up. Just shut up already.”

“You think these people really trust you as a vessel to keep me in check, huh? I bet they’re hoping you die and take me with you-”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up-”

“How do you think it’d feel, brat? Your own body being used to kill the useless humans you call your family? Your face being the last face they see as they die a slow, painful death?”

“Shut the hell up!”

He was shouting — he didn’t realize it, not until the silence that ringed afterward made him realize just how loud he had been.

Yuji heard two knocks at his door. When he failed to respond, whoever seeked entry twisted the knob and opened it.

“Yuji?”

“Sorry, I’m fine.” Yuji glanced at Satoru standing in his doorway. With a bundle of clothes in his hand, Yuji paused, watching his dad glance over the top of his sunglasses, his all-seeing eyes scanning Yuji from top to bottom. “Stop it.”

“He’s bothering you again, huh? Wanna talk about it?” Satoru stepped into his bedroom.

Yuji shook his head, mumbling an inaudible, “no.” He tossed the clothes in his hands on his bed — they fell with a soft plop — and suddenly, the tears started to fall.

He couldn’t help it by then. The teenager found himself turning around and wrapping his arms around Satoru, who didn’t waste a second before hugging him back.

“It’s okay, kid. It’s okay,” Satoru said soothingly, rubbing his back.

“Most days, I can ignore him pretty easily and not let his words get to me, but . . .”

“But ever since he scared Maya, you can’t help but listen to him.”

Yuji gasped.

It was the secret he had been keeping since it happened.

“You knew about it?” Yuji pulled away from Satoru, staring at him with wide eyes.

“Not ‘til now. I was listening at the door,” Satoru said.

“You say he scared Maya, but don’t you mean me? It’s ‘cause of Sukuna, yeah, but it's not like he was taking over my body when she got scared. It was just . . . me. It’s his fault, but it’s still me. Does that make any sense?” Yuji looked down at the floor. “Megumi’s always been her favorite sibling, and I get it, she’s known him her whole life and stuff, but . . . not only am I her least favorite member of the family, but now she’s downright scared of me. Do you think that means I should live on campus for a while? It’s not fair for Maya to be scared of someone in her own home. She’s your biological kid, so she comes first. I’m just the one you adopted last year-”

“And you’re just as much a member of this family as she is.” Satoru interrupted Yuji with a stern tone he wasn’t used to. “Just give it time, Yuji. Your mom and I are working on a way to get her used to . . . all this. And in the meantime, don’t let Sukuna get to you. I know that’s easier said than done, but just you wait. I’m gonna find some sorta loophole where I can kill him for good, and still keep you alive and well. I don’t care how long it takes.”

“You’re pretty optimistic.”

“Well, you’re my boy, Yuji. I’ll be damned if you don’t become old and gray someday.”

Yuji gave Satoru another hug, but this time, instead of tears, it was with a soft smile. Though his heart hadn’t fully accepted Satoru’s words, nor had his mind accepted that he had a right to stay home, he couldn’t help but giggle when his dad called him that affectionate term.

“Damn right I’m your boy!” Yuji exclaimed.

“Hey, watch your mouth.”

“Sorry. Can we play baseball together soon?”

MAYA’S STORY — DAY SIX

It was somewhere between noon and evening, the big house a warming shade of yellow and orange from the setting sun peeking in through the open windows, and Maya crept down the hallways with her doll clenched tightly against her chest.

Sneaking around her home wasn’t fun — not nearly as fun as the show the The Backyardigans made sneaking seem to be in the episode she watched with dad last week. Secret agents, they were.

She tried singing the little Secret Agent song in her head, tried to pretend that she was on some fun, grand adventure, but in truth, she was scared.

She was coming out of her bedroom when she heard footsteps in the hallway, and she felt it. That . . . that energy. That spirit.

Everyone in her family had that same energy, she could feel it, but unlike her dad or Megumi, this energy wasn’t friendly. It was as scary as the big monsters she swore lived under her bed when she was younger — and though dad held her tight and told her he kicked all the monsters out and scared them away, that wasn’t true. Because sometimes, she still saw monsters! Like the one she saw at the park the other day! And she swore — she swore — her big brother was one of them. He was the one with the unfriendly energy.

A little while ago, she ran up to Yuji, eager to share her grapes with him, and that was the first time she felt it. She ran away crying, shrieking away from him when he tried to follow her and ask her what was wrong. Ever since then, she would only go near him if others were around. It broke her little heart. She loved Yuji! So why, just why, did he have to turn out to be one of those scary monsters?

Maya peeked her head around the corner of her door frame and saw Yuji, who was opening a hallway closet.

“Umbrella, umbrella, umbrella. Where is it?” He mumbled to himself in a bored tone, searching the shelves for, apparently, an umbrella.

Why was he here right now, of all places? He wouldn’t move either, which meant . . . she would have to walk past him to reach the bathroom.

She wanted to cry. Where was Dad? He’d hold her, and together, they could make it past that scary monster.

Maya turned in the opposite direction of the bathroom, dashing away as quickly and quietly as she could, not wanting to draw his attention. Her heart was pounding. She then made a quick turn into what was the upstairs gameroom, and there you were! You were fluffing one of the pillows on the couch when you turned your head, smiling at the sight of your daughter running towards you, but your smile quickly vanished as the corners of your lips pointed downward, your brows furrowed.

“What’s wrong, honey?” You asked.

“I have to pee-pee and there’s a monster in the hallway!”

Your frown deepened in pure confusion.

You knew quite well there wasn’t a monster in the hallway, but before you could question the young girl, she was reaching up, grabbing hold of your hand with her little one — the one that wasn’t holding her doll — and she pulled you along.

There was no one in the hallway except Yuji.

You figured that, perhaps, there was some sort of weird decoration in the hallway that scared her, but when you glanced down, you saw her wide, fear-filled eyes were locked on Yuji.

“Maya, what’s the matter?” You questioned. “Mommy doesn’t understand what you’re scared of.”

You weren’t exactly whispering like Maya hoped you would, and your words caught Yuji’s attention. He turned away from the hideous ponchos in his hands, looking in your direction with a small, “hm?” when, all of a sudden, Maya dropped your hand, raising a trembling finger as she pointed at her brother.

“Monster,” she cried out.

A shocked gasp escaped your lips. You never would have expected your sweet girl to call someone such a thing, let alone her brother. “Now Maya, that is not nice. We don’t call people things that we wouldn’t want them to call us. You owe your brother an apology.”

Yuji shut the door of the hallway closet, locking eyes with his sister. Maya shrieked, dropping her doll.

“Mommy!” She grabbed, pulled, and yanked at your shirt and pants, practically trying to climb up your body and jump into your arms.

Tears fell from her eyes as she cried, “Make him go away! Make him go away!”

No parenting book had prepared you for this, whatever this was.

The terrified girl’s nails were digging into your flesh; you had no choice but to pick her up.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you said soothingly, but the fright in your voice was crystal clear.

You gave Yuji a look of panicked confusion, one that begged for answers to the obvious question, but when you looked at him — even from the distance between you both — you could see the tears streaming down his face.

“Make him go away, mommy! Make him go away!” Maya cried.

Yuji sniffled, wiping his tears off on his sleeves before turning away.

“Wait, Yuji- Maya, it’s okay, I don’t . . .”

Suddenly, with Megumi following, Satoru was making his way up the stairs before Yuji could descend them, forcing the crying sorcerer to stay put.

Yuji tried his hardest to weave around Satoru, but Satoru gripped his shoulders.

“Aht, aht, aht, you’re not going anywhere.”

“But I’m scaring her!”

“Yuji, will you please tell me what’s going on?” You cradled your sobbing daughter’s head.

“Here, Megumi,” Yuji reached around Satoru, tossing Megumi two mustard-yellow ponchos he found.

Megumi caught it and started to descend the steps without another word.

Satoru frowned.

“You two mind telling me why you need ponchos when there isn’t a cloud in the sky?”

There was no answer. Megumi continued to walk down the steps, Maya continued to sob, and Yuji continued to wipe his streaming tears, his path blocked by Satoru.

“I asked you two a question. Yuji, your mother asked you a question.”

“We’re packing our bags and leaving. We can’t stay here.”

It was Megumi who stopped walking and answered.

You could handle quite a bit, but this? This was what finally made the tears fall.

When that very first sniffle interrupted the silence, your entire family turned to face you.

It was too much. Everything. Every bit of it.

With Maya in your arms — her little tantrum had dwindled to silent sobs now — you left the hallway, stepping into the closest room you could find.

Satoru was a man who could walk through Hell with a grin on his face. He was an easygoing person, one who could tolerate everything from strong curses, the attitudes of teenagers — perhaps his own occasional lack of maturity helped him out with that — but, the one thing he could not simply grin and bear?

Seeing his wife upset.

Satoru slowly turned his head between Megumi and Yuji, looking at their guilt-ridden faces. He clenched his jaw.

“You two. Living room. Now. I’m not messing around, and don’t you dare talk back to me.”

Satoru moved past Yuji, and the boy swore he could feel the anger radiating off of him like heat.

The pissed-off man watched his sons drag their feet into the living room, Megumi’s hands fidgeting with the sleeves of his black sweatshirt while Yuji had his head down, messy hair unusually flat like he was a kicked puppy, and Satoru then stepped into the room you occupied with Maya.

You were sitting on the ottoman in front of the bed. Kneeling in front of you, Satoru looked at you with all the softness he held for you in his overwhelmed heart, and he stroked your tears away with his thumb.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry.” He leaned forward and kissed your cheek. He then repeated the same act of love with Maya. “Both of my sweet girls are crying. You’re killing me.”

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled, taking a deep breath as if to soothe yourself. “It’s just been a long, long week. I don’t wanna make them feel guilty for how they feel by crying in front of them, I swear I don’t, but . . . I think hearing them say that was my final straw.”

Satoru rose to his feet. He scooped Maya out of your arms, and said, “Come to the living room. We all need to work it out.”

The living room was softly lit by two lamps. From one of the couches where Megumi and Yuji sat, Yuji wiped away one of his own tears, then gently knocked his knee against Megumi’s.

“You okay?” Yuji asked.

Megumi didn’t answer for a while, his eyes glued on the living room floor.

“No.” Megumi’s voice was soft. “Are you?”

“No.”

Megumi and Yuji gave each other a sympathetic smile. Just then, they heard the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. You came down, following Satoru — who held Maya — and you all found yourself grabbing a spot on one of the couches.

Satoru started to speak to the young girl holding on to him.

“Muffin, look at Yuji.”

Maya looked up at Satoru with precious eyes filled with uncertainty.

“Don’t be scared. It’s okay. Just look at him.”

She was hesitant, found herself clenching Satoru’s shirt even tighter, but . . . but eventually, she turned her head and looked at her older brother, who bounced his leg out of pure nervousness and old habit, his face a mess of falling — and seemingly never-ending — tears.

“You see that?” Satoru pointed. “He’s crying. Do you know why he’s crying?”

Maya looked up at her dad, shaking her head with a small pout.

“He’s crying because you’re hurting his feelings, muffin. Calling him a monster and running away from him is making him sad, so sad that he wants to run away from home. If he does that, it’ll make all of us sad as well. You’re the sweetest girl I know, and I know for a fact my sweet girl doesn’t wanna make anyone sad, right?” Maya blinked at him, and Satoru continued. “Yuji isn’t like that monster you saw at the park. Your brother is actually this super-duper strong, super-duper awesome, super-duper great person who’s keeping a monster at bay, so the monster can’t hurt anyone someday. He’s a hero, one who puts himself in harm's way to try and protect other people, and he loves you very, very much. Isn’t that cool? To have a brother who’s that brave, kind, and strong?”

Maya tilted her head to the side, the gears in her brain turning, and she nodded slowly.

When you started to speak, Maya looked over at you.

“You have a family of people who fight those scary monsters you’ve seen all the time. In fact, your dad is the strongest monster-fighter in the whole world. None of them can lay a hand on him because of how strong he is. And guess what?”

“What?” Maya squeaked out.

“You’re his daughter, so that really strong monster-fighter strength has been passed on to you,” you smiled. “Nothing bad will happen to you, honey. Everyone in this family will make sure of it; me, your dad, Megumi, and Yuji, who I think could really use an apology from you right now.”

Maya, albeit hesitant, hopped off her dad’s lap. She wiped the tears off her chubby cheeks and glanced back at Satoru.

“Go on, it’s okay,” he nodded.

In a way, it was quite hilarious. The person she feared was nothing more than a sulking boy with teary, light brown eyes, and a sad frown. Kicked puppy.

Maya stood in front of her brother. She didn’t fully understand what you and her dad were trying to say, but she knew a few things for certain:

No one else seemed scared of Yuji.

Dad said Yuji wasn’t a monster; he fought monsters.

That evil energy wasn’t the only energy she felt from him, there was something else there. Something kind and warm.

She loved Yuji, and she didn’t like making him feel sad.

“I’m really, really, really sorry,” Maya mumbled.

“It’s okay, Maya Papaya,” Yuji smiled softly.

“You’re like Barbie!”

Oh, her famous compliment. Yuji’s grin widened in amused bewilderment, though he didn’t fully understand what about him could have reminded her of Barbie.

“Oh yeah? I don’t know, I think she’s way cooler than I am,” Yuji reached forward slowly in case his little sister was still hesitant to trust him, and when she didn’t back away, he ruffled her hair. Maya responded to that by stepping closer with her arms out. As Yuji happily leaned down to hug her, god, it felt as if his heart melted and was being glued back together all at once.

A moment after the hug ended, Satoru spoke up. “Muffin, why don’t you go play with dolls, hm? I know my big girl can play all by herself, right?”

“Uh huh! I can go do that!”

Everyone listened to the pitter-patter of Maya’s footsteps. Once the conclusion was drawn that she was in her room, you and Satoru glanced at the boy on the other couch who was playing with the sleeves of his black sweatshirt.

“My turn, right?” Megumi mumbled.

“You’re not in trouble. Neither one of you are. It’s just that, at the first sign of chaos, you two wanna hit the door. You both need to understand that no matter what happens, no matter what you do or how you feel, those beds upstairs are yours. We’ll work through any situation no matter what it is because you’re our children. Your dad and I will chase you down and drag you both back home if we have to, but please don’t make us have to.” You paused. “Megumi, do you truly hate the idea of getting help so much that you’d rather stop living here with us? Are you that angry with me?”

“It isn’t like that. I just feel like a . . . burden again.” He couldn’t look you in the eye. “But I’m not angry, I’m just hurt. It feels like a betrayal.”

“What did . . .” Your voice was wobbly. You used every bit of your strength to hold back your own tears. “When you told me how you were feeling, what did you think would happen? What did you want to happen? Did you think I wouldn’t do something?”

“I knew you would, I just . . . I wanted to talk to you, not a therapist.”

“Me?” You blinked.

“Well, you’re my mother, aren’t you?”

Oh.

Oh, you were certain you misheard him. Your wide eyes found Satoru’s, and your husband gave you a knowing grin.

“I heard it, baby. He said it.” Satoru said.

“I’m gonna cry again,” you wiped at the tears threatening to stream down your face; it was crystal clear during this moment who Maya got her sensitive side from. “Can I hug you? If not, that’s okay.”

Megumi looked up at you. He thought about it for a moment, then with a whisper of a smile, he said, “Yeah, sure.”

You made your way over to where he sat, and he stood up. You wrapped your arms around him, taking extra care not to hug him too long or squeeze him too tightly.

When you pulled away, you said. “I still think you should give your current treatment plan a proper try, but you can always come to me, Megumi. Always, always, always.”

After you released him, you then walked over to Yuji, your arms open, and he grinned widely, hoping to his feet to hug you.

“I owe you an apology, Yuji.”

“Huh? For what?” He pulled away, tilting his head a little.

“For neglecting your needs. You should give therapy a try as well. I didn’t think it was necessary at first, seeing as you were always smiling and laughing no matter what, but after everything you’ve been through, you need it as well. I’m sorry for not considering it sooner.”

“Oh, well . . . okay, I guess.”

“I think someone else needs therapy.”

The interjection came from Satoru. Turning around, you raised an eyebrow at him. “You mean Maya? Because a child therapist doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“I was talking about you, but honestly, let’s get the whole family in there,” Satoru motioned you over, and your lips fell into a little frown. “What’s that look for? Aren’t you always saying everyone needs someone to talk to at some point?”

“That’s true,” you said. You walked over to Satoru and claimed the spot next to him on the couch, and he wrapped his arms around you. “I think I could use a massage, or maybe a vacation as well.”

“I’m on it,” Satoru smiled down at you. Then, as he looked back at his teenage boys, he said, “So now, on to dating . . .”

SATORU’S STORY — DAY SIX

The conversation with your boys lasted well into the evening until the orange rays of the setting sun kissed the sky goodbye, and the bright moon appeared along with the stars.

But not every bit of chaos had been resolved just yet. There was something else, something lingering in the back of Satoru’s mind, and that was why instead of showering together before winding down for your nightly routine of soft chatter, massages, and watching an episode of two of your favorite show together, you and Satoru found yourselves strolling through the Night Lights Festival once again.

“Satoru, we’ve all had a long day. Why’d you bring me here?” You asked, looking up at the side of his face, your fingers intertwined.

“Because I wanna spend time with the person I’m in love with, obviously. You’re the love of my life, my amazing wife,” he turned his head, smiling down at you. “Look, I’m even rhyming now like a lovesick poet.”

“But why are we at the festival again? After the day we’ve had, our bed was calling my name. I was hoping we were gonna cuddle up and watch our show together, or anything that involves lying in bed . . . Please don’t make a dirty joke.”

Satoru shot you an amused grin.

He guided you towards a food vendor that smelled of heavenly sugar. After ordering one chocolate-filled churro, he turned around to face you as he waited.

“Well, you and I never get any alone time nowadays, and we really needed to talk. I figured, why not do it here? The festival only comes once a year anyway. I wanna do our little churro tradition as many times as possible.”

“Why do we need to talk? You’re not divorcing me, are you?”

“Never. You’re stuck with me in every lifetime. I really believe it, ya know. I had a dream once where we both died and-”

“Here you go. Enjoy the festival.” The friendly vendor owner unintentionally interrupted Satoru, a churro in hand.

Satoru took it with thanks. You two continued strolling until he found an outdoor bench close to the lantern-lit lake and bridge.

“What was I saying?” He asked, sitting down.

As he took the first bite of the churro before passing it to you, you said, “Listen, if this is about my rant the other day, I really don’t feel the need to continue that conversation. Talking with everyone today helped some.”

“There’s more to it.” Satoru’s tone was serious at first. The lanterns nearby illuminated his expressionless face. Strands of his white hair shifted as he nodded down at the churro in your hand. “Come on, bite the churro.”

You did so. A beat of silence passed between you both. You handed him the churro; his turn to take a bite.

“I’m waiting,” he said, taking the sweet treat.

“For?”

“For you to tell me whatever it is you need to tell me. And for you to tell me why you haven’t told me until I brought up that there’s something you need to tell me.”

You blinked at him. He was right, after all. You were keeping something from him, and of course, he’d recognize the signs of secrecy. But you wanted to hold on to the secret news of your pregnancy a little longer.

“Really? You know me better than I know myself.” You avoided looking at him as he gave you the churro. Your bite was nothing more than a hesitant nibble. “Do you honestly think I’d keep secrets from you?”

“Then why won’t you tell me you’re pregnant, baby?”

Your limbs froze. Your heart skipped a beat, and though he spoke sweetly, kindly, you were still as stiff as a statue.

“Look at me,” he softly demanded, hooking his fingers around his blindfold and pulling it down, letting it dangle around his neck.

You glanced up at him, almost feeling like a shy child getting scolded.

“I . . .” Whatever excuse you wanted to give died in your throat. “How’d you figure it out?”

“Really needa ask?”

“Your eyes.” You mumbled. Duh. Of course. Of course, you couldn’t keep something like this from the Satoru Gojo.

“I would’ve pieced it together either way, ‘cause you’re right, I do know you better than you know yourself.” Satoru smiled for a moment, but then it vanished quickly. It was his turn to take a sad bite of the churro. Those bright blue eyes glistened with a sliver of hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been waiting.”

“I’m sorry, I just didn’t know when or how. With everything going on, I feel like everyone will freak out at the idea of adding a baby to the mix. Especially considering our boys are ready to pack their bags and run away when they spill a cup of water. I didn’t want them to feel like us having another child would mean we no longer wanted them around. Hey, we’re having more biological children, so we don’t need the adopted ones, hit the road! ya know? I read somewhere that adopted kids and teens sometimes feel like that’s what’ll happen, or they feel like they’ll always come last to the biological children. And that’s only part of the reason why me being pregnant right now isn’t a good idea. I don’t know why we thought we would be able to handle another kid at a time like this.”

“Two kids.”

“Huh?”

“We’re having twins.” Satoru leaned forward, resting his elbows on the outdoor bench. “I can pick up on things earlier than an ultrasound can. And . . .” Satoru's eyes darted down to your stomach. “Yeah. I’m looking at two individual cursed energies.”

You couldn’t help but gasp. Twins? Was he being serious? Was this real?

“Oh my god. Satoru I . . . I mean, thank goodness we have a big ass house, right?” You gave a hollow laugh. One out of pure shock. “H-How do you feel about all this? I can’t tell.”

Satoru reached down into the pocket of his black jacket. He pulled out his phone, let the brightness on the screen illuminate his face, and opened the messaging app. Your husband then handed his phone to you. What stared back at you was a messaging thread with Kento.

Satoru spammed the poor man with multiple text messages, some short, incoherent, and incomplete, some using all caps, others long and decorated with emojis, but every message expressed his pure excitement. The last thing you saw before handing his phone back to him was a selfie he sent of himself crying tears of joy.

“Not only did I cry, but I went on a two-hour run to release some built-up excitement. I think it’s safe to say I’m beyond thrilled. I just wanted to wait for you to figure out, because I thought you were gonna be excited to tell me, and I didn’t wanna ruin the surprise, but then I realized that you knew, and I could see how stressed out you were. You were going through tea like a teaholic, didn’t finish your crepes, and the last time I gave you a massage, you were so tense, it was like I was rubbing down a rock.” You took a bite of the churro. Satoru continued speaking. “You know I’m always gonna be here for you, right? There isn’t any part of this that you’ll have to go through alone. Even when I’m away, I will always be coming right back to you. We will figure it out, baby. Every bit of it. I wish I could be the pregnant one, not you, just so I can take some stress away from you.”

“And now you’ve made it weird,” you laughed — a genuine one this time — and watched as Satoru shrugged and took a bite of the churro you handed him.

“As weird as you are,” you paused, the churro now in your hands. “I’m glad you’re in my life. Who knows? Maybe preparing for two new members of the family could be the bonding time this family needs. Not sure.”

“Look at you being optimistic, I love it.”

You took the last bite, playfully rolling your eyes at him, but your fake attitude fooled no one. You were crazy in love with that handsome man across the table.

“Okay, c’mere, time for you to kiss me. The person who takes the last bite has to give the first kiss. Don’t tell me you forgot,” Satoru said. Though he told you to come to him, he was the one who rose from his seat and made his way over to your side of the bench. He straddled the bench seat, facing your side, and placed his hands on your hips as if to coax you into facing him.

“Pretty sure you just made that up. And aren’t we, like, both supposed to take the last bite together, causing our lips to meet, then we kiss?”

“I think the two of us should only try that with pasta, honey. We did it during that pasta making class we went to. I think one of us would choke to death if we tried to do it with a chocolate-covered churro,” Satoru tugged on you a little tighter, his lips falling into a small pout. “You’re taking too long. Just kiss me already. You’re ruining the mom-”

You cut off your talkative husband with what he so eagerly wanted — a sweet kiss. Not only could you feel his soft lips against yours, but you could feel him fighting off a smile as he kissed you back with passion.

That smile fully formed once you both parted, your face inches apart. His bright eyes stared into yours in a way that made it hard for you to breathe, and he gently stroked your cheek.

“Satoru?”

“Hm?”

“I think all of this chaos has taught me that, even though it’s hard, I can handle a lot of things. But promise me that you will never stop looking at me the way you’re looking at me right now. If for any reason you stop looking at me with all of that love in your eyes, I think that’s what will finally break me. Just promise me we will never become one of those couples who fall out of love with one another but are still together out of convenience.”

“I’ve stared at you like this since the first day we met, April 8th, 2005. I thought I was the coolest guy on the planet, but around you? I was a nervous wreck who wouldn’t stop blushing and stuttering. I still look at you now the same way I did then, and I know I still will when we’re old and wrinkly, and you know it too. But I promise, if that’ll put your worried little mind at ease.” Satoru caught you by surprise with one last little peck against your lips. Then, the tall man stood and held his large hand out for you to take. “C’mon, let’s burn our fingers tossing lanterns into the sky again while trying to look like a cute couple.”

You laughed, letting your hand fall into his. You didn’t know it, but several festival goers caught glimpses of you and your husband together. They prayed to someday find a cherishable love just as precious.

♡ — What did you think? Let me know! Feedback is appreciated and encourages me to post more dad!gojo content!

♡ — @marvel-girl3 @goldenglow149 @luaqsv @sstoru @pinkfemdolly @satorusgummies @therealmrsgojo @leehriie @iminlovewqr0w @odessa-is-my-queen @melodycelos @stoneaf @dreamypirate @rac00ns-are-c00l4

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tomiek111 · 2 months ago

Text

Amen (Hey, Men!) - G.S.

Synopsis. BIoodshed. BIoodIust. Vampires. It was no wonder you’d turn to the charming new priest in town during dark times like these…but Father Gojo seems to be interested in you in ways that are more than sinful. And there’s nothing holy about him, either.

Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem!reader, priest!Gojo, VAMPIRE AU, slight wild west AU, slight vioIence, reIigious themes, mentions of déath, slightly eerie, small town gossip, first times, oraI (fem rec.), he goes FÉRAL, fíngering, bíting, spítting, p sIapping, PÚSSYDRÚNK GOJO, mentioned bIood, matíng presses, size kínk, breaking furniture, D slipping, manhandIing, he’s BIG, tummy buIges, D piercing, dúmbifícation, squírting, marathons, fated ones, matíng marks, pet names, swéaring.

Word count. 12.0k

A/N. Tysmmm to the babygirls that voted on this poll <3

“H-help-” Words tremble weakly from your throat, drowning underneath the wailing wind. The storm was furious; forming iron walls of rain that blocked every dusty road and lane of your idle country town. “Please help-”

And your escape.

You thought you knew better than to trust the rumor mill. A few murmurs here, a hasty funeral with a closed casket there, and then two more exactly the same. It had everyone - from haunted elders at the local pub, to children on the playground - uttering only one word.

Vampire.

And then, you’d seen it- him.

Just the thought itself is enough to send your aching legs surging towards the nearest, faint yellow light on the midnight street. Safety. “H-he’s comin’ for me- please-”

Terrified to even turn your back, you race to bang your fists against the oak doorway of the building. For fear of seeing those eyes again - two glowing sapphires piercing at you from the dark. “He’s here-” Cold. Just like-

“Going somewhere, my angel?”

Lightning crashes against the sky. And you crash into his arms.

Staring right into the blue, blue eyes of Gojo Satoru.

Who else could it be?

That warm, handsome priest your age who’d taken it upon himself to renovate the dilapidated ol’ church of your town. It’d been forgotten for ages - and with it, the fear for what came after you were no longer upon this Earth.

Now you had both the recent string of deaths and Father Gojo to remind you.

And oh, were you reminded - it was hard to miss him. Especially in a town so small.

Golden cross always swinging in the middle of his dark black cassock, Bible always in large hands that you couldn’t look away from.

Perhaps it was sacrilegious, perhaps it was fleeting fancy- because there always was much to see.

From the broad shoulders filling out his holy robes, to the slight dimples that cratered his pale cheeks any time he grinned - at least you weren’t alone with your admiration. For it had only been a few weeks since Gojo had arrived, as quietly as if he’d simply parted the heavens and set foot here, and he was already starring in as much of your town’s gossip as the myth of the vampire was.

Well, a myth no longer, you’re realizing. And it’s enough to make your shivering fingertips clench-

Onto…a firm arm?

You blink, looking up only now to register that it wasn’t just any arm - it was Gojo’s arms. Heated. Strong. Around you.

The only thing holding your weight up right now, as your weakened legs made themselves useless.

And Gojo himself was peering down at you through his long, pale lashes. Close. Close enough that your wet-streaked cheeks bristle at his scorching breath, “My, you look like you’ve been face to face with the Reaper himself, beloved.” His rosy lips curl at the ends, slightly. “Or…worse.”

That makes you gasp- fighting in his grasp, you snap your head over your shoulder and stare into the darkness behind you. Just hoping it won’t stare back. “It- he- was f-following me- kept after me, wouldn’t let up-”

“Pardon?”

“The- the vampire!”

His eyes seem to flicker in the dim lighting, and Gojo speaks not a word. Just lets out what sounds like a short, sharp gasp- before tucking you deeper into his embrace.

And it would almost be scandalous, you knew. If it wasn’t for the rain then one of the neighbours might have peeked their head out, and by tomorrow afternoon the entire town would be ablaze with the news of the priest holding a rain-drenched woman outside the church itself.

But Gojo didn’t care if anyone would see, it seems.

Because he only tugs you tighter against his tense core once he feels you struggling, “There there, my angel. It must have been quite the fright, the Lord has surely tested your courage.”

“Oh, it was downright terrifying. One moment I was closing up my stall- ready to walk back home tonight, and the next thing I know I hear the crunch of a twig.”

Close. “Interesting.”

“He towered over me like a mountain- and just as cold. I-I think he was gunning for my blood next-”

Closer. “Real interesting.” So close that you could count each spike of grey in his irises, and every vibrato in his baritone voice. “No harm shall come to you whilst these holy walls and I stand, my darling. He shan’t lay a hand on you.” And then Gojo smiles, crooked and gleaming in the glowing candles from behind him. “Not a single hand.”

You seem to breathe out, for the first time in what feels like years. Simply held.

Simply ignoring the coil of something deep down in your stomach- you busy yourself with the frigid dig of something hard against your back, where his hands glided up n’ down soothingly. Like the corner of a book-

“Oh, heavens. I have forgotten myself.” Gojo starts, noticing the most minute shiver that runs down your spine.

In a singular, fluid motion, he’s breaking away to shut the heavy wooden doors and usher you inside- so fast that you half-heartedly wonder whether it may be spellwork. “Please, come in. Soak up some warmth in my office.”

“Th-thank you, Father.”

“Please. Call me by name.”

And you can’t help but follow.

Noticing the small, tattered book that was clutched in one of his hands - ah, that was what you’d been feeling on your skin. Guiltily, you think you must have interrupted him during his reading time…

As Gojo turns his back on you to lead you down the long, candle-lit hallway of the church, you can’t help but narrow your eyes at the tiny book swinging by his side. It didn’t look like his usual Bible-

“Ah, here.” You’re looking up to see Gojo dip his lengthy fingers into a side pocket within his dark robes. Almost melding with the shadows of the candles, it’s as if he’s pulling a long, stringed rosary from thin air. “Take my rosary. Let your faith guard you when I cannot, beloved.”

“O-oh, thank you again, Father-”

His dimple winks, “Satoru.”

“Right…” You couldn’t bring yourself to say it, even as he probes you with half-lidded eyes to do so. Instead, busying yourself by tugging on the incense-scented necklace, it weighs light ‘round your neck. And you can’t help but run your fingers over each bead- “I won’t forget this.”

And the very second your eyes flit up- you see him, Bible grasped in his hand like it always had been.

Strange, you quiver your head slightly, tonight must have shaken you up more than you thought for you to be seeing things that weren’t there.

Though, it should’ve been expected with how disorientingly massive the interior of the church was. Much too immense for such a town. You didn’t remember it being this grand before Gojo had arrived- far arches of the ceiling peered in with gargoyles, high stone walls carved with faint effigies.

Ahead of you, the pews were polished enough to act as mirrors. And as you turned left past the high place of worship down a corridor towards his office, you couldn’t help but feel like the building was swallowing you whole.

“Something the matter, my angel?” Gojo’s voice breaks through the cold silence, back still turned. “Still troubled by what the Lord has shown you?”

Clutching the delicate rosary, “It- it’s just…it wasn’t the vampire that spooked me.” You twist, and so does the string of beads in your hands. “But those eyes?”

“Yes–?”

“Hell rode in ‘em.”

The clap of thunder, the clash of dry prayer beads on polished stone.

It’s as if each degree of warmth bled by the candles blows out in a single gale of wind the very moment you say this.

Boring into your very soul, Gojo’s pale eyes are almost other-wordly as he turns. “Worry not, for no monster can enter through these holy walls, beloved.” Chuckling, and the rolling spheroids of his now-shattered rosary sing as he steps past them.

A tall, shadowed figure leading you into the dark.

“Except humans, of course.”

“Sugar-–! The finest sugar from the East-”

“Boots half-off–!”

“-get yerself velvet-”

The market was always alive, despite everything. A bustling, breathing thing lined with snug stalls upon either side of a dust-track road. And you were stationed at your fruit stall, as usual, as if you hadn’t damn near been the lucky fourth on a long list of closed caskets.

Shuddering, your fingers tighten on the wooden panel where you’d lined your plethora of fruits.

Eyes darting towards the melting yolk sun warming your skin- right, it was still light out. The elders whispered that vampires feared the day - and so you were safe. For now. You had to make sure to pack up as soon as the others did, no more idling around tonight.

“My my, isn’t that Father Gojo- oh, what a sight for sore eyes he is.” Your head turns at the coo of the bookseller’s young daughter, Miwa, her stall right next to yours.

And it didn’t take long for you to see what she was talking about- not long at all for you to nearly want to fluster, too.

Because there was Gojo Satoru - even in the distance, he was two heads taller than anyone else. With his stark ivory locks catching the daylight, tight cassock snug against his waist and fluttering ever-so-slightly as he weaved through the flea market, the calling pedlars.

“Oh, Father Gojo- I hear he built that dingy ol’ church right up with his bare hands-”

“I know he’s gotten nearly twenty-seven proposals by the wealthiest families, but guess what? Rejected ‘em all!”

“And that purity ring, oh, a true man of the holy script. Why, forget their daughters, I would have proposed myself- oh, but don’t tell my husband.”

The whispers made you squirm for some strange reason. It was a hasty retreat from the church last night after a brief bout of warming tea in his office, lest someone caught you and thought something else. And you didn’t expect to see him so soon; least of all have his fiery blue eyes waft through each shabby stall as if he was drinking them in.

So close. Close enough that you couldn’t help but let out an dragged-out sigh-

“Oi. Oi! You deaf or somethin’- fuck’s sake.”

Oh. Shit.

“M-my apologies, sir-” You’re gasping, snapping your head to the front of your fruit display to find that you’d attracted the attention of none other than Zenin Naoya, sole heir of the house of Zenin merchants. As if your day couldn’t have been any more eventful.

Well, as long as he was a paying customer. Plastering a plastic smile across your face, you gesture towards the ripe red pomegranate held in his grip. “Want me to tally that up?”

Scoffing, “No not after that shoddy customer service. It’d be the last time I spend a dime in this dump.” He tilts his head defiantly, “What’s got yer eyes so occupied anyways-”

“Nothing-”

“Hehhh–?” And you’re appalled to see the way Naoya’s smile curls as he swivels his head the same direction you were looking in - one that half the market was surely turned to admire at this point.

The sight of priest Gojo Satoru bent in playful conversation with a little child, beaming.

“Sweet on that damn preacher, huh? Isn’t it a sin to watch him that close, sweetcheeks?”

You bristle, “I beg you not to say another blasphemous word-”

“Oh, I bet the gossips at the general store’d eat this little turn of events right up.” Naoya titters, pomegranate now rhythmically thrown up n’ down into the air to be caught. “Small town like this? News like that won’t stay quiet for long. Real shame, huh?”

Only one word and it wouldn’t just be you paying the price, it would be poor, undeserving Father Gojo as well. You stay quiet. You can only stay quiet.

More so to stop from snatching that pomegranate and slamming it straight into his sneering face.

But Naoya takes that as an opportunity to lean in- to let his tobacco scent cloud all over your face as he grumbles. “Unless, maybe you care to keep me company for one ni-”

“My darling, pray tell, did you know that the Greeks figured the pomegranate to be symbols of abundance and fertility?” A smooth, simpering voice cuts in- and so does a slender hand that stretches its pale fingertips to clasp the pomegranate in Naoya’s palm.

What? You’re blinking at rapid-fire speed, looking from the familiar newcomer to where you’d just been staring seconds prior - how was he here? So quickly? All of a sudden?

And Gojo doesn’t even let out a pant of fatigue as if he’d been running, only curving his lips into an icy smile down at the other man. “The Lord speaks through consumption. Planning to expand the family, mister Naoya?”

“I- you-” Naoya strangles out, he jabs. A finger right into the smiling face of Gojo, and then into the space between you two. “My ol’ man shall hear of this. See how holy you really are when you’re-”

Gojo grins, leaning down from his towering height as if he was speaking to a child. “He shall be welcome to find me. Sermons are on Sundays.”

“Tch-”

With one last glower, and a few more muttered words underneath his breath, you can only watch in speechless amusement as the seething man promptly turns his back and saunters away. Fast. Furious.

“You have saved me yet again.” You’re breathing out in relief, finally raising your head to look up and oh- did he look absolutely magnetic bathed in the blood-orange light of the setting sun. “How can I ever repay you?”

“I do beg your pardon, to defend your holy honor is the least I can do, beloved.” And you don’t know where to look - the dimples decorating Gojo’s cheeky grin, or the peripheral vision of Miwa beside you mouthing ‘beloved’ in shock.

But Gojo always does steal your attention away in the end, and the buzzing marketplace rings with the snap–! of his bare, neat nails cracking open the outer rind of the pomegranate.

Letting thin trails of crimson run down his wrist like blood, “I was not jesting about the Greeks and their belief of fertility.” You gulp as his pinkish tongue darts out just teasingly to run down a stray droplet of juice before it inched too close to his long sleeves. “Try it, my angel.”

Before you can say a word, one hand tucks his Bible, and the other holds a clump of bright, beaded pomegranate to your quivering lips.

And you swear you hear the bookseller gasp! when you gingerly take it into your mouth. Humming at the explosion of sweet, saccharine syrup. “I can see why- about the Greeks, I mean. Now, if only that snake Mahito didn’t swindle me of the price each time.”

“Hm, is that so?” He huffs out slightly deep laughter, sharing more fruit. “But this was no idle trip to the market today. Truth be told, I came, with earnest heart, to see you.”

“M-me?”

Unaware of the restlessness he’s seeping through your very veins, Gojo tucks a free hand between his Bible and pulls out a long, now-fixed rosary. The very same one you’d accidentally torn apart just the night before-

“It was to give you this.”

Your ears burn with the hushed, pointed whispers of the market as he reverently puts the necklace ‘round your neck. And the cold flowers of the pearly chain nearly sizzle against your skin. “O-oh, thank you, Father-”

“Satoru.” Gojo smiles. He nods.

He reaches over to hold one of your clasping hands, pressing his mouth against your pomegranate-stained fingertips. In an instant. Red, red juice drips from the ends of your digits and stains his lips scarlet - almost in a kiss.

Oh.

He taps the nearby book stall in goodbye, “Until next time, my darling. Have a blessed day.”

With that - and nothing more - as swiftly, and as quietly as he’d arrived, Gojo Satoru was disappearing back into the thronged crowd. Cross on his chest, Bible in hand.

And you barely register the giddy whispers of Miwa- all but gripping your shoulders and jostling you back and forth at the excitement of coming across the most scandalous piece of gossip to hit this town since the vampires.

Hissing feverishly, “-way he cast his eyes upon you and- and how long has this been going on?”

“I uh-” At this point she was shaking you, much to the amusement of passersby. Monotone, “Don’t you have your mother’s stall to run, kid- oh.”

And something catches your eye, something tattered. Something blue.

Something that you swear looked exactly like that old book Gojo had for but a mere split-second in his arms last night. Neatly piled at the top of Miwa’s column of novels on sale. And you can’t stop yourself from pointing, “Hey, what’s the price of that book?”

“Oh? Hm…” Picking it up, she scrunches her eyes in thought. “I don’t remember such a book being here, least of all in this condition- my momma would’ve skinned me alive.” Then, suddenly she perks up. “Tell ya what- you tell me more on wha’s happening between you and Father Gojo and I’ll give you this here thing for free.”

There wasn’t much that one could do during a monsoon rain, and raindrops fall heavy on the roof of your cozy lil’ home. Making the wooden structure creak and sing you to relaxation as you tried to take your mind off of what happened when night arrives.

Who arrives, as night does.

“I’m starting to spook my own self.” You’re notching up your oil lamp to flare up even brighter; so long as you had this, no vampire would set his clutches on you.

Sighing, you search for a distraction in your gunnysack bags from the marketplace. Leftover fruits still good, a stray few hairpins, and oh-

A soft gasp leaves your mouth as you find it - that small, blue book you’d bought just a few days ago, not having had the time to read through just yet. No author. No date. Yet, you look over the faded gold print of the cover, “‘Scripture of Shadows’, huh?”

Satisfied, you drag your armchair to where your oil lamp sat sleepily on a windowsill, and start to read by flickering fire light.

‘Prologue: On Creatures That Walk Among Us.

For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against. —Ephesians 6:12

In the years of my ministerial labors, I have come to learn that one may never truly know what walks alongside you. There are creatures in every shadow you look - though you may not see.

Out past the edge of God’s hand, these things are borne of hunger and sin - they may be cursed, fallen, or bound to their flesh cruth; salvaged only by thirst that no godly mortal can explain. I have seen them, spirits of ruin that massacre entire herds and weep alongside the shepherd in the waking morn’.

Yes, dear reader, they may take shapes you belove—wolf, woman, child, lover. And above them all, vampires-’

The flash of lightning, the grumble of thunder- you’re jumping in your seat and nearly slamming the heavy tome shut with a yelp. Wide-eyed, you take a hasty glance through the window, feeling your skin blanket in skittering goosebumps.

“Dear gods-” Breathless, you’re flipping through a few more pages on vampires and other such entities to settle on a random chapter.

‘Chapter Four: The Myth of the Vampyre.’

Heavens, why was this always following you like so? And what was Father Gojo doing reading up on such a thing- skipping a few paragraphs and scriptures, you continue reading in honed silence.

‘Perhaps the most cunning of demonic creatures. Not truly dead, nor truly alive, the vampyre boasts the most fearful humanly power of all—beauty. Indeed, they possess much more; overwhelming strength, teeth to kill, speed to hunt. And yet, I have seen more mortals fall victim to the enticing nature of the vampyre than any other creature.’

Perhaps it was the topics taled in the book, perhaps it was the raging storm outside, but you can’t help but squirm restlessly in your seat as you feel oddly…watched.

‘Let this scripture stand, then, not as idle fancy, but as a caution towards the charismature essence of the vampyre. With this, most hold positions of great authority. Infiltrating even the most tight-knit towns with ease - among them, mayors, teachers, merchants, and mostly-’

Someone was watching you.

You stare up at the empty, pitch-black square of your window. And then back down past a few paragraphs-

‘But fear not, dear reader, though they cross realms of living and shadow, the vampyre has one confirmed flaw - not sunlight, nor garlic, as tales claim. It is barred from thresholds unbidden, for only when an invitation is offered, may the creature enter. And Revelation 3:20–’

You look up.

The empty window.

The full book.

‘Take care to hold forth the crucifix and be not deceived by beauty or charm. But be cautioned, god-fearing reader, even vampyres have tales of legends. Those of their kind so infamous-’

The empty window.

The full book.

‘-that we hear merely brief whispers of his name, one so vicious and almighty that even vampyres dare not evoke His anger.’

The empty window.

‘An omniscient being amongst even creatures of the shadows, his name-’

A flash of blue-

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

You gasp.

Urgently, you drop the book and hurry to the ramming fist at your door, more to get away from its words than anything else.

KNOCK! KNOCK!

“C-coming–!”

Your rickety front door creaks as you swing it open, immediately struck with the light of the storm and the icy breath of rain. Wincing against the droplets of water that hit your face, you can just barely make out the flicker of blue, blue eyes.

Gojo tips his hat to you solemnly, “I pray I’m not disturbing you, my angel.” His deep voice rings out, curiously above even the howl of the wind, and his pretty face simply looks haunted. “Forgive the haste, but I came straight away- there’s been another attack.”

Out of breath, “A-another vampire attack?”

“We fear so, ranch hand Mahito this time. Neck punctured, eyes white- God have mercy on us.” He shakes his head, “The town’s congregatin’ for a special Mass tomorrow, I would like it if you were to join us together to pray for the four lost souls.”

“Of course of course.” You’re taking in the layers of water that soak through Gojo’s dark robes, skin-tight over his heaving chest. Opening your door wider invitingly, “Please, come on in. Oh, you’re just drenched.”

And he opens his eyes just a tad wider, he curls his lips just a slight further.

“I fear I cannot, beloved. So many more houses to alert.”

Gawking at yet another clap of lightning- “In this storm?”

And you have no idea how he can just smile like that during dark times like these. The pearly whites of his canines wafting near the shell of your ear as Gojo leans in- whispering. “Worried for me?”

He takes a step, his rain-soaked clothes chill your skin as he inches forwards. Then another step, trying to listen in for your breaths. Your lack of an answer. “You should be worried. Though, not for me.”

Lashes fluttering, “Wh-what do you…”

“Be careful, my angel.” And your collarbones turn humid with the steam of his breath, the way he’s moving his ajar maw down. “You’d do well not to open the door for strangers. Lest you wish to invite…” Down, down, down—“-a vampire.”

You wait - gasps stuttered, fists clenching once he takes a step past your doorway. Just a singular, miniscule step-

Only to brush off something invisible from your shoulder, touch warm on your skin.

“I bid you a goodnight, my darling. Rest well.”

And with that Father Gojo was gone, and so was any wink of sleep that very night. Or any memory of that book, now laying as open and untouched as it had been left on the floor.

“I ask you not to give into fear- neither anger, nor isolation. Solely to the word of God.” Gojo’s fervent voice sing-songs over the numerous pews. Hands waving, feet stepping. “And I ask you to watch over your kin, pray over those lost, and keep your lamps lit with the faith that He watches.”

It was impossible to tear your eyes off of him.

And you’re sure that the elderly lady seated right beside you was drenching her fifth handkerchief in tears already.

“Trust in me, as I trust in Him. For even in the darkest night, there is still light to be found. For no creature can snuff out the soul of one who believes…”

As you’re nodding, you can’t help but feel that familiar sensation of eyes burning into you. Though, softer than last night- less…frightening. Darting your line of sight behind you to catch Naoya assessing you- and you couldn’t snap your head back faster.

Instead, catching Gojo’s own twinkling eyes as he finishes his sermon.

“And who is a vampire to Him? Go forth, and may the Lord be with you. Amen.”

There’s a rush after concluding rites, a crowd forming around Gojo before he can take even a step from the polished pulpit. And just as you close your books to stand from your seat yourself, ready to head home- something tugs on your wrist.

“Oi- I still have a bone to pick with you, missy.”

Or more…someone.

“Naoya.” You’re deadpanning, snatching your wrist free to stare him down with a glare that was utterly not suited for the place you were in right now. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

He spears his index your way, “Don’t you go thinking that I’ve forgotten ‘bout you and that tch- preacher.”

Standing your own, you sneak glances at the thinning crowd and just pray they won’t give this little quarrel an ear. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“Telling me nothing’s happened, sweetcheeks?” Naoya huffs, “I heard you talkin’ with that sobbing hag- saying how he invited you personally for today’s sermon.”

“Why, yes. What seems to be the problem?”

“You think he went knockin’ on any of our doors at the dead of night?”

Your brows furrow, wouldn’t he have? After all, it was what he said.

“But, of course, he’s gonna invite you personally. The day right there by the fruit stall? The way he was undressing you with his eyes today—I wouldn’t be a darn bit surprised if he’s laid with a shameless woman like you already-”

“And if that is so? Jealous?”

Naoya gasps, and so do about fifteen of the nosy townsfolk lingering by the pews.

Wincing as Naoya’s grating voice threatens to speak once more–

“Mind your tongue, mister Naoya.” A steady hand claps down on the shorter man’s shoulder, and this silvery bangs flick towards the interruption of the one and only priest. “We stand on hallowed ground.”

Just as he turns his fury towards Gojo instead, his palm squeezes where it lay- hard enough that you can hear the faint pop! of something emanating from the contact. And before he can say any further, Gojo tilts his head down to whisper something in Naoya’s ear.

Something that has him pale. Trembling. And rushing out of the church faster than you can even blink.

As Gojo smiles at the rest of your company in a polite dismissal, you’re fighting back an awed whistle from your throat. “Pardon my language but-” Eyes steady on his rapidly retreating figure, shoving past each attendee misfortunate enough to cross his path. “-what in blazes did you say to him, Father-”

“Satoru.”

You grin, “Gojo.”

“And ah, I only spoke the truth- that this was God’s sanctuary.” He tilts his head with a beam, though, there’s something about it that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And perhaps something of his father…”

“You’re the devil.”

“Quite the opposite.” Never one to care for gossip, Gojo wastes not a second leaning down till his breath wafted your cheeks. Snowy brows pinched into one of regret, “That reminds me, do forgive my intrusion last night, beloved, I pray I didn’t come at a bad time.”

You flail your hands in disagreement, “Oh, heavens no-” In fact, the eerie book rested upon your bookshelf, and you couldn’t have asked for a more welcome interruption. “I was just…reading a book, you see.”

“So you say.”

Carefully watching for his reaction, “Called um- ‘Scripture of Shadows.’”

And if you expected him to gasp- if you expected Gojo to even blink at the familiar title, then he doesn’t give you the satisfaction. Only nodding his head in deep understanding, “Anything interesting in that book, my angel?”

“Only fearful.”

He jests, “Then you should devote those eyes to the Lord.”

You grip your rosary, “I shall do both.”

“Good.” The call of Gojo’s names for blessings and prayers were often, and he nods his head towards a group beckoning him over. As he turns to walk away–“Chapter six is particularly fascinating…and I have plans to reread it tonight.” He whispers, just barely audible over the sound of footsteps on the hardwood holy floor. “My door is always open for you, my darling.”

Oh.

Step.

“Hello?”

You didn’t know whether it was the darkness or the taboo in what you were doing that had your footsteps rattling in noisy unison with your heartbeat.

It was dark - dark enough outside that the neighbors wouldn’t be able to make out your flickering oil lamp through the blanket of the night. Light in one hand, your book in the other, you let yourself slip through the unlocked gates of the church, making your way down the winding hallway that you knew led to Father Gojo’s office.

Though, it was not the church like you’d ever known it.

And you’d known it crumbling from the walls, you’d known it manifested into something grand - but never so…chilling.

Each candle was snuffed out, puffing out ghosts of smoke that curled up in the high hallway. Clinging onto your shivering shoulders and making you flinch at each miniscule noise in the distance- “Father Gojo? Are you present toni- mmpf.”

Your mouth gapes, aghast, nose wrinkling when it felt like you’d just been run over by a carriage. But, it wasn’t a carriage at all - it was a thick, metallic scent that permeated the frigid air and made you stop straight in your tracks.

Hand coming up to cup your mouth, “What is that godforsaken smell?”

Step.

And it only gets thicker. More relentless.

Soon enough you’re fully closing your tingling nostrils with your palm and hopelessly praying that it was only a passing perfume. For this wasn’t just the tinge of metal you might smell as you pass the time piece-maker, rather, it was heavy. Slightly sweet.

Step.

The one you’d smell on the butcher.

Iron.

Your eyes widen- blood.

Gojo.

Running.

All but sprinting, you’re staggering further down the hallway to where you’d remembered were his quarters. Following the faint memory of his candlelit office, fear laces its frosty grip ‘round your heart as you call out. “F-father Go- oh!”

And it seems you’d forgotten that light reveals more in the shadows than you might want to see.

Red.

Red, red pools paint the grey stone of the church in a bloody mosaic.

You gasp, body running a few steps backwards on pure instinct at the pale hand sinking into the blood like a desolate ship. Mindlessly, the hand holding your oil lamp jerks over to reveal pale, silvery bangs peeking out from the crimson puddle.

Your heart races- was this. No. Stepping tentatively closer, your mouth drops as once you spy a few stray strands of deep, two-toned black. Naoya.

“Bitter.”

Slowly…achingly…your quivering oil lamp raises up to the darkness behind Naoya’s corpse. And there you see it - two bright, harrowing eyes of azure blue that bored into your very soul from beyond.

His eyes.

Just a flash of those, a mere single glimpse is all that you’re given before the light crashes down to the ground, and you’re both plunged into darkness.

Both you and Gojo Satoru.

Who shoves you against the nearest wall with such inhuman speed, so fast that you don’t even have the time to register it, register your rosary breaking.

One hand slamming down on the rocky wall above you, hard enough to make it crater an outline of his five fingers. The other cupping your cheek gently- almost gingerly, as if afraid to use his true strength with you.

“Five bodies.” He rasps, and in the grimy lighting you can see two elongated glints of his canines, “Five bodies. All five of them bitter, but you, my darling…”

Before you can even take a closer look, he’s stuffing his face into the thrumming skin at the crook of your neck and drinking in a deeeeep inhale. A sigh. A groan.

“-I would kill for but a taste.”

And he already has, you’re realizing.

You stammer, staring up into his pale, stoic face - looking at him properly now.

From the sharp fangs poking through his rosy lips, to the beauty that was so incredible that it was other-worldly. He had a trail of dark red blood staining one side of his maw, a few droplets spattered onto the whites of his roman collar.

“Y-you’re-”

“Say it.”

“You’re a vampire.”

Whimpering at the ice-cold breath that haunts your flesh, your pulse. “And you’re a delicacy.” He’s enveloping all of you, as if you were ripe for the picking- and you can feel the way your thighs tremble when Gojo’s pushing himself harder against your body. He’s holding you.

Cassock rubbin’ your front, your book falling, golden cross startling.

Gojo raises his refined nose into the air just once to sniff, before the most simpering tone bleeds into his voice. “How adorable.”

“Wh-what you- oh!”

It seems you can’t help but fail in catching your breath whenever he’s around, even though it might just be your last. And Gojo slithers out his long, pinkish tongue to sliiiide down your racing pulse - wet and hot on your flesh, he’s tasting you. Savoring you. Enough to make something instantly hard n’ raw tug through the layers of his holy robe.

One that he ruts between your legs-

Gojo tilts your face up by your jaw, nailmarks dotting your chin. He gives you a sensual peck, “Let me show you what true carnal pleasures are, little human.”

Maybe you’re nodding, maybe you’re simply gasping at the shock of his touch and bucking your hips up wildly - because that’s all it takes.

All that it takes for Gojo to scoop your weakened knees underneath a singular arm and turn- almost as soon as he did, you’re blinking your eyes to stare up at the ornate ceiling of the priest’s quarters.

Right now you’re laid out across the large, cushioned couch in the middle of his room. Legs sprawled out embarrassingly, dress hiked high up to your knees where Gojo had kneeled himself on the floor in front of you.

Speed to hunt, the book had said.

The very same book that he was now twirling between two pinched fingers and humming idly, “My my, it seems that you haven’t even read chapter four properly, my darling. Going against holy orders? Now, how should we rectify that, hm?”

Fingers itching for the hem of your skirts, “P-please-”

“Oh, the Lord has spoken to me.” Gojo gasps, suddenly, as if he’d just come to an epiphany. And his smile is simply sinful, sapphire eyes glowing- the very same ones you’d seen that night. “Bend.”

“Wha- hey!”

In a nanosecond, he’s manhandling you like a puppet. Making you crawl onto your knees with your front plastered against the high seat of the couch. Arched directly in front of his salivating maw-

“This shan’t work if your heart didn’t will it, my angel.” Gojo muses, shit, how gorgeous you looked like this. Bent and ready for him. He doesn’t even have to make use of his inhuman eyesight to locate that pretty damp spot blotchily drenching through your dress.

You were so wet that all he had to do was lean his nose closer and sniff to drink in that sweet, heavenly scent of you. “Oh.” Gojo’s sharp nails tug on the hem of your thin dress, “Oh.”

Rip-rip-riiiiip—!

Every inch of your clothing melts like butter underneath his power, and the only thing you can do is whimper as you lay your spine arched. Thin panties the only thing you had on underneath during this humid night.

“Fuck.”

It’s the last thing you hear before Gojo’s lengthy tongue probes at your sheeny inner thighs and laps up- not your drooling, puffy core where you’d needed him the most.

But instead the slight cut that had grazed your heated flesh as he tore off your dress- Gojo moans the instant your taste hits his tongue. Red-hot.

Not even having to breathe, but his pants were labored, “Fuck.” The sloppy drag of his moistened muscle lets out the most sinful slurp when he’s licking and licking before nothing else is left of your crimson. And then he’s inching his tastebuds up your thighs. He wanted more. Needed it this very instant, all the patience of these immortal years and it wouldn’t be enough. Not even caring for your paper-thin panties, “Fuck-”

Hastily stuffing the quivering orifice of your puffy with his fat girth- before scoffing at the complete n’ utter tightness that wouldn’t let him go completely in. “Pure as a dove, aren’t you, beloved?”

“I-I’ve never…” Tearfully mewling at the burning streeeetch, Gojo’s tongue was just so massive that even the slightest probe inside made your head loopy. “Never done…this.”

The only thing he does is spank a hand down at the edge of your spine to make you bend even further- “Then show me how devoted you are.” Straight into his mouth. Straight into a pert, pretty target for him to spit. Thick, globular, and wet. “Show it to me, my darling.”

And it’s maddening how it’s the last thing that Gojo can get out before he flicks his sizzling tongue through your undergarments to taste down your slit. Letting the slippery wads of your slick fill up his tastebuds and make him groan-

You gawk over your shoulder when his eyes only dilate, sharp fangs growing even sharper. “Show-”

With a hand groping the left of your ass cheeks, he’s tuggin’ you all back to him with an inhuman strength that makes you keen.

That makes his metallic crucifix press against the backs of your thighs. Fanged lips hovering over your outer pussy as he wetly nuzzles aside your panties to slip his tongue past-

You buck, “Sh-shit, Gojo-”

“Oh.” He’s shuddering at the act of you bucking up stupidly, chasing the temperate French kiss of his mean mouth. Giving him even more of a taste that he just can’t take it-

“Dear heavenly father, I thank you for this meal.”

And then it all happens at once- your soggy panties are torn off you in a split-second, Gojo’s mouth replacing it even more rapidly.

Bent over the chair, he’s eating out your saccharine sweet pussy like a beast starved.

He glues his upper lip against the swollen nub of your clit and you whine at the sharp sting of Gojo’s fangs digging right up against your bundle of nerves. Sucking. Tasting. Until his cheeks are all hollowed out with the friction of his suckling and he’s still forcing himself deeper into your pussy for more.

“Oh g- fuck.” Head throwing back stupidly, his nose nudges against the very tip-top of your treacly cunt. “It feels so, so good-”

“A meal this exquisite- never in my s-six hundred years.” He’s muttering between the swollen folds of your pussy, lining your slippery slit with the long line of his nosebridge.

So messy. Gojo snickers in lewd amusement at the way you’re rolling your hips back to ride n’ slide his nose. He’s rovering his mouth everywhere, glassy eyes half-lidded until he’s simply moving in pure primal instinct to slap the curl of his long, lecherous tongue by the edge of your dampened hole.

Tugging the rubbery circle of it just enough to make you whimper, he circles out soppy patterns that stretch out your cunt. Back and forth back and forth until your limbs weaken. “Have you just finished your monthly dues, my angel?”

You’re gripping onto the wooden headboard of the chair for sweet relief, “Y-yes?”

“That explains it.” And then he nuzzles in nose-deep and even deeper into your drivelling pussy, up n’ down to latch onto your clit and bite. “The next time, you tell me first. I know exactly how to…”

Murmured straight into your hot pussy, mouth departing such a guttural groan as he feels your sap splash down with a noisy squelch. Alllll down his pointed chin and where he’s creepin’ up one of his free hands to caress your glossy outer pussy. “-help.”

Squealing, you’re feeling just the thick crown of his index poke your cunt. “A-are you putting your ngh- fingers in?”

“I said I shan’t lay a hand on you.” And just then, the doughy palm of his second palm pushes your legs wide apart, not nearly enough to distract you from the flick of his flexible tongue and the way he smooches your filthy hole with yet another cushy fingerpad. “I shall lay two.”

And then you’re seeing raw white in your vision, the feeling of Gojo pushin’ his two ringed fingers past your first tight ring of muscle too much to bear.

Thick enough that you’re struggling to squeeze him inside- “Fuck back t’me- fuck back-”

“L-like this?”

He’s matching your sluggishly sensual pace, nose wrinkling sinfully at the velvety texture of your insides. Gojo’s cross necklace swats your thighs with each constant lurch of his head, crooning out. “Yes- yes. Oh, hell.”

He scrapes the mushy roof of your walls with his deep black purity ring, the cold material thrusting into your most sweetest spots and making him grin. “This is devotion, beloved.”

“Y-you’re just so big- nghhhh–” Your moans strike against the wide chamber and echo all across the building. Hips rutting back to feel his prolonged digits all the way down to the mountains of his knobbly knuckles, “Why are your fingers so big?”

“Only to please you, my darling.” And oh- oh, it was such a tight fit.

Gojo can’t help but salivate the slimy tip of his tongue down your silvery slit and fucking pry your pussylips apart to let your snug channel take him deeper. Harder. Faster. The roaming shapes of his long, long digits scissor just so that he can stir apart your gluey walls and let you gush out slick.

Licking his way inside while he’s pushing into each nook n’ cranny- hitting down all the way to the base ends of his digits with a right thwack!

“And you’re just so- ngh- looong—”

“Only to find-” Oh, you didn’t forget about those eyes of his, did you? Because right after he’s letting off a murky gust of those syllables, Gojo’s eyes glow- his fingers hammer - exactly into the bulging area of your g-spot. He’s seeing right through you. “-this sweet thing better, my darling.”

And then it’s absolutely driving you crazy- Gojo’s fingers are just so incredibly rude, swatting a furious back and forth. Thrash-thrash-thrash, determinedly perking up his fingerpads to push his purity ring against your g-spot and watch as you cutely flinch.

“You’re so- oh- oh my god-” Making each scrape against your sweet spots so sensitive, pump after pump.

“I prefer…Satoru.”

He’s letting out a husky snicker each time he’s plunging into the deepest of your melty depths. Maw now gaping widely ajar to scoop up every glittery ribbon of slick that trickled from between your folds. He’s hungry- thirsting like a vampire parched for six hundred years n’ now he can only gulp in the first meal of his lifetime - you.

You’re bending your pussy to slope down against his mouth and he has the audacity to give you a sweet, puckered smooch. Innocent. “C’mon say it- pray.”

“Please-”

“Not what I asked, beloved.”

Your throat rips with such a carnal shrill at the pudgy crown of his third finger desperately trying to find a way in. Pushing- pap! pap! pap! “Pleeeease- ngh- Satoru. Satoru, fuck-”

SPANK!

Such glistening beads of pearly slap stream n’ gush all down the front of Gojo’s bobbing throat the very moment he swats his plush palm down across your cunt. “Profanity is a desecration of the church, my angel.”

Another spank. Another splurging squelch of your pussy talking out in leaks of your sweet, sweet juices. And Gojo only nods along as if in conversation, “How wonderful of you to volunteer to read chapter six in repentance-” Some invisible force of his powers is guiding your familiar shadowy book to your hands. “-and recite it in perfect condition, too.”

“But-”

“Perfect-” Just as a third finger spears its way between your slick-glazed pussylips and finds itself mazing down your walls, headed straight for your g-spot with a thump. Grinning. Voice airy. “-condition.”

A tiiiight fit, that makes you fumble with your poor book, your eyes whirling in the exact lecherous patterns he’s drawling out on your wettened cunt. Each sloppy slurp Gojo’s drinking in enough to make your wrists weaken-

“Ch-chapter six: The Vampyre’s ngh- Beloved.” Unsure of what has your mind spinning more, the title or the way that he’s picking his pace up angrily. “Many are unaware of- hah! the one weakness of the- fuck.”

Tittering, his dimples peek. “Keep going.”

“-the vampyre- hnghhh–”

“Don’t make me- oh.” And before you know it, not only does he have three of his fingers rummagin’ inside. But also the slither of his tastebuds stuffing insides- his vampire tongue so lengthy that it squeezes and squeezes ‘round your tight rim till he’s rutting his flushed cheeks against your cunt.

And the underside of your stomach crackles with a few sparks of bliss, “-the vampyre- their one true love.”

“Mmmmm, yes. Say that again.”

“O-one true love?”

Gojo’s pulling back his tongue with a wettened squelch. Ravenous. Feral. He’s getting himself drunk on each drag that your restless body was quivering out - now moving everywhere and anywhere.

Faster. Sloppier.

Fucking back inside your hole. Slapping over your clit. Biting down on the swollen edge of your pussy just to hear those pretty cries, “One true love-” Then sticking the damp edges of his bangs to tickle your skin, he suckles on your clit like gum. “-my one true love.”

Again and again.

Moving so rapidly- it’s like he’s in three places at once. Swirling the long edge of his tongue around and around your walls until you’re babbling stupidly, “The fated mate- ngh- soulmate…?” Skipping paragraphs, enough to make Gojo give your pussy a quick spank.

“All scripture is God-breathed.”

“-c-can induce a different kind of bite in the vampyre. An unexplainable soul tie that happens merely once in- haaah- eternity- one that vampyres tear down heaven and hell for.” Oh, that gets him excited.

Flicking his tongue furiously in hearts upon hearts on top of your sensitive clit now. Thoroughly. Feverishly, you’re half-wondering whether his lips weren’t aching- “And one such known- ngh- vampyre in search-”

“Yeeees–?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

And then you’re hitting it- that lewd, lecherous crash of your orgasm that’d been building up for what felt like eons at this point.

“O-oh my god-” Was this what all those filthy romance books you hid away meant? It was so much better than a lonely night with your hand. You were cumming so hard that you’re seeing comical stars, letting go of the book. “Satoru- Satoru Satoru Satoru- I-I’m-”

“All over my face now. All over, my darling. C’mon.”

You didn’t even know where it started, you didn’t know where it ended.

Just that it had your poor, trembling pussylips plastered to Gojo’s mouth like he was attaching it with adhesive.

Inhuman strength holding your thighs down to stop you from even recoiling- because anything that would break off the rubbing massage of your cunt was something he had to halt. You were creamin’ all down Gojo Satoru’s face and he was making sure it stayed that way.

“Yes- yeeeees, that’s it. That’s it. Never in my life have I- hah-” Even speaking was such a difficult endeavor for him, not when he couldn’t bear to pull away mere inches from your gushing pussy. “-been more grateful for the fact that I don’t need to breathe.”

Thighs shaking, goosebumps taking over. You arch your back with a whine at the repeated flicks of his tongue on your clit- in dual stimulation with your g-spot. “B-but I do-”

In response, Gojo’s only crushing your poor pussy against his face further. “Hmmm- heh.”

Only fucking you juuust a bit more with the coiling ends of his tongue, oh-so-lengthy like a snake’s. He swabs the bruised corners of your walls a few more times, gurgling through each fleck of gooey sap that escaped you. Before pulling back with such a loud, dramatic mwah! “Amen.”

Shocked, you flip your woozy head backwards to catch sight of his sleazy smirk, the way that his summer-blue eyes seemed to spark. Feeling your legs twitch slightly with the jolts of your high, “A-and about the vampire’s Beloved?”

“Huh? Oh.” Blinking his dazed eyes, he’s so pussydrunk that it takes Gojo a few seconds to even register what you’d just asked. “Well…will this prove my scripture’s truth, beloved?”

You’re being treated like a cute lil’ ragdoll at this point; because it doesn’t even take seconds for Gojo to perch a rude hand on the side of your hips and flip you over.

With your back now against the cushion, you’re grappling for the woody bearings of the chair as he holds your ankles wide apart and lodges himself between them. “How devoted I am?”

“D-devoted?” You’re puffing out a humid breath, and your chin strikes your chest in your hurry to ogle the entire sight of Gojo Satoru. Because oh…oh, was he such an utter sight.

Your slick sheens the entire lower half of his handsome face- all the way up to his damn, ruddied cheekbones. Dripping down in sticky sloshes all across the hollows of his cheeks, and down his pointed fangs. Your breath catches in your throat as you take in just how glistening they were with all your glazes of sweet juices.

He was wearing it like a mark of honor.

“So. Hopelessly. Devoted.”

Staining his neckline of his dark cassock even darker, you can’t help but notice that you were completely exposed while he was still dressed in his priests’ robes. Right down to the gold cross.

Gojo slaps down the edge of his coral pink tongue to lick up the cloying excess glued to his mouth, staring dead-on at you all the while. “Oh…are you aware that I can smell whenever that pretty pussy gets even wetter?”

“Y-you can?” You’re hissing, trying to close your legs but you can’t - not with Gojo pushing himself between them.

“It’s delicious.” Even deeper. Even wider, he stretches your legs and hunches over with his towering frame to fit a fat thumb between your spit-glossed lips. “I can smell your blood.” Sniffing your throbbing pulse, “Your need.” He glides his digit down your canines, so much more blunt than his fangs.

“And–?”

He looks down with a grin, “Your pussy.”

And Gojo could already sense your lewd impatience, holding onto the side of your waist with one hand- and the other pulling back to fumble with the golden buttons of his robes.

Pop!

“Satoru-”

“Ah ah.” He was such a damn tease. Unbuttoning only about halfway down his fitted cassock and black clerical shirt. Just enough for you to be spying his extremely chiseled front, from the bulge of his curvy pecs, to the ridges of his abs.

He was oh-so-naturally sexy that it made your mouth water. Ripped core flexing once he’s removing his belt and tugging down those pants of his, robes lifted now. Not enough for you.

But just enough that his red, aching cock springs free and hits the pure white happy trail on his abs with a thwack!

Nine- maybe even ten thick inches. And you can only speechlessly gape, because he wasn’t just rock-hard…he was so hard n’ heavy that it must’ve been painful, like every drop of blood in his pale body was surging up to the bulbous tip of his cockhead.

Gojo’s mushroomy tip blushes a scorching hot pink and leaks out hot precum as if he’s melting, a translucent splat! straight between the slitted slope of your pussy. “Any last words?”

You’re trembling, “L-last words?”

“Mmm—” He’s sandwiching the girth of his fat, veiny cock between your folds. Just so thick that your pussylips are already being spread near their absolute max- and was that…

You gasp, surging your head down and oh- you were feeling it right. Each n’ every time Gojo’s sliiiding his length between your cunt, your clit snags on the cold, bulging nib of something. A piercing. He had a piercing.

Like one of those you’d only heard they had in large cities and oh, you weren’t making it out of this alive.

“M’gonna eat you alive, my angel.”

As if he’d just read your mind.

And you wouldn’t be surprised if he could- pure cottony static entering your brain the very second that Gojo’s aligning his smooth tip at your entrance and pushing.

The stretch is so much that you can only blink your teary lashes and keen– “I-it’s so big- oh, shit, go easy on me, Satoru.” Especially when you’ve never been stretched out like this before.

So-very-vulgarly, Gojo only hovers his wet-glazed thumb down to tip aside your plush folds. It was so cute, like your swollen pussy was puckering right up at him every time he nudged his hips back to give your tight hole a good probe.

“Is that all?” He’s inspecting with a grin, ringed fingers pryin’ your dewy cunt apart. Mindlessly rutting- bucking- “Six hundred years and s’that all you can take, beloved?”

Clearly teasing, but the thought of taking all his barrelling shaft makes your back arch wildly. Whimpering after every smooch of his orbed piercing, “I-I can make all of that fit?”

“No.” Gojo snickers, but even that sounds unsteady. Even that sounded like it was on the very verge of shattering into a zillion pieces, and he’s only sinking a finger inside your pussy to stretch you out. To force his raging dick to break off from your clammy cunt to push and push. “But I will make it fit.”

And then it’s like you’re losing your mind- seeing white behind the lids of your eyes when he’s sinking in a few fat, heavy inches.

Hissing underneath his breath, Gojo’s moving the hand at your hips over to your throat to pin you down.

“C’mon-” Chortling, he uses it to keep you still as he ruts- “C’mon c’mon-” And ruts, burying your upper half into the couch cushion as he swerves his hips deeper. The stretch just vicious, your elastic entrance is being oh-so-tugged to his very size. “Acting like such a sinful girl– and you shall be dealt with as such. Now, open those legs wider, my darling.”

“Oh-oh, god- Satoru-”

Choking you, his big, beefy biceps flex once he’s pulling you down by your neck. Meaty thighs gluing flush against your own, his fangs peek in a grin. “Yes and yes.”

Languidly, Gojo’s pumping himself deeper to fill out each slick ridge and orifice. Prince Albert’s piercing decorating the very line of his sensitive slit, he’s acting like it’s a spotlight to massage every spot inside of you.

Letting the puffy entrance of your pussy stretch-stretch-streeeetching-

“F-fuck.” Gojo lets out, all of a sudden. Barely even audible over the resounding plop! that lets off from the damp space between your thighs when he’s finally - finally - bottoming out.

Finally.

And oh– it takes a few seconds to register inside your mind, did you just make the infamous Gojo Satoru stutter? Mewling in bewilderment, “D-did you just…did you just fit all- hck!”

He groans—“Sure did.” But there’s something dopey in his tone, something that sounds like utter fucking disbelief. Gojo rovers his hand over your plump cylindrical tummy bulge - he was so big that he could tap his thumb down on the hill of his cockhead poking through. “Fuck.”

Then it’s like the floodgates open. The floodgates shatter.

Gojo’s fangs elongate, his eyes slit almost menacingly- and he’s throwing your boneless legs over his shoulder to push you down into the tightest possible mating press.

A mating press.

Hand slamming down on the couch’s oak frame hard enough for it to splinter, “Fuck.” He’s croaking out like a broken record as soon as he’s gifting your goopy cunt with the first thrust. “Fuh-fuck.”

Then the second, the third, the fourth- smashing against that cute spongy cervix at the bottom of your pussy. Gojo rubs his swollen veins raw on the gummy texture of your walls, feeling a little part of his sanity crack each time.

“Oh my- ngh- fuuuuck, Satoru–” You’re wailing out whimpering, fingers valleying through the locks of his ivory hair and pulling. “It’s so big- h-hngh- how’s it even going in-”

“If only your eyes may gaze upon what I can.” The edges of his blue eyes sizzle with power, and shit, he’s seeing right through your drooling cunt.

Using the lecherous advantage of his powers to swerve his hips just right, he knocks the flared end of his tip right at the target of your g-spot. Extra, extra blissful with the way his chilling piercing slips n’ snags just right across that particular orifice.

“Then you’d know that this is the only- ngh- heaven that a creature like I shall ever taste. The only heaven that I shall…fuck.”

Digits twitching on his clammy scalp, “O-oh.”

And you just look so pretty like this- lips sprayed with bubbles of drool, your eyes rolling cartoonishly every time he struck the bottom of your pussy, chest heaving.

So Gojo can’t help but feel your gushing pussy clench ‘round his cock and gasp- and slouch. Maw sagging fully open, cross hitting your chest, he’s furrowing his brows down at you- yeah, the most beautiful thing he’s seen since he was turned six hundred years ago.

Letting go of teasing that tummy bulge, he holds your left hand - tenderly.

And Gojo, for all his riches, might not have an engagement ring ready yet; which is why you’re feeling the cool slip of his purity ring make way onto your ring finger. Blinking dazedly, “C-can the Father even- ngh- propose?”

“For you? I’d burn down every soul, building, and flora upon this land.”

Dead serious.

Gojo tilts his flustered features down at you and asks one simple question, “Feel like flying?”

“Flying? What- oh, fuck!”

And he could fly, if he so wished to grow his wings- but what Gojo meant right now was to pick you up. Cleanly off the broken couch, he stands tall with only a singular inhuman hand supporting your weight.

The other turning your head up to watch the twitches in your expression as gravity slides you doooown his aching cock. From the ruby-red globe of his crown to the wide circumference of his hilt, each squirm leaves his prominent veins grazing your walls sensually.

Your ass cheeks nuzzling his heavy balls, you whimper, “I-it’s in again?”

“Oh, beloved, it’s more than in…�� Trailing off with a husky groan, Gojo leaves a wet, open-mouthed kiss on your lips that makes you whine. “-I don’t think m’gonna make it out of this with my life to spare.”

Oh.

Then Gojo’s fucking you like he’s angry his thick, ravenous cock can’t delve deeper inside your pussy - just furious, slobbering strokes.

He thwacks the curve of his ballsack against the front of your cunt and then hisses when it won’t go any further. Usin’ a firm grip on your ass to get you to arch even further, “More- come on. More, little human.”

Rolling your hips back with each hit after hit to your g-spot, he’d mapped you out perfectly at this point. Shaft just so extremely long that you were feeling it in your very lungs.

“R-right there mmm–” Spittle pours from the edge of your mouth and lavishes Gojo’s deltoids, where you can only hold on for dear life. “Oh my god, Satoru-”

“You think your Lord’s lookin’ down at you right now, my angel?” Gojo has the audacity to giggle with his fanged canines - pussydrunk and gone once his hips only slam harder into yours.

His golden crucifix repeatedly thumps your chest, and you can only watch when he drags up your ringed left hand right up to his mouth. Biting. “He can’t hear you-” Hard. “So maybe you should heh- scream louder.”

Louder and louder - your pitchy whines were utter music in Gojo’s blushing ears.

By now reaching a fever point as you’re feeling the sensations in your legs go numb, head lolling stupidly-

“My, no ngh- sleeping yet, my darling.” And this position just left you so helpless, completely at Gojo’s mercy when he’s deciding to slip a free hand between your legs and pinch your perky clit. Brushing the calloused fringe of his thumb down where you were the most sensitive. “Not until I bite every inch of you.”

Oh…it just felt too good. Those slender fingers knew exactly what they were doing, targeting the most delicate spots of your nub, until you felt all raw.

You babble at the carnal itch of his fingerpads rolling across your clit. Smearing the dewy droplets of slick that just kept on seeping out of you. “B-but I’m so- ngh- can feel it again, Satoru…”

“That so?” Absolutely no mercy. Gojo’s starting up a synchronization between his pre-glazed tip banging your g-spot, and the toying of your honeyed clit. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. “And yet…”

You’re shivering as he whispers in your ear, rasping. Dark. Something that makes your heart race and your cunt pound. “I will still fuck you until you can’t walk out the hah- steps of this very church.”

Another dollop of buttery pre sprays along your cervix, another kiss of his frigid piercing glueing to your walls, and yet another twitch of your useless legs. “I will still make everyone see- make everyone know. But first…”

And you knew from that delicate dimple dotting the side of his grin that the next few words won’t bode well for you.

You knew you were done for just as soon as Gojo leans back from your haphazardly dangling body, ever-so-slightly. Eyeing down your front with his superhuman sight, he still bites down on your purity ring as he grins.

“-I wish to make a statement even the heavens shall know.”

And he can see. He knows exactly where his stirrin’ cock is heading for - right towards the bullseye of your womb. Thrashing- the only carnal sensation you register before it’s all white.

Both your bleary vision and the thick, copious clumps of cum that Gojo was filling you up with.

Both hitting your highs at once - so hard that his fangs shatter the deep purity ring on your finger. Though, never once leaving even a scar on you.

“Oh, ya really are made for me.” Gojo gasps out a sharp pant, toned hips rutting so ferally upwards at the clenching squeeze of your heated insides. And oh- saying it was good would be an understatement.

The winding lines of his veiny cock dragged out your wave of bliss until you felt like your mind was melting. Bludgeoning his Prince Albert’s against your g-spot again and again and again at the precise peaks of your high.

You almost get the feeling that he’s milking himself on your overspilling cunt, twiddling a thumb over the button of your clit just to get you to clench. “H-heh-” Gojo watches as your creamy pussy driiiips with ivory syrup. “More more take more-”

You curl your toes in euphoria, dragging him into a filthy, filthy kiss. Slurring,“M-mmm- yes. I wanna-”

“Mhmmm–?”

“Hck! wanna be yours, Toru–”

Oh.

He had such a look on his face that told you he would just kill for you. Simply say the word.

“M’already yours, beloved.” Gojo’s meaty thighs shiver after each stringy ribbon of sap being pumped into you, and he’s sliding a thumb all over the drivelling mess of your slit. Cooing as you flinch, “Oh, you’re so fuuuuck- ripe.”

Ripe? What did that even mean-

You didn’t need to utter the question, because he’s already answering it in the next sultry instant.

You watch as he lovingly gazes at your tummy bulge, now stuffed with the weighty knots of his cum. There’s an almost tender note in his voice as he speaks, “Should you so wish, this one’s gonna be a ngh- boy.”

Oh.

Ripe for the picking, like a pomegranate.

Ripe for him to fuck you till you were all round and glowing- and it’s almost the two of you are moving at the speed of light. Gojo barely even taking a split-second to transport himself to the edge of his humble priest’s bed and bully you down.

Cock still buried deeply near your womb, he flattens the weeping head of his shaft against your cervix. Taking a loooong, languid glide of his pierced mushroom tip-

“Y-you’re still- ngh-” You hiccup, feeling the parched twitch of his length - still so red n’ swollen that it ached him to not be stuffed between your glossy folds.

Sheathing himself in sluggish gyrations that stir your insides, Gojo’s tearing off the rest of his holy robes. From his cassock to his roman collar- and that twinkling golden cross ends up dropped somewhere on his dampening sheets.

“Still hard? Heh-” Gojo snickers, oh, he’s going to have fun with you for the rest of eternity. “Now, you didn’t expect a vampire to stop at only one, did you, my angel?”

Fuck.

And maybe it’s been hours. Maybe it’s been days.

All you’re learning is that a vampire goes for seconds, thirds, fourths- that Gojo Satoru won’t be even the slightest bit satisfied until he’s well past the sixth round.

Your tired hips slumped on top of his now, riding him dry- well, as best as you could when your entire body was utterly helpless. At his mercy, he’s got his large hands clawing on your waist, moving you in steady figure-eight grins.

Long, achingly probing his sensitive divot into your battered and bruised delicate spots. So far gone that you could feel the slimy second skin of his cum from hours prior pool inside.

Gojo slaps his hip bones up to yours and lets out what sounded like a damn broken whimper, “Yeah- yeah, if this isn’t the most heavenly thing- nghhh–”

“Oh-ohhhh my god—” You whimper, the cheeks of your ass stinging as he perks a hand underneath your thighs to slam you down. Crushing your overstimulated clit against his soaked happy trail, “The sun’s coming up, Toru.”

And sure enough, tentative yellow light was seeping between the half-shuttered blinds of Gojo’s quarters.

With it, a new day. And a new victim of the vampire to be discovered - of his.

Though, that’s the last thing on your stupidly fuzzy mind when the thickened end of his thumb is coming down to draw out a cute lil’ heart on your clit. “S’that soo–? Heh-” He gulps from his completely dry throat, looking at you through unruly white bangs. “Better make this fast then, my darling.”

You had no idea where his stamina was coming from- even for a vampire this was ridiculous, surely.

At some point he was clinging onto your hips and maneuvering you up n’ down his vein-decorated cock as if it was nothing.

Slight sparks of power flying from his half-lidded eyes every time he’s swirling and swirling his flinching cock ‘round your walls. Each semicircle of him stretching you out gets you rewarded with the slightest geyser of milky pre- damn near cumming dry.

“Oh.” Gojo’s nostrils flare, and his flushed maw hangs wide open with a sliver of spittle. Turning into a torrent of saliva once he’s hit with that familiar candied perfume of your orgasm.

Close-

Before you can even babble out the word, you’re cumming- and not just cumming, squirting. All over Gojo’s…face?

Fuck, your hands dig into the sweaty locks of his pale hair. Half-melted mind realizing that he’d transported you with his powers just as soon as you hit your high. Moving you from his jolting cock to seat all prettily on top of his face.

Right on top for him to lavish his swollen mouth with the splosh of your velvety sap. Creaming all over his handsome features, leaving his lower and upper body soaked.

“Mmm- fuck.” He slaps his dewy-wet lips down your dripping wet cunt; simply drunken, Gojo lets the ribbons of your thick slick drench his sharp jawline. Puddle after puddle of cloying liquid that sprays across his mouth. A fucking mess.

“A-men…” Cum and slick bubbling down his rosy mouth n’ fangs, he babbles. Catching sight of the bleeding orange of the sun rise, “Oh, it’s time.”

Time for him to lick up the last few tingles of your orgasm. Time for him to keep pinning you down to his face as he turns his head towards your thighs and bites.

Hard.

Puncturing.

And just as soon as the hot crimson of your blood leaks into his mouth, Gojo finds himself smiling. “May God never forgive me.”

A different kind of mark, the book had claimed. And sure enough your body flashes hot- something churning inside your blood vessels. Something that makes him tenderly flip the two of you over so that you can lay across the ruined sheets-

Only for him to take sweet, sweet advantage of the crook of your neck and bite. Once more. Then twice on the other side, just to make sure. Just because he couldn’t stop himself.

Six hundred years.

Six hundred years that he had been searching for you.

You’re wheezing out weakly, “Satoru…”

Now to finally, finally find you.

“Rest. The transformation from human to vampire is quite taxing.” Gojo hushes you, ivory lashes lowered in pure loving. He plants a kiss on the bloodied bite marks at your neck, fangs peeking out just enough to tease. “We have a long eternity together, my beloved.”

[Excerpt from ‘Scripture of Shadows’: Latest published edition, author unknown.]

‘Chapter Six: The Vampyre’s Beloved

Many are unaware of the one weakness of the vampyre: their one true love. Yes, reader, the fated mate, only poetically comparable to a ‘soulmate’, is one that can induce a different kind of bite in the blood-thirsty vampyre.

It is an unexplainable soul tie that happens merely once in eternity - one that provokes even the most blasphemous creature of the vampyre to tear down heaven and hell. One such known vampyre in search was the famed Gojo Satoru, almighty of even these shadowed beings.

But through my journeys, I have found that our despicable being has come to find his fated mate, as of late. The latest whispers within the shadowed realm speak of an atypically happy life, and an even happier bride—expectably, leaving bloodied wedding favors behind.

Some even claim an heir of the Darkness to be within reach, God have mercy.

Six hundred years of terror, and it seems that He has found even the most undeserving worthy of being loved. Being seen.

For, perhaps even the cruelest of creatures can love.

Amen.’

A/N. Omg y’all I had to get permission from like five of my Christian friends before I could post this erm- obvi disclaimer that this isn’t a true representation of Christianity!!

Plagiarism not authorized.

9K notes · View notes

tomiek111 · 3 months ago

Text

The Hunt | True Form! Sukuna x Reader

Synopsis: you convince Sukuna to go for a hunt like the old times. the difference is you are his prey this time

Warnings: obviously outdoor sex, primal play, predator/prey, CNC, creampie, established relationship, light degradation, safeword (not used), chasing

Word Count: 4.4K

Read on AO3

Masterlist | Divider by @joj0su

It was going to rain soon. The king of curses could sense it in the air, although no clouds were weighing down the sky. The wind carrying your scent back to him will make his hunt much easier. He already had it on his fingers when he sniffed them, like a predator identifying its prey. It was sweet and addictive, creeping up deep into his brain, compelling him to chase more. After a few moments of pondering, he decided to grant you more time to get lost into the woods of his estate. The balance of power was already unfair enough.

What if I left your side right now and ran away?

Sukuna frowned, his agile crimson eyes measuring your small frame as if pinning you in place with one simple look. You were at the table, in the main hall, having lunch.

I would catch you faster than you can imagine.

You knew that, he could tell from the smug smile stretching across your lips as you played with the food on your plate. Sukuna had noticed already that you didn't really have an appetite.

What if I would really fight to get away from you?

Sukuna sneered in response to your silly question, taking another sip of his drink. As if you could ever overpower him.

And I would act like I don’t want you to touch me, like I want to escape.

You must have been really bored the past few days in his absence, since your mind was preoccupied with such fantasies. He leaned back, placing the upper set of arms on the floor to support his body, while the other two were crossed, dismissively.

Would you take me by force?

You finally looked up at him, doe eyes glimmering with unknown excitement through your lashes.

I would bring you back, yes. You are not allowed to leave.

Sukuna would occasionally entertain your meaningless mind games, only because he was aware of how much it pleased you when he indulged in your mischievous and curious nature. However, he was failing to understand the hidden meaning of this one.

Would you take me by force, my king?

You asked again, but this time your words were coated in a promising intent, thick and sweet like honey, your eyebrows raised in a pleading look. His head leaned to the side, his mind putting in more effort to unveil the mystery of your riddle. Your sensual voice had awakened a desire inside him, the more his red eyes looked into yours, the clearer the picture you were painting for him.

I would, yes.

You were speaking the same language, at last. He uncrossed his arms, all four of his palms pressed flat on the floor behind him. His position was inviting, but you were planning on running away.

And if I screamed?

You asked, your hand stretching across the table to pick a ripe peach. When your teeth sunk into the soft and sweet pulp a thin thread of juice spilled at the corner of your lips, falling down across your chin.

I would cover your mouth shut.

Sukuna answered, his eyes leaving your enticing ones to follow the course of the peach juice falling across the skin of your neck, down under the hem of your robe, most probably between your breasts. Suddenly, his mouth felt dry, as if the only solution to quench his thirst was that single drop of juice on your skin.

And if I kicked you?

You took another bite of fruit, the crunching sound of your teeth ripping the flesh off the seed echoing in the silent room.

I would hold you down.

For a while, you contemplated in silence while munching on your peach. Sukuna never let his eyes leave your body, his mind already stirred by the idea you implanted with your words, his pupils dilated with intoxicating lust.

I will hurt you. And you will like it.

He added after a few moments of silence as you discarded the naked peach seed on a plate. You didn’t bother wiping away the mess you made around your mouth. It was hardly visible, but there was a sticky sensation of the sugary liquid dried on your skin and the sweet smell spread in the air around you. Sukuna wanted to lean over the table and lick it off. You only smiled in response to his words, a faint, contained smile that held back a million of possibilities.

I will be taking a walk in the woods. All by myself.

You announced.

Isn’t it dangerous?

He asked with a grin.

I've heard there's a beast lurking in the forest, indeed.

You said as you sat up, gathering the flowing fabrics of your kimono. You passed by him on your way to the door and you felt one of his rough hands grab your wrist.

How do I know if you change your mind?

Sukuna could easily determine your moods and thoughts with a quick simple look, even when you would refuse to speak. However, in this hypothetical situation, that was getting closer and closer to becoming reality, he doubted he could tell the difference. You looked down at him, taking a moment to admire the savage beauty of his body, the brutality of his four muscular arms, his massive shoulders. He could break you in half. The thought only made the wetness between your legs spread.

I will use a safeword.

You buried your fingers in his soft pink hair, almost the same shade as the peach you just ate. It was highly contrasting with the rest of his appearance, bringing out the roughness of his features even more.

Which is...?

He looked up at you, all of his crimson eyes focused on yours. You leaned down to whisper in his ear, although no one was there to hear your secret.

Peach.

Sukuna felt his cocks twich when your hand gently touched his ear. He looked back at you with one eyebrow raised, skeptical.

It sounds very puerile.

For a moment, you almost lost him. What was the point of these silly artifices? If you craved him carnally, a meaningful look and a soft touch from you would be enough for him to take the hint. He could take you right there, on the table, and satisfy your sexual appetite like he always did.

How long has it been since you last went on a hunt, my king?

Sukuna licked his lips unconsciously, your words sparking vivid images in his mind. He remembered telling you tales of old times, when he would enjoy bringing the terror on his prey, wether it was an animal, a human or an enemy. It had been too long since he last enjoyed it, having grown so powerful that no one could match his speed and ferocity to be called entertaning. One hand of his creeped up between your legs under your attire, as he was still pondering on the idea. You shivered under his touch, and he smiled slighly when your fingers gripped his hair a little tighter. The tips of his fingers ghosted lightly over your cunt, barely touching it. It was enough to get them wet with your juices. For a moment, you thought he had lost all of his patience and wasn't willing to play the part anymore. However, his hand retreated, leaving you sighing in disappointment. He seemed content with his discovery, almost surprised that you got yourself that wet only by thinking of him.

Peach, huh?

The muffled voices of servants were echoing louder on the hallway. It was around time they come and check the table in case their master requested more food. If someone did step foot in the room, they might destroy all the tension you had skillfully built in order to have Sukuna indulge in your fantasy.

Don't listen to anything I say, unless I say peach. If I do, it means I've changed my mind.

You always amused him whenever you had that serious tone, almost like giving him commands. He was going to let it slide this time, though, as he let it slide so many times before.

You have ten minutes.

The sunlight barely made it through the thick ceiling of tree branches full of leaves. The more you ran, the darker it got. For some good minutes, you couldn't even see ahead of you until your eyes adjusted. The notion of time was already a foreign concept to you. Time was measured now in the fast pace of your beating heart, threatening to plummet out of your chest. It felt like your veins were depleted of blood and the only thing keeping you going was the fear of being caught.

You started running without thinking much about it, almost simulating. The image of Sukuna's massive build was impregnated in your mind. The more you dived into the cold darkness, the more refined your senses became. The leaves on the ground were damp on your bared feet, squirrels were jumping from branch to branch, scratching against the tree bark, the air was humind and cold, stinging your throat. Your heart was booming in your ears like a war drum, but more importantly it was pulsating between your legs, a constant reminder of who you were running from.

You had to stop and catch your breath. You were in no physical condition to be straining your body to this extent. The layers of your kimono were also making your movements more difficult, the weight and tightness around your waist uncomfortable. After filling your lungs with fresh air you decided to get rid of these impediments. To hide your tracks, you struggled to bury the outer robe you discarded under a fallen tree trunk, covering the brightly colored fabric with leaves. Now that you were lighter, with only one long and thin piece of clothing covering your body, you felt safer. The forest was overall quiet and the lack of light gave you the feeling of safety, instead of frightening you like the first time. You were still on the edge, ears focused to pick up any unusual sound, but for now, at least, you were safe.

Perhaps you should look for a place to hide. The idea came more like an instinct than a rational thought. Sukuna must have already started his hunt. While you were looking for a suitable spot where you could fit your body and conceal your presence, a flock of birds took off in the distance. The overlayed sound of ruffling leaves and fluttering wings made your heart sink for a moment. But it was only birds, so you continued your search undisturbed until a white rabbit darted out of a bush, passing by you in its frenetic run. You would have dismissed this occurence as well if you didn't feel it. It hit you like a sudden enlightenment, the air thicker, heavier as if something was breathing all of it, leaving none for the other creatures of the forest. Now it was truly quiet. The birds had fled. The squierrls were hiding inside their dens. No bunny, no deer, not even insects crawling on the wood, eating away the rotten parts of the forest. Everything seemed to have stopped, frozen, frightened.

He was coming.

Terror was creeping up your muscles, like a parasyte dictating your behaviour. It pushed you to run, but everything else around you was quiet. Wasn't it smarter to follow the natural instinct of the animals, lay low until the threat goes away? You didn't blend in with the forest, though. Your pink robe, loosely tied around your waist, was contrasting with the dark greens and browns of the environment, making you an obvious target. The more time you spent debating, frozen in your tracks, the closer it got. Although completely silent like a first class predator, his unbelieveable ferocity was travelling faster than his body. The atmosphere was soaked with it, danger waiting for you at every step. Even though you wanted to move, your body wouldn't listen. His presence alone was already overwhelming, filling the entire space with tension that was crushing you.

Your eyes windened, irises shaking in distress when you saw four red points gleaming in the darkness in front of you. Nothing more, nothing less than four small crimson circles. It was enough to trigger a response in you and your feet darted in the opposite direction, running faster than you ever imagined you could. Your heartbeat was once again hectic, your hands pushing branches and plants out of your way. You were gasping for air but there was no way you could stop. Your robe got caught in a thick bush and you pulled it forcefully, ripping it only to free yourself. He was near, almost one step behind you. He was purposefully being loud, branches cracking under his feet, his steps shaking the ground he was walking on. He wanted you to know he was there, close, maybe only one arm's length away from grabbing you by the neck.

The forest was a neverending abyss. You couldn't even tell what direction you were running in. Maybe you were heading back to the manor. Maybe you were sinking even deeper into the wild. All that you knew was that you were running away from him.

You cried out in pain when you fell on your knees, tripping. A guttural, animalic sound that was so foreign to you, almost impossible to believe that it came out of your body. You quickly turned around on the ground, trying to find out where he was. Cold sweat was running down your back and you were panting, half because of effort, half because of terror. Your knees were bruised. Your hair unkempt. Your robe torn at the hems. Yet, he was nowhere to be seen. His absence was alarming. You couldn't even see him coming, couldn't anticipate where you should run. You felt your robe soaked around your outer thigh, the wet sensation tingling your skin. You looked up, thinking it had started raining, although there was no sound of raindrops hitting the ground.

And you saw him.

In the tree above you, standing on a thick branch. The mouth on his abdomen was fully manifested, the tongue poking out above the knot tied around his waist, thick saliva oozing down, dripping on you. You felt choked, deprived of air, although he was at a fair distance from you. Sukuna hopped down, landing right in front of you with a sound so loud and earth-shaking it resembled thunder. You tried crawling back, heels slipping on the grass under you. For every three frantic movements of your limbs he took one calm step, closing in the distance.

"Get away from me!" Your voice sounded threatening, although you were in no position to.

The strength in your legs was almost used up. You didn't think you could stand up, not to mention do it fast enough to escape him.

He ignored you, taking another step. It seemed like there were two beasts inside him: the calm, calculated hunter that chased and cornered you and the savage, famished creature that showed through his abdomen, salivating at your sight.

In a split moment he was leaning over you, his massive frame caging you against the ground, teeth sinking in your neck. Your artery pulsated under your skin, full of fresh blood running frantically. You found the force to kick his legs, trying to get him off you, but he wouldn't budge. All of his four arms were supporting his body above yours, two on each side of your struggling form. You could hear his feral breath right under your ear. You screamed and hit him as hard as you could, to no avail. The tongue on his abdomen ran over your skin, spreading its spit all over your tummy and your core. When its tip creeped between your legs, tasting your juices, he groaned like a famished animal that was finally getting his long deserved meal. It took a lot of effort not to submit to his touch, like you usually did. Instead, your mouth kept screaming curses at his name, begging for help in the middle of an empty forest where he was king. Two of his hands held your body in place, one kneading your soft breast while the other held you by the hip, his nails painfully digging in your skin, the muscles of his arms flexed in the effort of holding you in place.

You managed to grab his hair, pulling as tightly as you could to get his face away from your neck, where he was already leaving marks. One arm was sufficient for him to support his body, his knees already forcing your thighs spread apart on the ground. So he used the fourth hand to pull yours away from his hair. He caught your other wrist in his grip as well, pushing your arms above your head so you wouldn't defy him anymore.

"Let me go!" You shrieked, your arms aching because of his forceful grip. With every moment his teeth sank into a new spot on your neck you expected him to rip your flesh off your bones, that's how exhilarated he seemed to consume you. Something about you neck, the back of your ear, your tangled dirty hair, it seemed to have a particular smell that was getting him off because he kept sniffing and licking the area like a wild animal. "No!" You howled, your legs fighting to stay closed while the large tongue moved between your folds, wet and warm, sending a numbing pleasure all through your body.

You had never made Sukuna lose his self control like this before. The way you were fighting under him awakened the animal inside, his senses sharper than ever. Your cries were music to his ears. Your kicks were only encouraging him to hold you down even more. But most of all, your smell, your raw intoxicating smell, it was irresistible. Not altered by any artificial fragrance, not washed away by any water. His face was buried in the crook of your neck, where it was the strongest, and he was aiming to get you sweating all of it out of your body. Perhaps this blinding obsession was the reason he lost focus because, when you unexpectedly kicked your knee at the corner of his large abdomen mouth he growled in pain, grip losening on your body.

You took this chance to slide away, driven by adrenaline alone. It seemed that your instincts had unlocked a primal power inside of you, because you never even dared to hope that you could hurt the beast that Sukuna was. You were almost on your feet again, supporting your body on your arms to force it stand up when his hand grabbed your hair harshly and you fell back on the ground on all fours. You howled in pain like a wounded animal as he pulled you by the hair, forcing your back to arch.

"You have nowhere to run." He spoke for the first time as he leaned over your body, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar.

Your scream echoed in the entire forest when one of his cocks penetrated you, losing no time to adjust. But you didn't scream because of pain. There was no pain to feel when you were so wet, so prepared for him as he slipped inside you so easily, your walls tightening around his length in a welcoming feeling. His thrusts were fast and harsh from the start, the knot of pleasure tightening in your belly immediately. His other cock was rubbing between your ass cheeks as he forced himself into you in a frenzy, grunting and growling in the lowest, most savage voice that seemed to come straight from the depths of hell. Your cries turned to moans of pleasure, your body shaking according to his rhythm, your muscles tensed in anticipation for your orgasm. You couldn't fight against him anymore in that position, when he was fucking you like a wild animal.

You yelped in pain when he forced his other cock inside your walls, stretching you forcefully, knowing you could take all of him. You had to take all of him. Tears ran down your cheeks as your eyes were shut tightly, the only thing you could focus on being his two massive cocks inside your dripping wet cunt, abusing it relentlessly. He had both your hands behind your back, using you like a lifeless rag doll. In a seemingly kind gesture, his hand caressed your cheek, a mouth opening in his palm to wipe away your tears, only to press agains your mouth, silencing you. The tongue forced itself into your mouth, circling along with your own tongue. He could force your body to bend as much as he pleased, pulling your arms further back and pressing his hand tighter against your mouth, hitting your sweet spot over and over and over, even if it meant breaking you in half.

The sounds of his hips slamming against yours echoed in the dark forest, your muffled cries and his hysterical growls warning everything and everyone to stay away. The two arms that had been keeping your hips in place wrapped themselves around your waist, pulling your back straigth against his torso, this new angle allowing him to reach new, untouched spots inside of you. The tongue retreated from your mouth, leaving you a drooling mess, unable to protest anymore, and moved lower to suck on your nipples. Your head was bouncing against his chest as he thrusted into you, and you could almost hear the unnaturally fast pace of his heartbeat. Your hands found two of his wrists, fingers wrapping weakly around them, pressing his touch even more against your body.

His head dipped into the crook of your neck, taking a deep breath of your intoxicating smell before biting your ealobe.

"You could have ended this already." He growled into your ear, thrilled by your body's eager response to him. Your hands were desperately clinging to him, your smell so attractive and obsessive pulling him in, your cunt tightening around his cocks, taking him so well. His thrusts were getting sloppier and slower, but nowhere near weaker. "But you love it when I hunt you down and take you like an animal." You gasped with every swift and deep thrust. "Look." He said, and when he noticed your eyes wouldn't open, he growled the command in your ear again. "Look." His hand forced your head down. "Look how well you're taking me." Another hand moved to press against your navel. Right below it, a bulge was swelling round and disappearing under your skin as his cocks pushed in and out of you. You couldn't articulate any words in response. Instead, your head fell back against his chest, eyes shut tightly, feeling your orgasm approaching. Your whole body felt tight, muscles tensed. He was manhandling you with ease, two arms around each thigh keepibg the m apart, the other two around your upper body, knees hovering over the ground. One of his hands moved to make sure you would be reaching your high along with him, only the tips of his fingers barely touching your sensitive bud of nerves enough to have you whimpering even louder.

The feeling of thick ropes of cum inside you came at the same time with your orgasm. You weakly protested when he still thrusted inside you, slower, making sure his seed stays inside, although it was so much that it was spilling out and dripping over his balls and on the ground. He let you go, at last, the moment he completely pulled out of you echoing with a loud pop! in the empty forest. He had you so stretched, so fucked out, semen still dripping out of your hole as he laid you down on the grass.

You were panting and shivering, your heartbeat still beating insanely fast. But your whole body was relaxing, almost melting into the ground. The feeling of the soft grass blanket under your naked body, cooling your heat, and the humind air cleaning out your mind were truly soothing. For a moment, you almost forgot Sukuna was still there, your mind blank. The sound of raindrops hitting the tree leaves pulled you out of your haze. You were cold. As you turned around on your back you noticed Sukuna sitting next to you, with his robe messily put back on, his body towering above yours to shield you from the rain.

He seemed to have awakened from his frenzy too, because there was no sight of the thirsty creature that chased you. Instead, he was inspecting your body, evaluating his success on the hunt.

His piercing eyes made you snap back to reality and you became very aware of the fact that you were naked. You curled on the ground, unconsciously, arms covering your breasts, trying to be as small as you could.

"What are you so modest for now?" He almost scolded you, his voice back to the usual tone you knew. However, he wrapped you in the remnants of the torn robe you had on when he found you, right before ripping it off. You didn't even remember when that happened.

"T-thank you." You said, pulling the fabric over your shoulder. He picked you up with his two upper arms and you wrapped yours around his neck for support. It felt almost like the end of an unusuap sacrificial ritual, when the ancient priest would offer the dead lamb to a god. Except you were not dead and he was the god. Maybe this is how it happened on the other side, the immortal soul of the sacrificial lamb being welcomed among-

"Are you asleep?" Sukuna asked. The natural sounds of the forest were filling your ears now that the danger was gone. "You'll catch a cold."

"N-no. I was just resting my eyes." You shivered when his face kept touching yours, his nose sniffing at your neck and hair as he walked you out of the forest. You were dirty, of course you were, and sweaty and wet with all filthy fluids.

"Hm. Strange." He concluded. "It's gone."

You didn't have the energy to ask any more questions. Besides, he seemed to be talking to himself. You could feel your body warm up again against his. Soon, you were out of the forest, heading back to the manor.

《previous: Corruption | next》: Ascension |

Geto Suguru x reader True Form! Sukuna x reader

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tomiek111 · 4 months ago

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Sorry for the cropping I just gave up LOL but here have some toji folks

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tomiek111 · 4 months ago

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౨ৎ satoru hates the idea of cock-warming. he thinks it's pointless, getting the opportunity to be in you, and not even bothering to make the most of it.

his idea of making the most, well, it would consist only of fucking you so hard, you won't be able to move the next day. that's what good boyfriends do, right?

"good boyfriends do whatever their girlfriend asks them to do," you counter.

satoru whines in response, looking up at you. all pretty, you're seated in his lap, as he lays on the bed. strands of white hair fall into his eyes, and you brush them away.

he pouts, "i am a good boyfriend." satoru's getting impatient, wanting to just feel your snug cunt around him. his throbbing cock sits hard on his stomach, red-tipped and leaky.

"then, please?" drawing out the syllables, you give him the best you can: puppy eyes. he caves. instantly.

grumbling, "fine. i guess you can put her in you. willingly choose not to move, too, or whatever."

you clap your hands, emerging victorious. you're not willing to test your luck, though, not commenting on the fact that you've told him multiple times not to refer to his penis with she/her pronouns.

he groans as you sink onto him, his thick length pushing past your spongey walls. there's a filthy squelching that fills the room, paired with your quiet whimpers.

satoru's hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the flesh. "shit, pretty girl, tight 'n' wet f'me. taking me s'good." his words slur into one another, lost in the depths of arousal.

there's always a certain amount of self-control it takes, to not immediately cum the second he's all the way in. "'toru," you murmur, accidentally clenching around him.

"fuck," he mutters, "you can't do that, squeeze your little pussy like that, if you aren't gonna do anything about it."

"sorry," you say, sheepish. his eyes flutter shut, a hum dismissing the apology.

"now, what? just... stay like that?" satoru tilts his head at you, questioningly. sassy, if you may add. he just really can't believe you'd rather be doing this.

shifting above him, you lean down, resting your head on his bare chest. "yeah. isn't it nice?"

his arms wrap come up, to wrap around your waist. there's a beat of silence from him. begrudgingly, your rigid boyfriend shrugs, "maybe."

you're too content to roll your eyes. he wouldn't admit it, but satoru was filled with love, in this moment. his shoulders relax, and his entire body seems to ease, a breath of satisfaction leaving him. he feels at peace. he's always at peace, when he's with you, but this is different.

more real. more raw.

it's incredibly intimate. he feels like he's a part of you, like there's nothing keeping you separated. satoru inhales your scent, holding you just a little tighter.

"baby, i love you," he whispers, voice thick with emotion.

you smile against him, "i love you, too, 'toru."

to say the least, cock-warming is his new favorite thing. there is no sitting beside him on the couch anymore, not when you're alone. no laying next to each other on bed, either.

if he was clingy before, he's a monster now. if you're near, he wants to be inside you. not to have sex, but just to rest. it's not like you're complaining, anyways. at the end of the day, you're down bad for him, just as much as he is for you.

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tomiek111 · 4 months ago

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𝐉𝐉𝐊 𝐌𝐄𝐍—𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐄𝐗!

ft. satoru gojo, toji fushiguro, + nanami kento

inc: mating press, rough sex, talking you through it, squirting, mentions of a safe word but it doesn’t get used, use of the word slut (gojo), loss of virginity, age gap between nanami x reader (20/27), not proofread yet sorry

𝐬𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐣𝐨-

You were the only one who got to see him like this, and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t a sight to behold. His blindfold tossed haphazardly somewhere in the living room, white hair fucked up and falling into his eyes, his gorgeous crystalline eyes that were squeezed shut in pleasure as he slammed his hips to meet yours. His strong arms were hooked under your knees, holding you in a mating press that was downright nasty. He had been panting harshly into the crook of your neck, occasional groans of your name caressing your ears as he forced himself balls deep into you, hard abs meeting your clit with every thrust and it took everything in you not to scream. The movie the two of you had been watching was long forgotten as your manicured nails scraped down his back.

“mm, s-satoru! slow down” you gasped, having the air knocked out of you every time he rutted into you. He chucked humorlessly, keeping the same pace. “you’re saying slow down but this pussy clearly likes what I’m doing, baby”

He pulled his face out of your neck, sitting back on his heels as he fucked into you with a newfound greed. “gripping me so fucking tight—fuckkk!” He tossed his head back, hands finding your hips without even looking and his hold was bruising as he made you fuck him back, pulling you down on his dick as your mouth fell open in a silent scream. Upon hearing your silence he looks down at you, his pulse quickening when he sees the look on your face.

“You love this fucking cock don’t you— s’ written all over your slutty fuckin’ face” he growled, balls slapping against your ass lewdly when he raises your hips off the couch, pounding into you deeper and just like that you found your voice again, a raw and primal screech of his name when the tip of his dick assaulted that one spot inside you prompting your hands to slap over your mouth, head turning away from his intense gaze.

He kissed his teeth in disapproval, already missing your cries for him and the blissed out look you adorned when he was in your guts. He used his thumb to draw quick, punishing circles on your erect clit and your hands immediately fell from your face in favor of grabbing his wrist, trying to pull his hand away from your slippery bud to no avail and your legs shook violently as you came. His eyes never left your face once throughout your orgasm, even foregoing blinking as he took this version of you in, like he needed to cement it in his memories.

“that’s it, show me that pretty fucking face. Don’t hide from me”

𝐓𝐨𝐣𝐢 𝐟𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐨-

“c’mon doll..I gave you simple orders didn’t I? Keep your fuckin’. head. up.” Toji’s ministrations growing harsher, as he became increasingly annoyed with your seeming inability to follow simple instructions. Keep your eyes on his in the mirror. That’s all he asked. But it was too much, it was all becoming too much. Your legs hooked over his to keep you open for him, one hand fucking two of his thick fingers deep in your gushing cunt, the other working your sensitive clit just the way he knew you liked? Your body felt boneless, how could he seriously expect you to do anything but take it, your ass almost numb as you sit on the floor between his legs, pathetic pussy leaking all over the floor while he plays with you. The four fingers glued to your clit press down harder, in tandem with the two fingers curling inside of you and expertly abusing your g spot and you can’t help but weakly grab at his wrists trying desperately to pull them out of your panties that he didn’t even bother taking off. They were so soaked that they became transparent, sticking to his hand.

Your hazy eyes met his in the full length mirror, pleading with him to have some sort of mercy on you. “T-toji, I can’t. I can’t!” He only dug into you deeper, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach for the third time in 25 minutes.

“yes you can doll, I’m right here with you. ‘can feel that pretty pussy squeezing me so good..know you wanna cum again.” His voice rumbled through your ears and you involuntarily throbbed around his fingers again, proving his point. You squirmed desperately, wanting to get away from the pleasure but also become closer to it as the gnawing feeling in your tummy got stronger, a building pressure.

“Toji stop. I- feel something, please stop!” You cried, back arching up off his chest. He didn’t stop, knowing you knew the safe word if you felt like something was genuinely wrong. Instead he kept he same pace and the same motions, his strong thighs keeping you spread when you tried to clamp shut around his hands. You felt mortified, the feeling in your abdomen meaning only one thing as far as you knew.

“Toji I’m gonna pee, stop!” You whined, and he laughed smugly as you fought against him weakly, the forearm resting on your tummy being pressed down right where you felt that delicate pressure, feeling helpless with no way to make him stop or get away from what he was doing to you.

Your pussy clenched wildly as you came for the third time, clear squirt spraying messily on the mirror in front of you as he groaned satisfied in your ear and if not for your screams, it almost sounded as if he was the one cumming.

“That’s it baby, good girl cumming all over my fingers like that? fuck..” He rubbed and fucked you through it until your nails dug into his skin, begging him to actually stop.

𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐢 𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐨-

You couldn’t help but feel shy, observed even as you sat on top of your boyfriend naked for the first time. Your hands were clammy and pressed flat against his chest, his own rested confidently on your hips as he looked up at you lovingly. Your legs trembled slightly on either side of him, having been eaten out until you he deemed you ‘wet enough for him to penetrate you’ and although he waited patiently for you to become accustomed to him being inside of you, you could feel him throbbing with need.

“Breathe, baby” he instructed and you let out a breath you didn’t even realize you had been holding. His thumbs caressed your skin soothingly as you tried to get used to the slight burn between your legs. You were plenty wet, but taking nanami was still a feat due to his size and your inexperience.

“How do you feel?” He asked softly, taking note of the way you trembled against him.

“Full, ken. I feel really full.” You whispered, as though sinking down on him had taken every bit of energy out of you. “I don’t think I can move” you confessed and he felt a pang in his heart. You were so fucking cute.

“That’s okay love. Let me take care of you.” He awaited your confirmation, before he lifted his hips up off the bed, pressing in to the hilt and pausing to appreciate the way your jaw went slack at the feeling of him that deep inside of you. Your legs tensed and you were already gasping for air, looking down at where the two of you met with astonishment. He let out a grunt at the feeling of your gummy walls squeezing him like that and the sound went straight to your core, somehow clenching even tighter around him. “Fuck, y/n..you gotta relax some baby”.

With how tightly you were gripping him he could hardly move, your greedy cunt already opposed to him pulling out for any reason. You nodded quickly, willing yourself to relax slightly so he could pull out some, pushing himself back into you and repeating the motion slowly to get you used to it. Your head fell back momentarily, lolling forward to look at him with low lidded eyes as uncontrollable noises escaped from your mouth, open in an ‘o’ shape as your clit kissed his firm abdomen with every slow grind of his hips into yours. The way your body writhed on top of his, along with the way you rested your hands over his on your waist as he started to make you bounce on him made his dick impossibly hard, guttural moans leaving you as your face began to twist in pleasure. “Kento..feels so fucking good!” He dug into you further, heavy balls pressed to your ass and he could feel your arousal dripping down his sack. You were louder than he thought you’d be, high pitched cries punctuating each one of his precise thrusts.

“mm, mm, mngh! ken!” You covered your face with your hands as his pace increased, still gentle but more than enough to reduce your inexperienced body to nothing in his arms. God you were driving him insane. He wanted to plant his feet into the bed and fuck into you so good and so hard, that no amount of covering your mouth would hide the way he was making you scream on his cock. Instead he gingerly pried your hands away from your face, lacing his fingers with yours as he savored the look on your face, mascara mixed tears drying on your cheeks before a new wave would replace them.

“Cry for me baby, let it out.”

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tomiek111 · 5 months ago

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thinking about drunk husband!nanami and how handsy and needy he’d get with you- i’m not well. 18+ mdni.

cw; p in v (unprotected), creampie, mentions of alcohol, use of "sir"

wc; 1.7k

you’d be sending satoru an angry text later.

your husband was never a drinker. the man could hold his liquor, but it often went past that line of playfully tipsy and into drunk whenever he went out with satoru.

normally, you wouldn’t mind. you adored your husband. he’s always been a toucher, always needing to have some form of contact with you. maybe it’s a simple hand on your thigh, or twirling a strand of hair around his finger, or ever just standing close to you, shoulder to shoulder - he just needed to be with you. and when he gets drunk, that need is intensified tenfold.

you loved it when he got like this. your big, strong, doting husband reduced into a lovesick puddle when he’s drunk and around you. like a puppy needing attention.

except it’s 1am, he just got home, and he has an important event he needs to attend-

“that’s a problem for future kento,” he muttered into your neck, hands gripping helplessly at your sleep shirt. “you smell so good. ‘ve missed you,”

“ken-“

he tugged on your shirt, pulling you impossibly closer. his hands started to roam, now at the small of your back, pulling you still into him. “honey,” he whispered against the skin of your neck, his lips brushing against it. still at the front door, he hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet.

“mmh,” you hummed, tilting your head back to let him have more access.

he took the opportunity to start kissing you, soft, simple pecks, up your neck to your ears. “my wife,” he breathed, hot breath smelling like whiskey and gin. “my beautiful, sweet, amazing wife,”

“ken,” you giggled as he moved to kiss your cheek. his hands moved up to cup your face, and yours instantly came to rest on top of his. one of his thumbs brushed against your bottom lip, his eyes staring into your own.

he leaned down, placing a kiss on your forehead, and then one on your lips. it was sweet, he poured all of his love for you into it.

you looked down, “you haven’t taken your shoes off yet,”

he whined like a child in response. begrudgingly, he let his hands fall from your body as he leaned down to untie the laces of his boots, slipping out of them, before standing up again an immediately placing his hands your waist.

he stepped towards your bedroom, matching bedroom eyes to go with it. he pouted ever so slightly, looking down at his wife.

and god you’d let him do whatever he wanted. kento was a fucking good-looking man - there’s never any denying it. but right now, his his hair all sweaty and sticking to his forehead, his face flushed a dusty pink, lips parted and eyes begging, how could you ever say no to that?

“wan’ show my wife how much i love her,” he practically purred, pulling on your shirt again to pull you towards him. you stumbled towards your husband, you hands falling into his broad chest.

you could feel his abs under the thin material of his button up. normally, he was so proper, ironed shirt fully done up with a tie around his neck. but now, he looked and smelled of sex - the top three buttons of his shirt undone, wrinkled fabric, tie hanging loosely around his neck. you grabbed his tie and tugged on it, bringing his face towards yours.

“you have that thing tomorrow,” you tried to stand your ground, “you’ll be hungover, too.”

“don’t care,”

“you will tomorrow.”

“yeah, tomorrow. not right now.”

he pulled you into your shared bedroom, easily throwing you onto the bed and crawling towards you. “right now,” he started, licking his lips as he leaned in close, “i want my wife,” his hands came up to your shirt again, grabbing fistfuls at the hem. he pulled the shirt up and over your head, discarding it on the floor before he leaned into you, lips attaching to yours.

“wanna show her how good i can make her feel,” his lips trailed down your neck, then collarbone, “gonna show her how much i love her,” his hand came up to squeeze a tit, his eyes flicking to yours as he placed a kiss on your hardened nipple, “how much i missed her,” he continued his trail downward, hand slipping onto your waist as he kissed your stomach, light and feathery.

before you knew it, you shorts and underwear was discarded onto the floor. your legs were thrown over his shoulders and you hand buried itself into his golden locks.

k-e-n-t-o, he spelt his name with his tongue in your clit, flicking and suckling on the poor bud. your back arched off the pillows, your thighs threatening to squeeze shut around his head.

“h-ahh, kentooo,” you dragged, lolling your head to the side as your eyes screwed shut.

his hands were on your thighs, forcing them to stay open, flat against the bed. “so, so sweet,” his voice was muffled by your cunt. sticky, sweet wetness coating his face. “absolutely delicious, mrs. nanami.”

n-a-n-a-m-i, his tongue spelt your shared last name, something that drove him mad. of course you recognized when he spelt something with that tongue of his.

“kento you filthy man-“

“but you love it.”

your giggles turned into moans once more when he interested a finger. long and thick, he pumped it in and out of you before adding a second and curling it against that spongy spot in your walls.

“nngh,” you couldn’t speak coherently anymore. your hand fisted the pillow behind your head, the other one still grabbing his hair, dragging his face into your cunt. his mouth attached to your clit, sucking like his life depended on it as his fingers curled and uncurled inside you.

married life treated you good.

“k-ken, gonna come!” you mewled, and he bucked his hips into the mattress.

his groan was muffled, but you heard it nonetheless. “gonna come, pretty girl?” his words slurred, he was still drunk. “i can feel it.”

your walls clenched around his fingers. you legs were shaking, toes curled and back arched as your breathed through your mouth. an endless string of noises and babbles left you, voice high pitched and airy.

and then he stopped. stopped sucking your clit and pulled his fingers out of you with a stupid grin on his face. “not yet, m’love,” he rushed to unbuckle his belt, getting out of his slacks.

you didn’t even have time to complain. he leaned down, hungrily kissing you, shoving his tongue into your mouth. you could taste yourself on him. sweet, just like he said.

he pulled back and stopped the kiss and quickly as it started. one hand went to his cock, idly pumping it as he looked down at you. “so pretty f’me,” he cooed, his free hand now flipping you over.

face in the pillows and ass in the air, kento’s hand traced a line from your neck to your waist.

smack! his hand landed a spank against your bum, immediately massaging the area and cooing. “so perfect, mrs. nanami. my beautiful wife.”

he dragged the mushroom head of his cock through your folds, gathering up the mixture of your slick and his spit.

“ken, ken please,” you attempted to push you ass back, wanting him in you already.

“greedy slut,” he spat, laughing at your futile attempt. another smack before he continued to drag hiimself between your folds. “i guess i can’t refuse my wife, can i? gotta give her what she wants,” he lined himself up with your entrance. “gotta make her happy,” and he pushed himself in, hard and fast, hitting your cervix already.

“oh!” you shriek was dampened by the pillow.

he didn’t give you a moment to adjust like he usually did. he started going right at it, hips snapping against yours like his life depended on it. “that’s it, take- hah, take it like a good girl. nngh, like the whore you are,”

your tried to push yourself onto your elbows, wanting to peak behind you to take a look, but Kento quickly put a stop to that. he reached forward, shoving your face back into the pillow as his hips continued their assault.

“mm-hmm, ken,”

another smack!

“sir!”

kento bit his lip as he watched your hips move back, matching his rhythm, a grin spreading across his face. his hands moved to grab them, pulling you back onto him, helping you move.

“that’s it, there you go,”

his sweet talking made your head spin.

“taking me so well, little slut.”

your walls fluttered around his dick. squeezing and clenching, a thick white ring forming at the bass of his shaft. balls smacking against your clit with each thrust, he made your see stars.

you snaked a dainty hand down between your legs, middle finger desperately rubbing circles against your swollen clit.

“wanna come, m’love?” he asked so sweetly, watching your hand work. he grabbed a fist full your hair and pulled you up, your back against his broad chest. “gonna come around my cock?”

“a-aah, ken, nngh!” you couldn’t even form a full sentence with how well he was ramming into you. this new position let him go even further in you, his entire length disappearing into you.

you leaned your head back onto his shoulder, tits bouncing as he helped you up and down.

“what’d the matter sweetheart? is this too much for you?” he cooed into your ear, his delicate tone a stark contrast from the way he abused your cunt.

you were almost tempted to nod, but he laughed instead. “you can take it.” his hand replaced yours on your clit, his other one on your hips, helping you up and down.

“you’re close,” he commented, voice breathless. “i- hahh, i can feel it. you squeezing so good ‘round me.”

one, two three more thrusts and you were coming. you body shook and spasmed, a cry of your husband’s name leaving your lips.

four, five, six more thrusts and he was spilling into you. he came with a pretty moan of your name, all breathy and high pitched. white, hot seed filled your cunt, into your womb as he stilled, collapsing forward onto to the bed as you were trapped under him.

he didn’t let go of you, didn’t pull out as he placed a kiss onto your shoulder.

“ken-“

“ah ah,” he thrusted.

“sir,” you panted, whimpers and whines still leaving you. “you need to rest,”

kento groaned, his hand rubbing a singular, lazy circle on your clit.

“kento, ‘m sensitive!”

“that was only the beginning, sweetheart.”

5K notes · View notes

tomiek111 · 5 months ago

Text

In Sheep's Clothing

Synopsis: in which you're alone in a cabin in the woods during a rough snow storm and an enigmatic, sexy wolf hybrid!Toji turns up at your door providing much more than his handyman service Warnings: plot with a side of porn, cunnilingus, unprotected sex, creampie, knotting, degradation, exhibitionism, voyeurism, masturbation, praise kink, rough sex, manhandling, cowgirl, thigh fucking, hair pulling, slight anal play, biting, dom!toji, blowjob, allusion to shower sex, dirty talk, dry humping, pussyjob, fingering, panty sniffing, cum eating, spanking, titty slapping, pussy slapping, biting, dumbification, primal play to the extreme, !!dark themes!! beware cannot emphasise this enough people (dw there's no gore or noncon or anything, it's just the nature of the plot), acts of violence, angst, fem!reader, romance, barely proofread Word Count: 19.9k (it's a lot I know I know sowwy)

Perhaps running away to the mountains and hiding in the woods wasn’t the greatest idea you’ve ever had. But it was the only one you had at the time. Your grandmother’s cabin is a little run-down, though that was expected considering how many years it had been since she passed, still, it has solid bones and you can’t complain.

It’s a two bedroom bungalow — spacious enough for a family, what with its generous kitchen and hearty fireplace, but far too small for you. Dust has settled on all imaginable surface and it took hours to remove the coverings on every sofa, chair, table, and bed, and even longer to wash everything that could be washed by hand, since the washing machine and dryer in the back room have long since given up on themselves.

Most of your days since whisking yourself away here is spent dusting, washing, wiping, and cooking. You’ve yet to feel the dent you’ve been chipping away at. There’s still a draught coming from the front door, the main heating system isn’t working, and somewhere, in every corner, is an odd creaking that keeps you up at night.

Sighing, you glance out of the window, curled up underneath a mountain of blankets, and watch the snow fall. It’s always snowing here. It was barely possible to trek up here as a snowstorm was creeping in; the townspeople were less than eager to even hear you out until you flashed an extortionate amount of money.

A nice, elderly man took pity, though, upon discovering your last name. He knew your granny. Said she was a sweet soul with a real talent for baking. Having ordered one of his sons to drive you up, he gave you his telephone number, insisting that if you ever needed anything, anything at all, they would come at the drop of a hat.

That warmed your heart a little. The kindness of a stranger is not something you’re familiar with and thought you’d never get to experience, but there he was, smiling, and waving the cash away like it was the silliest thing in the world and it had no real consequence.

It had been four days since and you won’t lie, you have considered phoning in that favour. You’re way out of your depth here. With a sigh, you pull a blanket, red and knitted by your grandmother, up to your chin and continue to watch the snow fall. Even though you’re at your wits end with all the scrubbing this cabin needs, you couldn’t possibly call it quits now and beg the man to come up just to take you down. How embarrassing would that be?

You hear knocking.

There’s someone at the door, pounding. Your heart begins to beat fast. You must have mistaken the sound of the wind howling for a knock at the door. After all, you are miles away from the town and the snow is far too thick for anyone to have gotten up here. Would it be wise to get up from the warmth of your sofa to be sure?

The knocking gets louder, more adamant. Okay, so you weren’t, in fact, mistaken. Something about that noise, unyielding and firm, pierces your heart. You can’t imagine being out in this weather. You’re at the door faster than you can even process the speed at which your feet moved.

When you fling the door open, the freezing wind attacks, stinging your cheeks and nipping at your skin. Arms rushing to hug the blanket you thoughtfully to drag with you tighter around your body, you squint up through the blinding white of the snow at a hulking beast.

Broad shouldered and glaring, he watches you cower beneath his gaze. He’s dressed in a simple, fitted t-shirt and baggy joggers, and you feel impossibly colder just by looking at him. His face is hidden behind a disheveled beard, rough and scratchy. He’s a very hairy man.

“H-hello. Can I help you?”

His nose twitches. He jerks his chin to something behind you. “You’re cooking. I’m hungry.”

Without waiting for a reply, he pushes past you. Pressing yourself close to the door frame, you just about avoid the graze of his arm against you. This turn of events has your head spinning. Who does this man think he is?

The wind howls harder. You slam the door shut. “Excuse me! You can’t just walk in as you please. This is my home. Get out.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even register what you say. Instead, he crosses into the kitchen and lifts the lid of the pot of stew you’ve been working on for hours and grunts. When he fixes himself a bowl, you’re left speechless at how he seems to move on autopilot, opening cabinets and drawers for what he needs without so much as a glance.

Now he’s sitting at the table, scarfing down your stew and you’re bewildered, spluttering. You’re being Punk’d.

“Who do you think you are? I told you to get out. I’m gonna call the police if you don’t within the next five seconds!”

He snorts.

“The police?” His voice is gravelly, seemingly from lack of use. “Ain’t nobody getting up ‘ere in this state.”

That’s what every serial killer says, and you should be afraid, should be running for help. But there’s no hint of malice or cruel intent in his words, only amusement, the way one responds to a child’s whims.

“Well, you should still afford me the decency of leaving my home when asked.”

“Your home? Didn’t know the old lady gave it away.”

You gulp, clutching the thick blanket even tighter. “You knew my grandmother?”

He grunts.

Well aware you really ought to kick him out, you’re ashamed at the realisation that you can’t bring yourself to. It’s awfully terrible outside and there’s no doubt the elements would claim him if he he’s left out with no shelter. Though, that really shouldn’t be your responsibility and there is still, of course, the glaring concern of his ability to kill you. One sweep of his figure and you know this towering man, tall and muscular, could snap your neck with one hand.

Or worse.

Not to mention, he’s a hybrid. You can tell by the twitching of his ears and his nose, like he’s hearing and smelling things inscrutable by the human senses. You wonder what he is. He has no triangular ears or fluffy tail like a dog, he doesn’t have eyes like a cat, no scales that you can see, but his teeth, when he scrapes them along the spoon, you know they’re much sharper than you’d like to ever find out.

If he wanted to kill you, he could have done that before. And at any rate, it’s too late to do anything about it now. He knows you’re alone and there’s nowhere you can run to before the snow freezes your limbs.

Settling back down onto the sofa, you just watch him eat. He’s grabbed a second helping, enjoying the meat more than the potatoes and carrots in there but that’s expected of a man. It does mean, though, that he’s not a herbivore hybrid. You wonder if he likes the taste of a woman’s flesh.

“Is it good?” You ponder.

There’s something oddly peaceful about observing him — the way he only chews once and twice before swallowing and shoving another spoonful, the way his throat contracts, how his huge hands grasps the bowl and spoon like they could be ripped away from him before he’s finished, and even the way his foot taps, impatient and tense.

He throws you a cursory glance. “It’s good.”

A second helping disappears. So does a third.

“It seems like you haven’t eaten in days. Or showered. Or rested.”

Huffing, he leans back in the chair, full perhaps. He scratches his stomach under his shirt and you look away at the flash of skin. In a drawl, he concedes, “Y’r right on the money.”

You note how he doesn’t offer more. And you know by the way he’s observing you in return that he’s expecting you to ask for more. You don’t. It’s stupid. Suicidal even. But a little company to weather this snow storm might not be so bad.

“I’ll allow you to stay here until the snow passes but no longer than that. There’s a second bedroom in the back, you can use that. The boiler’s broken or something so the radiators aren’t working, neither is the hot water in the shower. So, unfortunately, this isn’t going to be a stay at a five star hotel but we’ll both get along just fine if we maintain boundaries and do our part.”

He grunts. That seems to be his preferred way of communicating. Fine by you. You never liked talkative people anyways. “I want a hot shower. So do you by the looks of it. I’ll go down and check the boiler out.”

Startled, you laugh. “You know how to fix things?”

The look he gives you is answer enough and with no further words exchanged, he marches down the hall, obviously all too familiar with the layout of the cabin — did he stay here after she died, when the house was empty and unused?

Or maybe he stayed with your grandmother and that was how she got along just fine on her own after your grandfather died.

After thirty minutes or so, he emerges, some grease smeared on his face, and he presses the back of his hand to the radiator by where you sit. He’s standing very close. And from your position, hugging your knees under all these blankets, he looks so much bigger and stronger.

“It’s fixed. For now. Shit’s old so might need regular maintenance,” he explains. “Ya wanna shower first or what?”

Considering he fixed the damn thing, he should have the first go, shouldn’t he? Especially as he’s been out in the cold for goodness how long.

“I’ll shower first,” you say.

He nods.

Unfurling yourself from your cocoon, you stumble to a stand. He doesn’t move, doesn’t give you space. Your chest brushes against his. Tingling rushes down your spine at the graze of your nipples. You hastily move past him, embarrassed and suddenly nervous.

“I’ll be quick. Um, feel free to have more stew and I don’t know if you have any clothes or anything, but my grandmother kept some of her husband’s clothes, you’ll find them in your room — the second bedroom, I mean. Just down the hall, by the bathroom.”

He doesn’t reply and you don’t wait for him to .

In your rush to save face, you just miss the way his lips twitch in one corner.

You had forgotten how wonderful a hot shower is. The way you’re enveloped by warmth and your tense muscles loosen and relax under the barrage of water. You take much longer than you usually do, intent on thoroughly enjoying the water like it could grow legs and make a run for it. Eventually, you’re bathed and fresh. Much fresher than you’ve been in the last couple days since you didn’t have to hurry through your routine or curse under your breath at the burning chill of the water, mocking your ineptitude and foolish spontaneity.

When you come out, dressed in a sweater and joggers, you’re pleased to find the house much warmer than before. The fireplace is even lit, the orange and red flames dancing with as much joy as you feel. More cozy and welcoming, the cabin has completely transformed in what feels like a blink of an eye. Before, the clinical white lights overhead flickered on its last legs, completely and utterly useless, now only the fireplace sheds light, covering the living room and kitchen in a snug ember.

It feels reminiscent of Christmas evenings you never had.

Your guest doesn’t look surprised when you approach — he probably heard you every step of the way — but he does push off the sofa and give you a look over, nodding as if satisfied to see you out of the blankets you wore like a second skin.

Just as he brushes past you, you grasp his arm. Nerves light up. You drop it like it burns. “Sorry. I, um, just wanted to say thanks. And uh, I guess we should introduce each other. Sorry I didn’t do it sooner. I’m not really sure why I didn’t. Maybe I was just mentally prepared to not speak to another person for a while or something.”

Tilting his head at you, he releases a huff of air through his nose and says, “Name’s Toji. You’re y/n; the old lady talked about you.”

“Oh.”

Likely sensing that’s as much as you’re going to say, he disappears into the bathroom with a pile of clothes and a towel in hand that you didn’t even notice — maybe because you were far too distracted by how handsome he looks under the glow of the fire or how his skin felt nice, all hard and soft and heated the way only a man could be.

Or maybe, just maybe, it was because the first thing you really noticed upon entering the living room was not the way it had been transformed or how normal it looked for such a big man to be taking up space here, but rather how this ‘Toji’ was sitting in the exact same spot you’d been making your little home when he came.

When you awake the next day, you’re surprised he’s still asleep. It was almost midday and there’s no sign of him having walked through the cabin before you. There’s no way you’ll knock on his door. Truthfully, you were surprised, pleasantly so it must be said, to find yourself alive and untouched. You don’t guilty for thinking the worst and you’re not naive enough to think better of him for not being a serial killer, that’s simply the bare minimum.

But it does mean he’s a man of his word and you can let down a little of your guard.

Instead of worrying more about what he’s doing in his room, you busy yourself with breakfast. Toji had finished the stew when you came out of the shower and you were impressed by his appetite, albeit also concerned for your stock; at this rate, your food will run out much faster than you had planned and there’s no telling when the weather will get well enough to call out the old man for help.

You bake a sourdough, fry up some eggs and sausages and put the kettle on for some coffee — instant, unlike the ones you’re used to in the big city but it’ll have to do. You’re careful not to make too much noise, although you feel a little embarrassed at how thoughtful you’re being.

Just as you put the plate down, he emerges, shirtless, hand scratching the trail of hair low on his stomach. His hair is mussed up, sticking at all angles, and the plaid pyjama bottoms he must gotten from your grandfather’s box of old clothes hang low on his hips, distinct v-lines peeking in a terrifyingly sinful way. He has fairly thick hair on his arms and chest, the very definition of unkept and wild.

You clear your throat.

“Good morning. Sleep well?”

He throws you a look, full of amusement, before he sits down at the table. He must have smelt the food and known somehow you were meaning to share. How presumptuous of him. “Slept fine.”

You serve him his portion, larger than your own, and pour him coffee to which he doesn’t say no. “Not going to ask me how I slept?”

He snorts. “Don’t hafta. You tossed and turned the whole night.”

“You have really good hearing, don’t you? What kind of hybrid are you?”

He eats much slower than yesterday, mulling the taste over rather than scarfing it down, and he seems pleased enough with your cooking skills. For reasons you don’t want to think too much about, you’re feeling pretty proud of yourself.

“Wolf,” he replies.

You’ve never met a wolf before. But they are an infamous breed — they needed constant medication to keep their animal instincts at bay, they stuck by their own kind, were aggressive to outsiders, and are known for being fiercely loyal and protective. Toji doesn’t seem to match the description. He’s alone for one and he moves with grace like a deer and not like a clunky predator.

“How did you know my grandmother, if I may?” You ponder. In all of the letters she’s written to you, she had never mentioned knowing a hybrid like Toji, or any hybrids for that matter.

He lifts one shoulder in a shrug and shared, “Helped her around during winters just like these. She was too old to get down by herself and there were always things needing fixing.”

“She gave you warm food in return?”

He grunts.

“How did you know she died?” Raising a brow at your question, you explain, “You said she ‘was’ too old.”

Barking a sudden laugh, you find the noise tickling your skin and you can’t stop staring at the way his face softens for just the quickest second and ever so lightly. You’re ashamed to admit the noise makes you warmer inside than it should.

“I come sniffing around soon as snow starts to fall. It’s routine. A habit. I was the one who found her. Notified the townspeople and went on my way.” He takes a sip of the coffee, green eyes never leaving yours. “Haven’t been back in years.”

His voice is gruff and now that you’re sat face-to-face with him, it’s clear as day that he’s not used to the sound of his own voice; he furrows his brows and stumbles upon certain words like they’re foreign, as if he’s struggling to reconcile the reality that those words are coming from him.

“So what made you come here?”

No answer.

The rest of breakfast passes by in relative silence, the distant moan of the wind outside providing enough noise to wash away the awkwardness of eating with a stranger. You want to tell him you’d prefer if he didn’t walk around so bare but that seemed too big of an ask since it’s likely he runs hotter as a wolf than you do. Eyes falling to your neck and your chest unashamedly, he doesn’t shy away from eye contact.

You do though.

Then he stands, taking both your and his plate over to the sink. He begins washing up. That actually takes you by surprise. This Toji fella didn’t strike you as the type to partake in house chores. Rather, he seems like the type to firmly believe the kitchen is a woman’s domain. Interestingly enough, his back is marked up, full of scars, and they ripple with his muscles. You want to ask about them but he’s not a man who offers answers and you’re not the kind of woman who should poke and prod.

“Right, well.” You stand too. “I was wondering if you know how to fix a washing machine. And a dryer. Neither are working and washing my sheets and panties in the bath is a pain.

His eyes flick to you as you wipe away at a spot on the counter dirtied by flour. You probably shouldn’t have used the word ‘panties’ in front of a man like him but you thought it would be funny. He doesn’t seem to think so. He gives you a half-nod and you feel satisfied enough from that interaction to pad over to the sofa to read a book.

Toji begins working around the cabin — he heads over to the laundry room and you hear the clatter of metal and thumping against the floor. Upon emerging and giving you the look that says ‘it’s done’, he also starts looking for something in the basement. He carries up a box of lightbulbs in one arm and a ladder in another.

When you jolt up, to offer help, he cuts you another look that says ‘don’t you dare’, and you sit back down. He seems to have his own way of doing things and he knows you’ll only get in the way. Maybe he noticed that your nails are long and clean and he can somehow, with his wolfy powers, sense your hands have never touched dirt.

Still working on this and that around the house, you serve him his lunch and you eat separately. If this becomes your routine then that’ll be ideal. He does all the cleaning and fixing and you cook. Sure, it might be setting back the feminist movement just a little but things like that don’t matter up here, where it’s freezing and you have no idea how you managed for days without him.

Much more quickly than you could have ever expected, the day ends and night falls.

“Thanks for the help,” you say, handing him a glass of your grandmother’s moonshine. You remember where she kept it from your childhood and now, soon after dinner, just sat by the fireplace, feels as good a time as any to bust it out.

You’re both leaning against the sofa, right by the fireplace, choosing to be on the rug rather than on the soft couch. You can’t remember who followed who, but you suppose it doesn’t matter. In just one day he had solved most of the problems you’ve nearly cried over.

Toji grunts.

He’s wearing a shirt now, thin and plain. Your grandfather was a much smaller man so this shirt is practically bursting at the seams on his huge bicep but he doesn’t seem to mind. You do, though. It’s rather distracting actually. His skin brushes against yours and neither of you move away.

The flames are the only light here and you feel its warmth settling on your face, lulling you to comfort. Stronger than any alcohol you’ve ever had, the moonshine burns your throat, lighting you up inside. Your companion appears to be unimpressed with the concoction, downing the cup in one gulp.

Slightly embarrassed by your inexperience, despite being an adult, you ask, “Where were you staying before? You said you come here for winter so where do you stay for the rest of the year? Same place you’ve been staying at since my grandmother died? Or somewhere different?”

Throwing an arm on the sofa, right behind your head, he admits, “Nowhere. Everywhere. Just moved around a lot.”

“Why didn’t you just stay here? If you talked to her enough to know about me, then surely she must have told you no one ever visits since everyone in the family hates the cold. You would have had the place all to yourself.”

“I never stay in one place for too long.”

You skim the rim of your glass, watching the clear liquid swirl with the glow of the fireplace. “Why not?”

He waits until you can’t bear the silence, until you feel that itch to look up, to meet his gaze. And when you do, there’s some intensity in his eyes that seems to make the alcohol in your stomach burn just a little more. A finger of his twirls a lock of your hair and he murmurs, “Never had a reason to.”

Nodding, you settle for watching the fire.

And when the bottle of moonshine was depleted, you left to sleep and he stayed, a scalding brand marking your back and you couldn’t bear to look back to know if it was from the fireplace or from him.

That was how your first day went.

On the second day, you repeat more or less the same routine: you make breakfast, you eat together, he goes and fixes something else, you make lunch, you eat separately, he fixes some more things, you make dinner, and you share a drink or two, and sleep.

Occasionally, you’ll run into each other and you still struggle to meet his eyes, having to crane your head so far back to get a good look. Sometimes when you do gather the courage to look up at him, he’s already looking at your chest, green eyes slowly rising up to your face. His brow rises in challenge just as hip lip twitches. He doesn’t care at all. The man had no manners.

But he washes the dishes after every mealtime and he doesn’t really make a mess, so you can’t complain when he takes his visual fill of your body. There’s no harm in looking, only a priest would ever know that you do the same thing; there’s always a sizeable bulge in his trousers that you can’t keep your eye off, totally only out of curiosity.

The day starts off with an exchange of ‘g’morning’ and a ‘g’night’.

The third day tells the same story.

On the fourth day, however, only one thing out of the ordinary happens and it isn’t anything to write home about but you can’t get it out of your mind, as you lay in bed wide awake. The wolf hybrid had needed to get past you to get something from the fridge and on his way, he gripped your hips, lightly and barely a whisper, but his finger had brushed a sliver of skin where your shirt had risen up.

His touch was startling, petrifying, making the hairs along your body stand on edge, but more than anything, it was completely and utterly exhilarating.

When your hand wandered down into your panties that night, you tried your best to stifle your moans with your pillow, chasing the high that followed you the entire day. You fell asleep sticky, sweaty and unrepentant.

The fifth day goes by just fine too. Appreciative of the little song and dance you two have choreographed, you find yourself less and less anxious about the snow and the world beyond. There’s just something about this Toji fella — he’s quiet in a way that would be off-putting from anyone else, but you find it comforting. It’s different from the way everything worked in the city, where silences are this obscene monstrosity that must be filled with the clattering of a busybody.

Here, with him, you can just breathe in the hot cocoa and the smoky ash burning in the fireplace as you sit by him, shoulder to shoulder, on the rug and not on the sofa. He doesn’t ask questions about why you never visited your grandmother, why you haven’t talked about your family or your friends, or why you don’t ask him questions.

You like to think too that he appreciates you keeping your curiosity at bay.

Maybe that’s why he lets you rest your head on his shoulder, why he doesn’t nudge you off when your breath begins to even out and your lashes flutters shut, and maybe, just maybe, it’s why he carries you to bed and lays you down so gently you dream of solid arms, green sparkles in the snow, and fluffy clouds that brush your hair back.

What you weren’t prepared for, however, is the sixth day. It started off just like any other day: breakfast, reading on the sofa whilst he fixes something or the other, and then lunch eaten separately.

But, the hybrid must have gotten oil spilled on him when he was tinkering with something in the cellar because he went to shower during the day, instead of at night like you both do. This fact wasn’t known to you. It really wasn’t even on your mind. And that’s why disaster struck.

Walking into the bathroom to grab something — you can’t even remember what it was and why you were so focused on retrieving it, you hadn’t registered the sound of running water and the fact that the room was steamier than usual — you were met with a sight no HR training could ever prepare you for. Because, there, right in front of you, was your roommate, buck naked with water dripping down his chiseled body, catching on the curly hairs on his chest and lower abdomen. He was leaning with one arm on the glass of the shower stall, forehead pressed onto his forearm whilst the other made slow, leisurely strokes somewhere low, somewhere the steam gravitated towards.

Forward and back, forward and back, forward...and…back.

All while his eyes, like freshly cut grass, stayed unmoving, watching you watch him. Feet sinking deeper into the tiles, you were stuck where you are, heaving chest matching his as he let out a grunt, wrist jerking faster, splashing so much water everywhere you could almost feel them land on your skin through the glass.

Your phone pinged from your hand. You didn’t realise you were holding it. That was just about enough to break the trance he had you under. Wordlessly, you turned back and left, the door clicking shut behind you, and you busied yourself with preparing for dinner.

When he walked out, dressed, you could see from your peripheral, you grunted in acknowledgement after he let you know he was going to get some wood from outside.

Dinner was eaten separately too.

Instead of watching the fireplace, side by side, sharing whatever drink you’ve prepared, you’re settled comfortably under your blankets, hand rubbing furiously in your panties and eyes shut tightly, chasing flashing images of something sinful, delicious, the very source of your delirium.

Your orgasm is shallow. It’s why you’re conscious enough to notice, through the gap between your door and the floor, that the hallway light is still on and just as you exhale your last lust-induced moan, it disappears, leaving your senses focused solely on the sound of feet padding away.

You don’t get any sleep.

“G’morning,” you chirp.

The kettle is boiling and you’re serving the last of the eggs and bacon onto pancakes you made from scratch. There are still some meat frozen but the vegetables and fruits are almost gone and there’s no other way about it — you’re going to have to go down to get some more food. What had supposed to last you comfortably, at least two weeks, is now on its last crumbs before the first seven days had reached its end.

His green eyes flick to yours and with a small smirk, beard twitching, he asks, “Sleep well?”

Biting the inside of your cheek, you try to ignore the burning of your face and the sudden shake in your hands. Of course he had heard. Of course! Because, lost in the haze of the shallow pleasure, you had forgotten that you’re living with a man that is far from ordinary.

So is his hearing.

“Oh, great,” you grit out. “And you?”

A snort of what you can only guess to be amusement is released from him and when he brushes past you, his heat only sets those embers ablaze again. He doesn’t answer.

Once sat down and eating, it’s your roommate who suggests more food is needed — as he should, considering it’s because of his insane appetite that things have turned out so hopeless so quickly.

“How could we possibly get more food in this weather? No one can get up here and walking down is not an option. I mean, just looking at all that snow makes me feel like death is creeping in.”

“Don’t gotta leave,” he says with a grunt. “I’ll go.”

Spluttering, you practically shriek, “You? Are you insane? You’ll die.”

His green eyes glint. “Will the pretty little city girl be sad if I do?”

“Will the big, bad wolf listen and stay if I say yes?”

Toji barks out a laugh. Breakfast ends soon after.

An hour passes and, as you read a book, you think that that’s the last of that. But of course it isn’t. Just as you finish a chapter, the wolf in question comes out of his room in a worn out coat too small for him and a firm look on his face. He can’t possibly be serious.

Ignoring your protests, he heads over to the door and doesn’t spare you a glance. It’s only when you tell him he needs money that he does pause. Typical macho men, thinking with their muscles and not their heads, you grumble in your mind. He waits for you to grab your purse and shove it in his hand.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

Your question is met with an eye roll.

“Yeah, quit worrying. I’ll be back before you know it.” He sounds so sure. You’re inclined to believe him. Something about how sturdy he looks makes him sound convincing enough; Toji’s built like an oak tree, with deep-reaching roots and a thick trunk that could withstand the harshest storms and mightiest blows. But all trees can be felled, if one tries hard enough.

He must have smelt the doubt pouring out of every pore because then he’s making a sound of pure exasperation. “Alright, listen. I’m a wolf, yeah? I’ve been through worse.”

Eyes darting from the snow and to his deadpan face, you mutter, “Just because you’ve been through worse doesn’t mean you should go through more. You can just stay and keep warm. With me. I can’t help you if you’re out there.”

There’s a silence, like a sudden gust. And then a sigh.

In less than a second, you find your jaw being gripped with one large hand and your head is pushed to the side just as his face buries itself in the crook of your neck, the rough hairs of his beard tickling your skin. The growl that escapes him pulls a gasp out of you and then he’s gone.

With the speed at which the door flies open and closes, you barely feel the sharp sting of the cold. Or maybe you do feel the full brunt of it, but it’s overshadowed by the envigorating rush that came from that big man inhaling your scent before he left.

You wonder if he liked what he smelt.

Before, it felt like time was passing at a snail’s pace, but now it’s like time isn’t passing at all — you’re stuck in some sort of pathetic limbo where you spend every meaningless second switching tasks. From brushing the floor to rearranging the books on the shelves in the corner to dusting every surface to lying in bed and so on and so forth. It feels somewhat akin to engraving tallies into the walls with a paperclip.

Alone, truly alone, you can do nothing but focus on the feeling of ice creeping into your bloodstream. The heaters are on and you can very easily set the wood burning in the fireplace if need be since he taught you. But you don’t want to; you’re lazy. That’s the excuse you’d tell Toji if he asks, biting down the real reason and never spitting it out.

The shivers wracking your body is what you deserve for letting that man go to get food on your behalf. The quivering of your lips is due to the fact that you could have — should have— gone with him, should have bundled him up in something thicker and warmer, and yourself maybe, so you two could trek together to the town. At least, if one of you were to be injured, there’s someone there to pick you back up.

Who will pick him up?

Gnawing on a nail, your eyes dart, for the millionth time, outside the window, fuzzy socks rubbing against each other as you shuffle on the floor. Night is falling and he still isn’t here. You’re beyond worried.

How long does it take to hike down and up anyways? It took about an hour by car, so surely it wouldn’t take longer than a day at the very most, right?

But spending even just an hour in this snow, wearing just a coat, would be fatal for anyone, wolf hybrid or not, right? And he’s attempting to bring up groceries?

Oh, God.

You’ve allowed that man to walk right into his death. No, you’ve sent him off to die. You’re a killer. Or maybe he’s not coming back. Maybe this was just a ploy to leave without an awkward goodbye. He got what he wanted — roof over his head, a bed, food, warm shower and even a stupid girl to tease. Now that he’s exhausted the supplies, maybe he’s off to try his luck at another cabin.

Is this what it was like with your grandmother?

Did she make sure to stock up as much as possible for the winter to ensure he’d stay the entire time so she can have someone to look after her?

Is that what you’re going to turn into?

A food bank?

You shouldn’t have come up here. You should have stayed in the loud, stifling city in your miserable office job, with your stuffy pantsuits and your overbearing boss. You should have accepted your family’s manufactured smiles and cold hugs. You should never, ever have dared to want more. There is nothing in your entire life you have done, or could have ever done, to deserve more.

A knock comes on the door.

You jerk up.

The blanket falls from your shoulders. Stumbling to a stand, you wipe your hands down your front, trying to steady them, and without waiting for a second knock, you twist the knob that had just been above your head and you flung it open.

“Could hear ya sniffling from miles. You good?”

In front of you is a very hairy man, broad shouldered, coat darkening with the dampness that weighs him down and flakes of snow litter his beard like an upside down tree. He’s scary, hulking and tense, like a wound up toy, ready to explode at any given moment. An ear twitches when you sniffle, just as he said. This man could kill you. He’s strong enough to have been carrying two big, heavy bags, one in each hand, up the mountain. And he knows the exact layout of the cabin, knows there are no hiding spots, no locks in the basement, knows where the axe is, and that the stoker is leaning against the fireplace, too far to get to in time from where you’re standing.

You jump onto him. “Oh my god! I thought you died. Or that you left me!”

He grunts with the force of your body meeting his, but he doesn’t stumble. Bearing the burden of the bags of groceries and your entire weight as you wrap yourself around him like a koala bear, he walks in with ease, kicking the door shut. He saunters over to the kitchen where he deposits the bags on the counter and leaves just enough room to sit you down, untangling your awkward limbs from his torso.

“Ya think too much.”

He pats the wetness, that had transferred from his clothes onto you, down with a tea towel. Your shaky hands reach up, threading your fingers through his beard and his hair, and you brush the snow away. He’s still here. And he’s warm.

“I was so worried something happened to you, Toji,” you whisper.

Stilling, his green eyes flick up to yours, searching, and when he finds the tears threatening to fall he sighs, and presses his forehead against yours, letting you feel the firmness of his presence. He smells like burnt cedar, the musk of the earth, and the saltiness of sea air. With a gravelly voice, he reassures you, “I’m here. Got enough food to last us another week, and by then the snow will stop falling. We’ll be fine”

Your ‘thank you’ stays in your throat when he pulls away and falls on a chair by the dinner table with a grunt so deep and loud you’re snapped back into action — he must be starving and exhausted. Toji did his part and now you must do yours.

Sneaking glances at him, you work as fast as you can, cutting this and boiling that. You know as soon as the onions and garlic hit the pan with the sizzle his nose will start twitching. If it smells delicious to you, you wonder how it must smell to him. Maybe the anticipation of a warm meal was what pulled him home.

You won’t disappoint.

Every second or so, your eyes drift to him, mostly to make sure he’s still breathing, but also because you can’t help it. He’s snoozing, you surmise, when his chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm and his eyes are closed. You move around as quietly as you can.

Plated, you set the steaming soup, fried meat and loaf of bread he had brought down on the table. It’s not the most appealing of all appearances but you know the recipes like the back of your hand so you know he’ll love every thing. Or at least, you hope he will.

Checking all the necessary silverware are on the table, you try to gently coax him awake with a call of his name. He doesn’t answer. You look up with a sigh, ready to jostle him from whatever dream is so beautiful he’s in deep sleep, only to find those frustratingly alluring eyes already on you.

“Smells delicious,” he says, making no effort to gesture to the food.

You gulp and with a weak smile, you sit down and allow him to serve you. “So, how was it? Is the situation bad?”

Toji rolls a shoulder back. He answers, “Snow’s definitely too thick for a car, but the town hasn’t been too badly affected. No one can get in or out but they’re all making do.”

“And you? Was it a difficult journey?”

There’s a pause as he swallows the spoonful he’s shovelled in his mouth and then he’s shrugging, remarking, “Ya think so little of me? Told you, I’m a wolf hybrid. Wasn’t easy but was hardly difficult, ma.”

Warmth pools in your stomach.

“Good.” You sip some water. “But you definitely need to get some rest. That’s a non-negotiable, I’m afraid. No manual labour of any kind tomorrow. I’ll handle everything. So, just let me know what I can do for you. It’s the least I can do, after all.”

He snorts. “Yeah? Y’r gonna take care of me?”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do.”

His fork and spoon clatter on his frighteningly empty plate and when you meet his gaze once more, you’re knocked back by the sheer challenge in them. There’s a glint, like light off a knife’s edge, and it slices from your heart down your body, leaving you open and electrified.

“Careful, little girl,” he taunts, jaw snapping with a laugh, “when I take you up on that, y’r gonna be whining for days about how sore you are.”

There’s no way you’re going to argue with him, not when he sounds so certain, like you’re missing out on some inside joke. So you finish up dinner, with him having three servings, and after, with the dishes in need of cleaning up, you practically have to shove him in his room when he insisted he’s fine enough to stay up.

He rolls his eyes and lets you slam the door shut in his face.

As you tidy up in the kitchen, you’re pleased to find the fridge full. There’s a lot of fruit and vegetables and all the possibilities are getting you giddy. You suppose you were a little afraid Toji, being a man, would only buy junk and red meat, but he hadn’t. In fact, he had gotten things beyond food, he had bought toiletries and sanitary products for you. Sure it was a little presumptive, maybe you didn’t have periods, maybe you’re on birth control, maybe you’ve just had it and won’t have to worry until after the snow calms enough for you to deal with your personal bodily functions.

But, you find the act endearing, if the smile creeping on your face is anything to go by.

Eventually, you retire to bed, feeling much lighter. There’s lots of food and he came back. He hadn’t left. He had gone through so much trouble — life-risking trouble — that it must mean something, right?

You fall asleep very quickly.

Sometime around two in the morning, however, you’re awoken by some dull noise outside. Blinking through the sleep in your eyes, you pad out of your room and into the living room, where the fireplace is burning and casting dancing shadows over your roommate’s body.

“Didn’t mean to wake ya,” he grouses. “Go back to sleep.”

Finding the spark to laugh, you muse, “I think that’s my line, no?”

He looks wide awake sitting in his usual spot, on the floor with an arm on the sofa and a leg bent. Shirtless, the fire makes him look like he’s glowing, and you’re mesmerised. Clearing your throat, you retrieve two bottles of beer he had cheekily gotten, and sit criss-crossed by him. He takes the beer with a grunt of gratitude.

There’s something different in the air; silence isn’t enough tonight. All the things that have so far been left unspoken, locked away, are climbing over, ready to be shared — at least from your side. You may never know what he’s truly thinking.

Brows furrowed, you begin, “Did you ever wonder how I ended up here? Well, there’s not really a special or interesting story — I just got tired and bored of the same old thing. It felt like my life was missing substance, y’know?”

Grunt.

“I hated the city,” you confess. “It’s awful there. Everyone treats you like their enemy even as you’re just walking down the street. No one ever smiles or even looks at each other.”

Huff.

“It’s a good thing I was a workaholic and lived frugally; I can afford to camp out here until…well, till forever, I guess. It’s also great luck that you came by ‘cause I can’t fix a boiler or anything of the sort, so I would have likely died by now.”

For a second you think he’s dozed off, as he should have been doing after dinner considering the strenuous journey he underwent to get some food, but one glance to the side up has you gulping when you find his eyes on you once more, like they never left, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather look at. What a dangerous thought.

The eye contact has you, or him, or both of you, drawing closer, gazes flickering down and then up and back down again. With the warm glow of the fire blanketing you in the night, you feel so safe and secure; it’s you and him in this cabin and no one else matters. No one else has a say, can interrupt, can ruin this.

Whatever this is.

The arm he has behind you shifts and then you feel fingers skimming a lock of hair, following it down from the temple of your head, curving around the shell of your ear, and into the slope of your neck, brushing your hair back and exposing skin to the sizzling air.

You shiver.

“I’ve always been the kind of girl who stayed in one place. I like the security, the familiarity. But recently things have started feeling tough, like I’m stuck in quicksand, as dramatic as it is to say.”

Your voice is weak and low; you never knew you could sound like that.

When you were brushing the snow out of his beard, you weren’t surprised to find it rough, you often catch him scratching there so you know it’s uncomfortable for him too, and yet, you find a bubbling desire within you to feel it on your skin, the way you had briefly felt it on your neck and in your hands. How would it feel in other places?

“I just needed to get out, y’know?” You’re leaning impossibly close — close enough to see the question in his eyes. “Do something new, something exciting, something…”

“Wild?”

Toji’s eyes flashes and at your dazed nod, he dives forward, swallowing your gasp in his rough, unforgiving mouth. He shoves his tongue in, licking and tasting, and that arm that laid at the back of your head curls around it, pulling you close by your neck. You’re left with no choice but to cling to him and try to keep up with his merciless pace.

He tastes like alcohol with something deeper running, like an undercurrent, a ferocity only a beast could achieve. You feel intoxicated. Carrying you onto his lap, you’re overwhelmed by the feeling of something hard jutting up into your core. A growl pierces your ears when you don’t hesitate to grind down onto that hard length. He’s leaking heat hotter than the fireplace, he’s hard and firm everywhere your hands can reach, and his clutch is frightening, gripping you like you could never escape even if you fought against him.

You’ve never been wetter.

“I can smell ya,” he rasps. “Been smelling this sweetness every day. You taste as good as you look or what?”

Coarse and prickly, this beard is rubbing deliciously against your skin, reminding you from all angles that he’s kissing you, that he wants you just as bad as you want him, and he can’t get enough.

Burying your fingers in his thick hair, you moan when he licks a stripe up your neck, sniffing at your pulse point. “Find out for yourself.”

His laugh is sudden and gravelly and it’s the last thing you think about before you’re being thrown on your back, legs spreading to accommodate his girth as he kneels above you, shirt going up and over before he throws it somewhere. With the fireplace highlighting the sharp contours of his face and his rippled chest, his beastly grin spikes your pulse and then he’s pinning you down with his body.

“I don’t think you understand the position y’r in, little girl,” he taunts.

Using his claws, he rips up your top, exposing your tits to the air for just a second before he swallows one in his mouth, flicking a nipple with his tongue, all while he’s rolling his hips into yours creating a delicious friction that has your back arching and your jaw dropping.

“Been dreaming about these pretty tits.” He pinches the other, grinding his cock especially hard against your clit. The revelation falls on deaf ears when he smacks one. “Fuuuuck, look at the way they bounce.”

You pull at his hair and he lets you drag him back up to your lips, your nipples sore and tickled by the hairs on his chest whilst he rises up your body. “Kiss me.”

And he does, swallowing your moans he continues squeezing and groping your tits, but he leaves your lips swollen quickly after as he begins his descent, peppering a trail of kisses.

Pressing a nose right up at the apex of your thighs, he takes a looooong inhale, a satisfied growl echoing in the darkness. Your face heats up, legs threatening to close around his head but his big paws holds them open, nails digging with the promise of pain if you dare shut them away from him.

“You been flaunting a scent that’s got my mouth watering more than any of your baked goods,” he huffs, eyes narrowing at the wet spot leaking through. He thumbs at it, pressing down as if he could force everything you’ve got to give out. “’S not fair, ma. Waited so long for you to give in to me, heh, gonna make you regret that.”

“Toji!”

He rips up your pyjama bottoms too and hooks his fingers into the gusset of your panties before those are flying away, shredded beyond hope, and cool air grazes your sloppy slit.

Not a single second is wasted before he digs in, lapping up your pussy with a fearsome snarl. The tip of his long, slobbery tongue circles your pulsing clit, tweaking it when you whine. “Fuck, you taste this good and ya been holding out on me? Selfish little cunt, hmm?”

Hands flying up to grip his hair for purchase, you fall victim to his incessant licking and sucking and slurping as he flattens your thighs open, the scraggly hairs of his beard tickling your sensitive skin which grows clammier and clammier with the heat of his mouth, his body, and the fireplace.

When he curls two thick fingers in, stretching your walls further than you could with your own, your eyes fly open. “No! Ngh, too much.”

Still sucking at your clit, he shoves those fingers in and out, dragging them on his way to really take in the squishiness of your insides, forcing out those loud squelches. You tug at his scalp and he lifts up just a little to snap his maw, missing your clit by a hair’s breadth.

“Don’t get in the way of my meal, ‘cause this?” He slaps your pussy, juices splashing and he barks a mean laugh. “This is mine now.”

Your orgasm washes over you when his lips sucks your clit with a tongue flicking the little button at the exact same time those long digits curls up and lays successive presses against that smooth part inside of you.

Toji’s entire mouth engulfs your pussy, sharp teeth grazing your skin whilst he suckles on your sweet essence, drinking like a man lost in a desert, his personal oasis. “Ah, y’r no good for me, ma. Gonna get me addicted on this sloppy fucking cunt.”

Panting desperately, you writhe on the floor, feverish and crazed. He doesn’t give you a break, doesn’t let you catch your breath, before he shoves his pants down and lets his cock spring out.

Just the like rest of him, his cock is huge — long, thick, and throbbing with veins running up the length, carving a path up to his leaking cockhead which flushes a sinful dark red, promising a painful stretch. At the base, there’s coarse hair, wild and untamed like any other part of his body, and oh, God, those balls, they hang heavy, too heavy.

He snaps his fingers in front of your face and chuckles before he orders simply, “Suck.”

As if entranced, you scramble onto all fours, crawling forward so you can nudge his length with your cheek, his slit leaving a wet trail. He smells like a beast of the earth and it has your pussy drooling, a fat droplet sliding down your thigh and you shut your legs tight in a pathetic attempt to quell that ache. After all, you are much too preoccupied with this monstrous thing in front of you.

You peer up at him and stick your tongue out, licking from the very base, catching a little bit of his ball sac, and tilting back to reach his tip where you skim the underside. A large hand slides into your hair softly before it bundles up your hair in its angry grip pulling your head back into an uncomfortable angle so you can face his savage scowl.

“I know y’r not deaf. Fuck did I say? Huh?” He pushes your face into his balls, smothering you. “Be a good girl and suck, yeah?”

So you do.

Suckling on his balls, much like how he did with your tits, you try to take as much of him as you can before you can’t bear it any longer and you wrap your lips around his cock head, savouring the salty drops that coat your tongue. Everything about him is strong, from his grip to his scent and especially his taste. It’s as if he was built to dominate, to fill up every senses until you can think of and feel nothing but him.

You gag, overwhelmed by the intrusion.

He tuts, thoroughly scolding when he drawls, “If ya can’t take me properly with y’r mouth, then there’s no way you can take me with y’r pussy. Wanna prove me wrong, kid?”

You push past the painful stretch of your jaw, gliding as much as of his length into your throat as you can, thumb being pinched by your fist. Not even halfway down, you go back up again, not letting go of his tip before you slide back down, and you repeat that motion, taking more and more of him as you go.

When you hollow your cheeks to suck him in deeper, you see him throw his head back, his abs tensing and becoming prominent, you scrape your nails down that trail of hair before it finds his balls, massaging in the way you know not even he could resist.

“Fuck. Tryna -ha- make me cum so soon? Naughty,” he says.

In a flash, you’re being pulled off his cock and pushed back onto the rug once more. Your ankles are clasped in one of his hand, extending your legs high up in the air. “W-what are you doing?”

Cracking his neck slowly, the flames of the fireplace still as virile as ever, Toji looks downright sadistic with the way he grins at you.

“Just enjoying my meal to the fullest.” He pushes his cock through your thighs, right on top of your slit, lathering the underside with your overflowing juices. He groans, sharp teeth catching on his bottom lip. “We’re both gonna cum like this and then I’m putting you to bed.”

Slightly distracted by the way his cock is catching on your clit with every slide back and forth, you ask with a frown, “But why can’t you just fuck me now?”

He laughs. He fucking laughs. And then he’s bending your legs back towards your chest as he leans in close, placing your calves on his shoulders so you can see his face far too clearly. Rubbing the bristles on his jaw on your skin, he lays a soft kiss on your ankle before he scrapes the bone with a canine.

“Because I fuck rough, city girl. Y’r gonna be bruised, sore and all chewed up and you can’t complain if you hopped on my dick willingly, no?” You can’t answer. “Yeah, glad we agree. So don’t open that pretty mouth of y’rs unless it’s to moan my name, and keep y’r legs tight for me; no one wants to fuck something loose and limp.”

“Hurry up and get it over with!”

Doing just that, he thrusts like a madman, using you like a rag doll to chase his pleasure. You’re being jostled on the floor, the rug burning your skin and your hair so close to being singed by the embers of that fire he’s been tending to, setting alight and snuffing like clockwork every day.

His balls slap against your ass, as if pounding you too.

It’s all so dirty, so obscene, so wet any rational thought you should have been having about letting someone who’s practically a stranger fuck your thighs like you’re nothing but a slippery hole fly out the window.

The slight sheen of sweat on his chest is making you restless — you can’t focus on one thing, not the way he’s holding your legs tight, hugging them to his torso like you might run away, the way the friction of his cock rubbing against your clit is bringing you closer to orgasm, and not how your wetness is making embarrassing squelches that you know his hybrid ears can hear in even greater clarity than you can.

“Oh! T-toji! I think I’m -ngh- gonna -ha- cum.”

He bites down hard on your calf just as his hips stutter and his scalding spurts splash onto your chest, even reaching your chin and cheeks. A drop falls into your mouth which is stuck in an O-shape as you orgasm at the same time, digging your nails into the carpet and thrashing your head around as the euphoric feeling wash over you from inside and out.

Panting, you manage to breathe out, “Y-you made me all sticky.”

“Not fucking sorry.” Toji licks the red mark on your leg away and presses a kiss right in the centre of the two half moon crescents made by his teeth marks. Your heart beats faster. When his green eyes rove over your body, you both see and feel the deep rumble of satisfaction bubbling from his chest. He runs two fingers down your chest and your stomach, collecting his cum before he smears it on your lips. “Not fucking sorry at all.”

Your eyes threaten to shut and he grunts, realising he must have exhausted you despite the fact that it was he who pushed themselves through the elements for hours and not you.

“Alright, up and at ‘em. Let’s get ya cleaned up, kid.”

Hauling you onto your feet, the rest of the night goes by in a blur — you’re taken to the bathroom and wiped down by a wet cloth, redressed in new pyjamas, and tucked in all nice and warm in your own bed. He leaves. Even half-asleep, you find that act ever so slightly disheartening.

It feels like you’ve been used, like the act wasn’t as intimate as you might have thought. It leaves you biting your nail and groaning inwardly. Of course he didn’t think much about it. The man looks older than you, he’s probably fucked the thighs of many girls and you’re no one special, right?

Maybe the best thing to do is to take a page out of his book and just be casual, so at least you won’t humiliate yourself by asking something absolutely ridiculous like ‘what are we?’

God, the thought makes you grimace.

You make a promise to yourself to swear off Toji until the snow thaws enough to get down and up this cursed mountain. The mental fortitude you’ve erected seems so solid, so reliable and firm, you actually believe you’ll have a more than easy time keeping your hands, and your heart, to yourself.

That is until he returns smelling of soap and he slides right in behind you, tucking an arm under your back and pulling you into place with your head resting on his hairy chest.

“Had to cut my shower short ‘cause you’re gnawing y’r fucking fingernail off. Cut it out, will ya?”

Your bedmate swats at your hand, pulling it away from your anxious mouth and playfully bites your wrist. That hand stays in his grip. Heart ceasing its painful clenching, you make yourself comfortable in his embrace, enjoying the heat enveloping you, hotter than any fire.

Clearing your throat, you mutter, “Thanks for today, Toji. Really. I couldn’t have ever done that without you.”

He huffs a laugh, thoroughly amused.

“Wouldn’t hafta if I wasn’t eating up all y’r food.” His voice booms under your cheek, the vibrations lulling you to sleep. You’ve only just noticed how nice he sounds, it’s a captivating timbre, rough and scratchy like bark but comforting and unyielding in a way you’ve never known anyone to sound. “Ya would’ve been fine without me, anyways. Don’t sell y’rself short.”

“I think it’s you who’s selling yourself short.”

Those are the last words exchanged between you before you two fall asleep.

—————————

“Fuck you up to?” Toji grouses.

His voice is laced with sleep and he’s rubbing his eyes, all bleary and confused. He has every right to be considering you’re under the covers, mouthing at his dick and stroking the morning wood that woke up before him. The duvet gets pulled up, revealing your less than innocent smile.

Kissing his slit, which prompts a heavy hand to lay on your head, you ask, “Waking you up?”

An arm folds under his head, getting him into a great angle to see you much more clearly. His brow rises up, challenging, and he teases, “Yeah? Well, I’m up, ma, so what now?”

The radiators have yet to be turned on this morning so the air is chilly in your room, but still you push those covers back, showing him how you’re completely bare in the bottom, wearing only your shirt to bed. His spare hand falls on your plump thigh, squeezing and kneading.

“Last night,” you begin, raising your hip so you can seat yourself down on his hard length, “you told me you’d only fuck me if I hopped on your dick willingly. So here I am.”

You’re rubbing your already soaked pussy up and down on his cock, coating him with your wetness just as he did last night. You feel every delectable ridge catching your clit and you grind down on him with shameless abandon. How could you ever possibly feel shame when it feels so good and he’s not even inside you yet? When he’s looking at you like that? Like you’re the tastiest prey who’s ever walked into his trap?

He pushes a thumb into your mouth, watching your lips wrap around it like you did the night before and this morning, before he drops his hand to the apex of your thighs, massaging tight circles into that bundle of nerves, forcing breathless moans out of you. “Ya gonna ride me, doll? Gonna show me just how willing you are?”

“Uhuh.” Grinning, you let him pull the shirt up and over your head, nipples pebbling immediately. He flicks one, palming the fatty globe to soothe the dull pain.

Steadying yourself with your hands on his abs, you lean forward and steal a kiss. It’s supposed to be a peck, just a polite, cursory smooch but then he stops groping your tit to use that hand to keep your faced pressed to his. Toji deepens the kiss, shoving his tongue inside and exploring your mouth. He’s stealing air from you and the longer he keeps you submerged, the more you moan.

In the haze of the heat he’s growling into you, you fail to realise he’s let go of your head and is now slotting his cock into your pussy.

“W-wait, Toji!”

The stretch is overwhelming; you hadn’t prepped yourself enough but neither of you seem to care. It’s hard to when his cock head is already pushing through that tight ring of muscle and is worming its way deeper inside you.

He hisses. “So fucking tight! Fuck, gotta relax, ma.”

“I’m -ngh- trying!”

Down and down, your cunt swallows as much of him as it can. You’ve pushed yourself upright, using gravity to aid the descent. Nothing else in the room has his attention. Nothing could ever take his attention. “Oh fuck, would you look at that? Greedy pussy can’t get enough, can she? Dirty girl heh.”

You bottom out, lips tickled by the hairs at his base.

“You’re so big, Toji.”

Both of his arms reach for you, gripping your ass and lifting you up just a little only to let go and let you drop down. You screech. He’s reaching every part of you inside, and when you look down, you’re so certain you can see the outline of him pushing through your stomach. You clench.

“Ah, fuck! Don’t do that,” he scolds you. “Start moving before I get bored.”

The threat makes you frown but you do as he says anyways. Mustering all the strength you have, you start riding him, rising higher and higher each time until you get comfortable with his size. You can’t imagine any amount of prep would ever get you to take him with ease, but the overflowing juices coming from you is certainly helping; it leaves his hairs dewy.

Years past, or so it feels, as you grind and slide down on his length, and he doesn’t seem the least bit affected. That only fuels you harder. With a vendetta, you get up on your knees, keeping just his tip in, before you slam down.

You both moan.

“Fuck!”

His hands dig into your slippery flesh, careful of his sharp claws, but threatening to leave bruises just as he promised. The way he’s poking that sensitive spot inside you has you whimpering with every grind at just the right angle. You can’t imagine ever wanting to stop. Squelches after squelches echo in the room but there’s no shame you can muster, not when he feels so incredible.

The pain is quickly spiralling into pleasure and every part of him is pushing you to the edge— his strength, his length and girth, his low groans and hisses, the hairs that tickle your skin, and those eyes, scouring your features and not missing a single thing.

Embarrassing sloshes and splats! are reverberating against the walls, just as the creaking of the bed frame, and the slapping of skin reach your ears. You’ve never heard yourself sound so dirty, so reckless, so downright pornographic. All of it is pulling you under even as the ache in your thighs from the overuse of them is making your rhythm irregular and jerky.

“Gorgeous -ha- gorgeous girl,” he says through gritted teeth.

His point is emphasised by a slap against your ass cheek, the sting makes you fall over, back onto his chest which is sticky with both of your sweat mixing and mingling. The hairs on his chest brush against your nipples, still sensitive from his rough sucking and biting last night, and you whimper.

Growling in your ear, he plants his feet onto the bed, and oh god, he’s grabbing your ass in both hands and you know without even having to look at him that he’s grown tired of your amateurish performance; Toji is taking matters into his own hand.

“Guess I still gotta do the -hah fuck- work ‘round here. Always such a —ngh— princess. Hold on tight, ma, ’s gonna be a bumpy ride.” His laugh rumbles under your body and an eye roll is all you can manage before you’re being pummelled into from underneath, jostling you in all sorts of directions.

Plunging his cock at an incredible speed, you feel him in your stomach, in your lungs, God it’s like he’s in your head, filling every fold and crevice with his beastly intensity. “Toji! No! Ngh, s-stop! I can’t, fuck it’s so good! Yes! Oh! Oh! Nooooooooo.”

“No, yes, no? Make up your mind, ma. Use that city girl head for me,” he growls out, punctuating his mean question with a cruel laugh.

Bundling your hair into a careless fist, he yanks you back from his chest, forcing you to confront him. He’s not flushed, his face isn’t crumpled in desperation, he isn’t even out of breath. In fact, there would be no sign he’s enjoying this —you, being inside you, holding you — except for the bead of sweat trailing down his temple, drawing your attention to the way those jade beads are flickering between your eyes and your swollen lips.

“Kiss?” You ask, breathlessly.

Toji furrows his brows, something flashing in his gaze, something that resembles confusion, conflict, or hesitation. It’s so quick you wonder if you imagined it but there’s no time to ponder longer because he continues his incessant assault on your poor pussy, kissing your cervix with every thrust, practically rummaging your insides with the way he’s using you like a toy once again.

It’s filthy, it’s carnal, animalistic and oh so good.

“Yeah.” He licks his lips, pearly white row of knives for teeth on perfect display. “Give me a big wet kiss, baby. Make it worth my -hngh fuck!- t-time.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to stretch forward, he slams his face to yours, smacking his plump lips, gobbling you up despite your moans of surprise. He shoves his tongue in with as much ferocity as he’s thrusting his cock inside your poor battered pussy. That tongue licks and explores like he can’t get enough, like he wants to memorise every curve and edge.

SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!

A huge hand lays consecutive slaps against your ass again, the flesh rippling and burning. He times it with every thrust, heavy balls smacking your skin too. It’s all too much too soon and you feel an orgasm bubbling from your throat and your cunt.

“W-what is that? Oh my god!” Something thick is attempting to enter your sloppy pussy, round and threatening. You squeal when it pushes in after a particularly merciless thrust and grind from Toji. The extra stretch brings about a sharp pain. You tear up.

A hand that’s clutching an ass cheek ventures deeper, trailing a finger to a hole you’ve never touched. Smothered in his chest, the onslaught of stimulation from all angles is killing you. There’s nowhere to run, nowhere to breathe, no one to turn to for help from the man making good on his promise to leave you bruised, sore, and all chewed up.

“’s my knot, babygirl. Fuck, you really don’t know shit about hybrids, huh? Well, y’r gonna be educated soon.”

The dark, sadistic tone of his is making you dizzy. In a panic, you hastily say, “N-no! I can’t. Really, Toji! I r-really can’t. Pleaseeee.”

With your hair still in his grasp, your head’s tilted back once again, but this time to bare your slender neck. In one fell swoop, that bulge gets shoved inside your cunt, plugging you up, and his maw clamps down on your neck, so close to puncturing you with his savage teeth.

“Oh! I’m gonna cuummmm! Toji! T-Toji! Stop!” Your jaw drops, eyes rolling back, and your nails dig into his meaty pecs for purchase. It’s like electricity is wracking your body, sizzling every hair strand, tickling your nipples from inside. Grinding against his pelvis, your oversensitive clit is caught in his hairs, creating a remarkable friction you can’t escape. “Oh, fuuuuuuuuuck!”

Broken chuckles emerge from his sinful mouth, “Go on, ma. Cum on my cock, milk me, just like that, oh shit, such a good girl, fuck!”

His brutal pace splutters as he follows suit, balls clenching whilst your walls attempt to push out the invasion of his cock and his knot. A crazed laugh echoes right by your ear, you don’t know what’s so funny but stuttered moans are the only sounds you can make as you chase your high.

“Ah, fuck, y’r so fucking tight. Practically -ha- choking me heh.”

You feel hot cum paint your insides, drizzling down your walls with nowhere to go. He’s thoroughly filled you and when you attempt to lift your hips to get up, you realise, he’s not letting you go any time soon.

“Nice try, ma. Unfortunately for you, y’r stuck with me for about twenty minutes or so till it goes down. Probably should’ve bought condoms heh.”

“You should have given me a warning, Toji,” you mumble, pouting.

Goosebumps litter your arms; the chill of the morning air is settling reminding you just how bare you really are. Thankfully you don’t have to suffer for too long because he’s shuffling so he can throw the covers over the both of you. With his natural body heat, you’re more than warm and cozy, especially as his burning cock is still inside you.

He licks a dried trail of tears on your cheek. “Sorry. Thought you knew.”

“Well, I didn’t. This is my first time with a hybrid.”

Grunt.

A beat or two passes, a comfortable silence humming between you. He’s so big and meaty it feels like you’re going to melt into him. Now that you’re not so distracted by cock and cum, and the morning light is shining through the curtains, you can see his scars much more clearly. He’s littered in them, some like slashes and others just scarred-over holes.

You have so many questions, none of them leave the tip of your tongue.

“Ask.”

You pause. “Can I?”

Huff.

“Okay,” you trail off. “Why do you have so many scars?”

Tickling your spine with his callouses fingers, he skims your back absentmindedly. You lay your chin on his chest, watching him look at somewhere in the corner of the room, clearly falling fast in an endless hole of memories. This is a rare opportunity to more about the enigmatic wolf-man who showed up at your doorstep in the middle of a snow-storm, claiming to have known your late grandmother.

More silence fills the air. His fingers have stopped.

You nuzzle his jaw with your nose, burying it in his beard. It seems to snap him out of his daze. He grunts once more, licking your cheek, not to taste the salt on your skin, but as if to say ‘thanks’.

“Been on my own for a while. For as long as I can remember, actually. It’s…tough out there. Not everyone is as nice as you and your gran.”

Carefully, you hazard a guess. “Were these from people? Hybrids or normies?”

He gropes your ass like a stress ball.

“Both.”

“I mean, I’ve heard stories of the kind of abuse and discrimination hybrids face from normies, it’s quite prevalent in the city despite recent equality laws but why would your own kid hurt you? Aren’t you all in the same boat? Isn’t there some kind of…camaraderie? Sorry, is that insulting to assume?”

Spanking your ass, he huffs a laugh. “You’re adorable. No, don’t look at me like that, kid. It’s cute of you to think that’s how it works.”

“It isn’t?”

You don’t take offence to his patronising tone; you had expected to be wrong about aspects of hybrid life. Normal, average humans outnumber hybrids at a ratio of four to one. Some hybrids are lucky enough to be passing, kinda like Toji, but others carry visible signs of their anthropomorphic genes. The latter are rarely treated well despite the fact that they’ve existed just as long as normies have. They used to live in their own continents, building large civilisations far more expansive than humans have achieved at that time.

But war is a cruel mistress.

For many reasons, humans and hybrids stayed away from each other. It was only relatively recently they’ve begin co-existing, even inter-mixing. The change has been hard for many people. Perhaps not most of society, but enough to make the idea of living as a hybrid make you grimace.

“Nah,” he says, almost finishing his reply there until he sees your inquisitive eyes and he continues, “there’s lots of different kinds of hybrids. We don’t all like each other. And not all of us running the same race. There’s a lot of competition, suspicion and hatred. ’s always been the case.”

Nodding, you prod further. “And your scars? Did they come from bar brawls or something?”

“Some, yeah. Others from professional fights.”

You perk up.

“Professional fights?”

In a flash, the cover is falling onto the floor and you’re upright once more. Toji’s pushed the both of you up and off the bed, holding you in his arms with his softening cock slipping out of your pussy. You scramble to gain better grip of him.

“Oh my god! Give a girl a little warning. God, Toji! It’s cold.”

He licks your ear.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. With ease, he carries you out of your room and into the bathroom. “Let’s wash up and start the day. ‘m starved.”

Rolling your eyes, you let him have this one chance at evading your question; you’re just pleased to have learnt a little more about him. It feels like he’s letting you in, presenting himself openly just for you. For a wild man like him, whose solitary despite his nature, this is the greatest gift he could give you.

Toji’s a thorough washer — he shampoos your hair better than you ever have and not a single crook or cranny gets overlooked. But as soon as you get clean, the so-called day doesn’t get started anytime soon when he falls to his knees and shoves his face into the apex of your thighs, making a loud sniifffff before he growls and laps up the mixed juices of his and your cum.

In next three days that pass, you notice the dynamic between you shifts.

For one, he no longer sleeps in his own room but rather in yours. He follows suit after dinner and removes his shirt, freshly showered and completely bare, and hands it to you wordlessly. You wear his shirt, and only his shirt, to bed.

Lunch is no longer eaten separately. He joins you wherever you are, whether that’s in your room, all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets, or on the sofa, also all warm and cozy under a mountain of blankets. You watch movies on your laptop and he never argues with your choices. Sometimes he just eats in silence, right beside you, as you read a book or stare out the window.

Toji’s much more touchy now. Before, he was sneaking in grazes and quick gropes, now he’s lost all reservation and politeness. When you’re cooking, stirring something as you hum to music, he creeps up behind you, pinning your body to the counter with his hips and he wraps an arm around your torso to weigh a breast in his palm, squeezing and massaging for his own pleasure.

He’ll tweak a nipple, pushing your hair back to skim his nose against the length of your neck, inhaling deeply and stopping to mouth wet kisses on that bruising around the teeth marks he’s left there. Most times he’ll let you be after he’s had a fill of your softness, but sometimes he kneels behind you and tears apart your pants with a resounding SSSSSNAP! Before he laps up your pussy from behind, food coming out just a little more cooked than you’d like, though he never seems to mind.

And it must be worth mentioning that the sex is constant.

Every night and every morning. It isn’t a stretch to say that you eat, sleep and breathe sex with Toji. Which you honestly can’t complain about. It’s always so rough and so good every time.

However, his insatiable appetite is making it ever so slightly hard for you after — there’s a perpetual soreness in your joints and in your pussy, you find yourself looking behind you to make sure that when you bend down to pick up whatever it is you’ve dropped he won’t be there playing with your cunt with his fingers and/or mouth.

His hearing is incredible.

Sometimes you hide just to time how long it takes for him to find your hiding spot. Longest time was three minutes. The cabin isn’t the biggest in the world but there are plenty of places to hide, like closets, under the bed, behind sofas and doors.

Still hard at work fixing bits and pieces around the cabin, Toji somehow always knows when you’re up to some mischief. Maybe it’s because your heart starts beating faster or because you let out some giggles, envisioning that glint in his eyes and in his teeth when he grins at your pathetic attempts to escape him.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because your panties get soaked with anticipation for his rough, calloused hands throwing you over his shoulder and onto a bed, his or yours he doesn’t care, and fucking you into a drooling mess. Sometimes he even gets so impatient, so riled up, he just takes you wherever you are, your face smothered in a pile of folded clothes or against the wall with your panties dangling from an ankle.

Everything has been great. So great in a way you’ve never known greatness to manifest. It’s somewhat akin to, what you can only imagine to be, the completely liberating sensation of flapping your wings and cruising high up in the sky or running through a stream, chasing a fish with no end in sight. It’s the kind of greatness men strive for all their lives but never reach because it’s a greatness they were already born into and never realise.

The routine, the mundane, the ordinariness.

It’s all so great.

At night, you trace nonsensical words and shapes into his skin, smiling at the soft snores that vibrate under your head. You’ve always thought living every day the same as the day before and the day before that as a labyrinth you’ve been sentenced to die in, a cage or a prison of your own making. But now, you can’t imagine ever wanting more.

Of course, it hasn’t been perfect.

You still find some moments a little too boring but those are usually when he’s busy fixing a wobbly chair or grouting the tiles in the bathroom. And you do crave the feeling of driving through a long, empty road, or eating fast food. Those moments, thankfully, are hastily washed away once you feel his calloused hands tethering you back to him.

One other problem you’re having is his beard. As attractive as it is, it’s scratching up your thighs a little too much. You’ve noticed the rash forming between your legs; he has a penchant for eating you out at the drop of a hat and he’s not gentlemanly about it. At. All. You don’t ever want him to stop and the threatening snarl he makes every time you attempt to push him away from your swollen and overstimulated pussy never fails to halt your movements.

So there’s only one solution.

“Toji?” He lazily drags his gaze up your bare legs, stopping by the hard nipples poking through shirt, and then he meets your gaze with a brow raised. “Would you ever consider shaving your beard?”

The growl of ‘no’ comes before you could even finish the word ‘shaving’. His jaw clenches and a muscle ticks.

“But I can shave it for you. Being a woman, it’s kinda part of my existence. I’ll do you up real nice.”

“Hell will sooner freeze over before I let anyone put something sharp against my neck again. Even if they’re you.”

You drop it for now.

At night, after hours of mind-blowing sex, you lay all sweaty and sleepy on his chest once more with a heavy arm slung over your waist. You twist the hairs on his face, rolling a couple strands between your fingers. They’re quite long and thick. You wonder when the last time he had shaved was.

“Please?”

“No.”

You sigh.

The next morning, you’re in the bathroom, sitting on the bathtub and attempting to rub some soothing ointment meant for your face onto the irritated skin of your inner thighs. It’s getting worse and you’re at a loss. Making it hard to walk, you’re cursing every god out there for doing this to you.

Is his aversion to sharp objects near his head because of some trauma or an animalistic instinct? It’s hard to tell with hybrids, as the internet forums you’ve explored lecture — hybrids are both governed by human complexity and base biological instincts. Studies that have been done on them over the year have put forth some credible results but people are quick to put a disclaimer that animals in captivity rarely behave the way they would in the wild.

You sigh again.

Maybe you’ll have to tell him to stop eating you out. You cringe. That won’t go down well, pun intended, and you don’t want him to. Frowning, you carefully massage in the ointment, hissing at particularly sensitive spots.

“Fine. You can shave it off,” he grumbles.

You hadn’t even realised he was standing in the doorway, watching, and scratching his beard like he’s noticing, really noticing, the hairs on his face. One glance at the mirror across the room and he’s furrowing his brows, perhaps baffled at the man staring back at him.

His tone is hostile, but his acquiescence makes you smile.

About ten minutes later, you’ve sat him down on the edge of the bathtub, right where you were before, and you’ve assembled everything you need: razors, scissors, a comb, shaving cream, towels, and a tub of aloe vera to soothe any razor burns. Everything but the aloe vera is pretty pink, and you can’t help but giggle a little as you take a step back to admire this big, burly man surrounded by utterly feminine products.

“Alright, I’ll start by trimming it, okay? I don’t want to come at it straight away and spook you, so let’s take it nice and slow.”

He huffs. “Don’t gotta talk to me like I’m a kid. Do what you gotta do.”

With the scissors and the comb, you cut away at his beard, snipping here and there and trying to get it all even. It’s not an easy job — he growls when you venture too low, past his jawline and closer to his Adam’s apple and when he makes that throaty sound, you’re met with images of him biting into your throat, the way a dog does when you step on its tail.

Terrible as it is to compare a biological human male like Toji to an animal, it’s a fair comparison considering his reliance on his animal instincts. It’s been abundantly clear in the way he uses his senses to gain his bearings, how he never expresses a desire beyond eating, sleeping and fucking. There’s no vanity coursing through his blood, he doesn’t stare at himself in reflections, doesn’t fix up his hair or put on clothes that fit or match, and even how he doesn’t ever say pretty words, only what he means, no more and no less.

It’s nice.

So used to the way people sugarcoated their complaints or hid ulterior motives in every sickly sweet words, adjusting to Toji’s matter-of-fact way of speaking had been somewhat difficult.

But change is necessary. Just as the seasons change, so do animals, even humans. With how they adapt to the change in the wind, the drop in the temperature, the quake in the earth, you know without needing to ask questions or to have more time with him, the hybrid in front of you, part wolf and part man, has never had the luxury of being stagnant.

It was clear when he showed up at your door with no bag, just the clothes on his back and the muddy, worn down boots on his feet. Even fully fed, lounging on the sofa by the fire with his feet and torso bare, you sense the tension freezing his body; he’s always ready to run.

He snarls and flinches when he feels the cold blade of your scissors touch his skin. And then his hand grips your thigh, both in warning and to tether himself, perhaps to remind him you’re not a monster thirsting for blood, his blood, but rather just a woman. A woman he’s seen completely bare, a woman who’s crawled on all fours and nuzzled her face against the seam of his jeans when he returns from fixing a tile on the roof, and a woman who’s laid it all out for him, starting from what led you here and ending to where you want to be.

Uncomfortable and on edge, you already know you’re not going to get very far with the way he’s being. He needs a distraction.

You kiss him. He growls for a different reason this time. Fingers threading in your hair, he holds you down to him, tasting the sweetness you’re offering. He laps it up. “Toji, I’m not going to hurt you.”

Face burying into your neck, he takes a long inhale there. “I know.”

“I’m gonna get started on the shaving cream, okay?”

His grip on you tightens and you know he’s aware that razors are sharper than scissors, much like how his teeth are sharper than yours. You don’t want to know what events he’s lived through to be so hostile against the act of shaving but he isn’t an animal, not fully, anyways.

He’s also a man.

And men conquer.

Even when they shouldn’t.

You slide your panties down, dangling it in the air for a second, hesitating but you see the appraisal in his eyes, always so suspicious like he’s thinking of all the ways one could be killed with a scrap of lace. Dropping it on his face, you tell him, “I don’t see why only one of should be vulnerable here.”

Rumbling a pure sense of bliss, his eyes flutter shut and he sniffs at your panties. His hand flies up to your slit just as you’re smearing shaving cream all over his jaw, pulling the panties away from him for a second.

“Seeing me all tense is getting you soaked?” His lip twitches.

“Hey, now, let’s not even get started on that seeing as you’re pretty hard for someone suffering some internal battle.”

He gives you a rare grin.

The rest of the torture goes on in relative peace — you shave him bit by bit, going slowly and keeping your touch gentle especially as you near the softness of his neck and when you go over it with the razor, he takes a deep inhale of your panties, trying to shake off that unnatural acceptance of something so dangerous, so compromising, so utterly unlike him. After every slither of skin you’ve rid of hair, you give him a kiss which he insists on deepening, shoving fingers into your cunt just to feel you clench down on him.

Soon, he’s completely smooth and it’s only when you step back that you take it all in. He was handsome with the beard and he’s just as handsome now. He also looks more youthful, more boyish, and free.

Toji comes to a stand, staring at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t say a word, neither do you. A barrage of thoughts pass through his mind, flashing and flickering. His fingers feel his skin, jerking at the complete bareness of it all. You can’t tell if he likes it, if he regrets his choice, and if he even recognises the man under all that wild and untamed hair. He had been running so long as a wolf, perhaps he’s forgotten how to walk as a man.

That’s what you think, until he makes some gesture with his hand and he says, “Got no reason to push me away now, so spread those legs, ma. Let’s go for a test drive.”

You don’t leave that bathroom until hours later, sore, wet, sticky and thoroughly blissed out.

The next day, just before lunchtime, Toji goes to chop up some more wood for the fireplace whilst the snow has stopped falling just for today. You’re watching him through a window, bundled up in a blanket holding a steaming cup of hot chocolate, and not at all envious of him, what with the chilling weather and his lack of a coat.

You really have to buy him one. He doesn’t look the least bit cold, which you don’t really understand, but still, something about the picture looks off. It’s not fair you get to be all comfortable, lazing around, and he’s hard at work.

The phone rings.

Your head snaps to the coffee table which your phone lies on, vibrating against the wood. A new number. When you answer, you’re surprised to recognise the voice immediately.

“Hi. Yes, I’m managing quite fine.”

The old man sighs. “How glad am I to hear that. The storm has made it rather hard to get a hold of you and I certainly couldn’t make the journey up.”

“That’s quite alright. I really appreciate the thought, it’s very sweet of you.”

Exchanging pleasantries and talks about the various favours he owed your grandmother, over five minutes pass, and you’re itching to urge Toji back inside, fearing that he could drop dead at any second from the chill.

Eventually, and thankfully, the conversation nears an end with him insisting that as soon as the snow thaws enough you come on down for dinner at his home. He says his sons and their wives all love a good, hearty meal as a family. There are even grandchildren for you to play with should adults not be your speed. “Yes, yes, of course. That sounds great, thank you.”

“Alright, bye, dear. I’ll call back again to check up on you and please remember you can always call on me and my kids for help.”

Humming, you’re about to end the call when his tone changes.

“Speaking of help,” he begins, clearing his throat. “How have you been managing to get on so well?”

Toji’s still chopping wood, swinging that heavy axe back behind his head and down in one smooth strike, cutting the log in a perfect half. You press your legs together, unable to take your eyes off his bulging biceps. You love when he shows off his strength, it comes so effortlessly to him, unlike the men where you’re from whose muscles are all for show, satisfying their own vanity and quelling their insecurities momentarily before they’re inhaling steroids like air.

“Oh, you know, this man my grandmother befriended over the years came by and has been helping me out since. He’s quite familiar with the ins and outs of the cabin so I really couldn’t have done any of this without him. I’d like to bring him along to dinn—“

“A man?”

You frown. “Yeah, Toji. Surely you must have met him at some point since he and my grandmother were quite close.”

“I knew it! I knew I saw him here days ago. Oh, goodness. I’m so sorry you ran into him, but please stay away from him.”

What the hell is this man talking about?

“No, it’s Toji, he helped my granny during the winter months. He fixed things up for her and helped her get around. He was like a friend to her in ways me and my siblings should have been. He’s really nice, you’ll like him.”

The man in question is scratching his jaw, still getting used to being so bare, and he’s rolling his head around as if bothered by some crick in his neck. He’s got an impressive pile of logs waiting to be fed to the fireplace and you know he’s going to head back in any second now. For some reason, you feel guilty, like you’re doing something you shouldn’t be, talking to someone you shouldn’t talk to.

“Y/n, listen to me. Please!” The urgency, the insistence, and desperation in the old man’s voice is palpable, a hand reaching through the screen and choking air right out from your lungs. Your heart begins galloping. “That man is a criminal. He’s wanted, a fugitive! H-he’s a killer.”

Confused and somewhat exasperated, you argue, “No, you’ve got the wrong man. I’m telling you, we’re talking about different people here.”

You can’t shake off the abrupt shift in his voice. From caring old man with a shaky baritone to a firm, military like precision. It’s as if you were talking to a completely different man.

A beat passes and you think he’s hung up, that this odd conversation is over and done with but one glance at the screen tells you differently. He doesn’t say a thing, and all you can hear is the rushing of the wind and grunts and thuds outside.

Irritated by this entire farce, your thumb moves to press the end-call button but then you hear him on the other line.

“Does he have a scar on the corner of his mouth?”

The blood drains from your face.

“H-how did you know that?”

A noise of death and despair reaches your ears. He’s shouting something to someone else, you can hear their alarm, can feel the anxiety, the dread and terror in their voices, muffled as they are. “Get away from him. Get away from him now! Do whatever you can. You mustn’t let him get his hands on you. H-he’s one of them. One of those abominations. A hybrid, a dangerous kind.”

“What are you talking about? Just tell me what’s happening, please, you’re not making sense right now.”

“He killed your grandmother!”

You drop your mug. It shatters by your feet. The creamy chocolate milk pools into a puddle, soaking your socks. There’s ceramic chipping littering the floor and you can’t move, can’t go anywhere without taking a big leap.

Slowly, you look up from your phone screen, hearing subdued questions of fear and panic on the other end. Through the window, you meet Toji’s eyes.

He’s looking right at you.

You hang up.

It takes three seconds for him to get to the door, pushing it open. He shakes off the snow off his boots, banging them against the doorframe, and the axe he had been holding is set down by the shoe rack, the metal clinking, as he enters. Light from the ceiling bulb reflects directly off the sharpest point, shining in your eyes. Are necks harder to cut through than wood?

“Ya alright?”

Plastering a cheerful smile, you nod.

He doesn’t look convinced.

In a blink, he’s in front of you, cradling your face in one cold hand. He tilts your chin back and searches your eyes. He doesn’t seem to find what he’s looking for so he sniffs the air and his eyes darken. Slowly, like you’re a deer, he asks, “What are you so afraid of?”

“Oh, nothing. Really. I was just reading the news online and stumbled across articles about the war in that country in the East, y’know, the one with the hospital bombing. It’s terrible, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t read it,” he says. “Show me.”

Your heart beats impossibly faster. You know he can hear it. There’s no way he can’t with his wolfish hearing and with a finger on your pulse. Maybe that’s why his other hand, just as cold, wraps around your wrist and he tugs it towards him. His nails scrape against your skin and his hand eats up your wrist entirely, middle finger folding over his thumb. At any given second, he can snap the bone there and not bat an eye.

Laughing nervously, you tug your hand back, to no avail. With a forced nonchalant tone, you inform him, “I wanna get all cleaned up. I feel a little icky, and all sweaty and sticky from this morning so I’m just gonna take a nice long bath.”

He lets you shake him off but only after he’s taken the phone out of your death grip. He can’t unlock it, he doesn’t the password. But that was never his intention. He doesn’t even look down on the screen. As fast as you can without looking panicked, you stumble away from his reach and towards the door.

“Y/n.”

Your smile shakes.

“What did they tell you?”

Your smile falls off altogether.

“Toji,” you begin, “p-please, let’s not do this.”

His scar twitches and when he makes a step towards you, you step back. There. You almost missed it, almost blinked and lost your footing. But his eyes unmistakably flicker from you and to the side, by the door, at the shoe rack. You don’t need to turn back to know what exactly he’s eyeing. Calmly, he asserts, “You won’t last an hour outside. You won’t even reach the forest’s edge before I get to you. You don’t know your way down. And if it ain’t me, it’ll be the elements that’ll kill ya. Be wise, kid.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

With the scarlet blanket still hanging off you, you dash towards the door, pulling the shoe rack behind you and the sound of clattering and a thud forces your legs pumping.

You run.

You run and you don’t look back, you don’t stop, not even for a second, not even when your socks are soaked with snow and not melted chocolate. The trees welcome you as you dash in between trunks, lunging over thick roots and dodging low hanging branches. You don’t know where you’re going, where you can go.

A sob rises from your throat, clawing its way out.

He was right. You don’t know your way down and the freeze is creeping in, frosting over your veins and seeping into your bones. The movies show the power of adrenaline all the time, how it’ll wash away any and all feelings that aren’t helpful for survival, but it’s not enough.

Your muscles are aching, your cheeks are burning and your fingers are beginning to itch and tingle. You weren’t meant for survival. You weren’t meant to put up a fight.

When he gets to you, he’ll snuff the light right out of your eyes with one swipe of his arm. You’ve seen what he can do with those hands, you’ve felt the way they wrangled you into position, hell you’ve drooled over the bruises he’s left on you. And you never once thought you’d be running from the hands that dragged you over a cliff of pleasure, that carried you around, and touched you so soothingly.

Without needing to hear heavy footfall, you know he’s after you. You have animalistic instincts too.

A dead woman running is what you are. You were dead as soon as you picked up that phone call.

No.

You were dead the moment you opened the door.

“Fuck!” You scream. Ignoring the ache in your legs and the pain in your ankles, you sprint as fast as you can. Your body’s being pushed to its limits; you’ve never ran like this before. Granted, you’ve never been chased by a murderer either.

The absurd turn of event make you laugh, deranged and broken, and it echoes around the forest. As far as you can see, there’s only trees and snow, perfectly white, pristine snow. There are no roads, no houses, no people. No one to help. No one that can hear you scream.

You should have stayed in the city, should have never left, should have never gotten bored. Spontaneity isn’t your thing and you’re learning it the hard way. There’ll never be an opportunity to put into practice the moral of the story that’s being engraved into your DNA right now. No one will even notice you’re gone — you aren’t close with your family, and you don’t have friends, not really anyways.

There will be no mourning, no grieving, there won’t even be a goddamn funeral.

Heart threatening to tear through your body, you collapse against a tree. You’re panting, chest heaving as you gulp down as much air as possible. The bark scratches your forehead but you can’t muster a shred of care, not when every limb is shaking both from the cold and the effort.

There are an array of shallow cuts all over your arms and face from where low hanging branches have whipped against your skin, attempting to get you in their clutches, to slow you down. The forest isn’t your friend. This isn’t your domain, It’s his.

“Y/n!”

You smother the startled cry with the palm of your hand.

He’s near.

Tears stream down your face, falling onto the snow beneath you. Numb, you briefly worry you’ve lost your feet altogether. One glance down disproves that but you’re still not convinced. You hug the blanket closer around you; it does absolutely nothing to keep the warmth in and the cold out. And yet, you can’t bear to let it go.

“I can hear you.”

Lips quivering, you bite down hard. Iron lays on your tongue. There’s nowhere to go. He had found you so quickly and he knows the forest better than you. How many times had he made the trip to that cabin? How many times had he sought out your grandmother? Had smiled at her, chopped up wood for her, had collected groceries and medicines? How many times had she let him in every time he knocked, every time he emerged from the shadows and soaked up the warmth of her kindness?

What were her last words?

No, please, don’t! Spare me?

Or why, Toji, why?

What will be yours?

A flash of movement catches your eye. He’s not panting like you, he’s not even sweating. When he steps forward, brushing his hair back, you don’t fail to notice he didn’t come empty handed.

His eyes glint, sharper than the axe he carries, and he’s roving over your features, watching you tremble. One sniff and his scar is stretching.

“Y’r afraid.”

“Yeah, no f-fucking kidding!”

Even as he keeps his voice deceptively soft, much like how it is when he’s lulling you to sleep, you can’t stop staring at the axe. That stupid fucking axe he just had to bring with him. You sob.

“Just leave me alone, please.”

Scoffing, he steps closer once more. “Not even gonna ask if I did or didn’t?”

You shake your head.

“Don’t do this. Please, don’t do this.”

He lunges, pinning you to a tree with a forearm to your throat. Radiating heat, your body betrays you and presses closer to him, desperate to envelope yourself in that warmth. You want nothing more than to be back in bed with him, oblivious to the rest of the world. You want to go back to before that phone call and make it so that you never found out, so that you never picked up the damn phone.

Teeth snapping a hair’s breadth away from your nose, he demands, “Ask.”

“Did you?” You scream at him. “Did you kill my fucking grandmother? After everything she did for you? After she showed you kindness and hospitality and gave you friendship? Did you kill her even after she begged? Did you watch the life fade from her eyes knowing she never got to say goodbye to me? To any of us?”

His glare softens. There’s a tenderness swirling in those green eyes, a fervour and understanding that thaws your heart. He looks like the Toji you know, or rather, knew. He looks like the Toji that had pushed himself to trek in the snow for hours so you can be fed, the Toji that kept you company every day, that fixed things without needing to be asked, the one that made you coffee and knew just how you liked it, the one that traced patterns you had drawn him on your skin when he thought you weren’t awake.

“Did you kill her?”

Scar grazing your lips as he inhales the shampoo from your hair, you feel his answer just as well as you hear it.

“Yes.”

A gunshot resounds in the air. It’s sharp and startling, cutting through the crisp silence with a violent roar. The sound lingers in the air, echoing and rattling your bones like it had been fired inside you.

“Get the fuck away from her, beast!”

You turn to the side. A man you don’t recognise is standing metres away holding a shotgun. His face is contorted in rage, creating deep shadows and wrinkles that make him look infinitely older than he likely is. Smoke wisps away from the barrel of his fun, pointed at the sky. A warning shot.

Toji pushes you behind him as he growls.

“Fuck off. She’s mine.”

You trip over your blanket. Through his legs, you see that man lower the gun till it points in your direction. You’re frozen in place.

“Let her go and turn yourself in. An animal like you needs to be muzzled and put down,” the man spits, venom flooding his words. He looks at you. “Come here. My father sent me. You know him.”

Stumbling to a stand on shaky knees, you back away from Toji, going around the tree and making your way to the other side. He doesn’t stop you, just watches every move you make as if you’re standing in a field of landmines. His grip on the axe doesn’t loosen and he makes no sign he’s going to give himself up.

“T-Toji, don’t fight, please just come with us. If you give yourself up, maybe they’ll go easy on you,” you plead.

He growls, grimacing. He’s contemplating it. That means everything to you. In some sick, pathetic joke, you actually pity him. There’s still a huge part of you that cares, that wants what’s best for him, that loves him. But that part needs to be extinguished because he’s a cold blooded killer and he’ll turn those murderous hands on you.

Leg jerking, he makes a step towards you. It feels so right, you mirror his movement, like this one act, one sacrifice makes up for everything, like it erases the sins of his past and washes away the blood on his hands.

“Ahh!” You’re yanked back by your hair.

“Don’t get near him, you stupid bitch! He’s a fucking mongrel.”

The snarl that ripples from Toji’s throat pierces through haze, rustling the branches up above and forcing a flock of birds up and away. He charges towards you, axe raised up high and you shake yourself from the man’s clutches, jumping out of the way just in time before bodies collide and they both fall.

Rolling away, you bundle up the blanket you’re shielding yourself with and cry into it. The sound of bodies being beaten, arms bent, stomachs kicked and necks bitten into make you cringe. You cry harder. You don’t dare look at who’s winning, you can’t bring yourself to look. It’s because you don’t want to see the violence, don’t want to see blood, but there’s a voice screaming that it’s because you’ll die if the one who walks away from this isn’t Toji.

“Don’t fucking touch her!”

“Get the fuck off me! You filthy mutt!”

You’re digging your nails into the bark of a tree, flinching with every blow. You hear fists slamming into flesh, each punch a blunt weapon bruising and breaking, bone-crushing swings whistling through air followed by sharp exhales of pain and vomit-inducing cracks and pops. The struggle is relentless, blow after blow, and you hear the gun clatter as it’s kicked to the side.

SNAP!

“You should have never come back! You should have died on the side of the street after what you did to that woman”

POP!

“Ahhh! Fuck!”

SMACK!

“Ya don’t know shit!”

The trees are spectators, moaning and whistling in protest at the unholy sight, at the splatters of blood contaminating their ranks. The branches shake in warning but no one is listening.

Whimpering, you hum a song, trying to block out the repulsive sounds of senseless violence. You should have never been here. You never visited because you couldn’t stand the isolation of a cabin in the mountains, couldn’t stand the unconditional love your grandmother gave you, of which you knew then and you know now, you were never deserving of.

If you had been dutiful and even had a fraction of her selflessness, you would have taken care of her so that she never relied on a man with sharp senses and a dangerous smile.

If you had been a good granddaughter, that man would be roaming the world, unburdened by material possession and human attachments. He wouldn’t be beating a man black and blue, wouldn’t be tearing flesh from bone, wouldn’t be debasing himself for your sake, or his. You don’t know anymore.

You turn to yell at him to stop, for him to run instead. But your words are swallowed by a gunshot.

A body falls to the floor in a dull thud. Crimson dyes the snow, puddling into a shade so dark you could always persuade yourself it’s not what you think it is. Time slows. You can see every flake of snow pause in the air, you can count them, can collect them in your hands. The wind has disappeared, leaving behind a stillness in the air that’s suffocating, choking you from inside. Even the trees have stopped their moaning.

Your heart stops beating.

Someone stands over the body, holding a smoking gun, and it isn’t who you wanted it to be.

“Toji!” You scramble over, hands shaking harder than ever before.

He’s clutching his chest. Hot liquid drenches your pants. You didn’t realise fresh blood would be so warm and you wish so badly it wasn’t because it means that the warmth that should be inside him is leaving, being absorbed by the ground, by you.

Green eyes, dulling, meet yours. He smiles. “She asked me to. She was in pain. Couldn’t make it down through the snow. She asked me.”

“N-no, stop it. Save your breath, please.” Through your sobs, you turn to the nameless man, pale under the cuts all over his face as the snow and shuddering from the shock of what he had done. “Call the ambulance! Call somebody! Please!”

“C-car. I-it’s in my car.” Staggering back, he drops the gun and fishes out his keys, muttering frenzied apologies under his breath. He limps his way back, weaving through the trees.

Despite having less cuts and bruises, he’s in much worser state. His chest heaves and you’re trying to press down on the wound like you’ve seen in the movies but you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t know whether you’re supposed to be smothering the hole with a dirty blanket or if you should be performing CPR. No one had ever trained you for this. This wasn’t covered in any of those HR meetings. “Oh, god, Toji. I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. Oh. God. I’m so so sorry.”

Lifting a limp hand, he brushes a tear away only for it to be replaced by a hundred more. He huffs a weak laugh at the blood he smears on your face and he tries to brush that away too.

“I’d always wanted to meet you. She spoke of how beautiful, how kind and generous you are. Her favourite. Didn’t believe her, y’know? I thought, no one could possibly be that nice if they never even visit their gran. But I’d always wanted to know for myself.”

You shake your head. He shouldn’t be speaking. He should be saving his breath, should be focusing on keeping awake until help arrives. “Stop. Please, just stop. Don’t waste your energy on me. I-I don’t deserve it. I should have listened, should have heard you out. Oh, god, Toji.”

He huffs an amused laugh. He sounds so clear, so loud, so alive you could actually convince yourself he doesn’t have a bleeding hole in his chest. But you can’t because you can feel the blood flowing out, it’s caking your legs and your hands.

“You wanna know what I think, ma?” Pulling you close, you don’t fight his grip. Through your whimpers, you press your ear to his lips, holding him close like you could will your own warmth to him, like you could jostle you both back to consciousness. “I think y’r even more beautiful than she said. My gorgeous gorgeous girl. Mine.”

It’s unclear if he said anything else after that; you could only hear your own pleadings and sobbing as his arms fall limp and his body grows cold. There came rustling from all over the forest like they heard a tree fell, a mighty and sturdy tree. They warned you. There are consequences to dirtying the snow’s purity, to upsetting the balance. That’s a lesson all animals know. But the battle that had gone on here wasn’t committed by preys and predators. Just men.

And men never learn their lesson until it’s far too late.

The trees cry with you.

For you.

When the marching of people came some time later, all yelling and barking orders to each other, they found you lying on his chest, just as you had for many nights and had imagined you would every night after, with a red blanket pulled over the both of you.

There, silent as a lamb, you slept.

A tear-stricken city girl and her big, bad wolf.

Neither of which would ever live again.

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