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weirdworldofwinnie · 11 months

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Happy Halloween!🎃Here's a treat for all you Jonathan Crane lovers out there:

Face Me...

Dr. Jonathan Crane aka Scarecrow x Female Reader (NSFW 18+ only smut)

Summary: You work at Arkham Asylum in Gotham and Dr. Crane has been stalking you for a while, but you are leery of him and have been avoiding him outside of professionalism at all costs. One night though as you are leaving work, he tracks you down at your car to see just what you're so afraid of.

Word Count: ~4,426

Warnings: Semi-rough car sex, non-con elements, forced oral (male receiving), dirty talk/language, slight degradation, hair pulling, slapping, stalker behavior, talk of virginity loss, birth control, Dr. Crane being kind of a creep in general

Note: Reader does not know he is actually Scarecrow! And images above are sourced from Pinterest. This story is based only on Cillian Murphy's version in the Batman films and is my interpretation of the character; I don't own him or any part of the franchise, this is just for fun.

Tonight was swathed in misty sheets of rain in the gritty darkness lightly tainted by the glow of streetlights as your car, parked a few blocks from Arkham Asylum, beeped to unlock and you slung your purse over your shoulder, sighing after a long day and wanting to get home to a hot bath and a drink or two. But a strange feeling in the pit of your stomach at a shadow from your peripheral vision made you hesitate and you squinted through the hazy shower that was tapering off to a light drizzle, dampening your hair.

A suited man, height on the shorter side, was stopped no more than twenty feet away and a jarring jolt rushed to your bones when you saw the street light glint off his narrow framed glasses and you paused, hand on the car door. He was utterly silent and you were unnerved by his stiff posture and oddly clenched fists, half thinking to jump in your four-door-sedan and peel out of his presence, but he then walked forward causally, those hands relaxing and slipping into the pockets of his black slacks.

"Good evening," he called out, stepping into view under a streetlight with a smirk and you clenched your jaw, crossing your arms defensively as he slowly approached, that sick smile never sliding off his features that were - you'd have to admit - frankly handsome... No, beautiful was a better term.

"Why are you stalking me, Dr. Crane?" you asked with edginess to your tired voice. It was late and you didn't even live in Gotham City, you just commuted here for work.

"Stalking? Oh no, I am simply observing," he replied smoothy, but it came off as more snappy and insincere.

"Right... Don't you have somewhere to go?"

"Do you?"

"Yeah, home to my apartment miles away. It's been an exhausting day and too late to be out on the town, so if you're proposing anything, I can't take it tonight."

"It's always a long, late night in Gotham."

He moved within a few feet of you and you swallowed nervously, but remembered a man like him could smell fear, so you put up a brave front.

"So when do you finally fuck off and leave me alone? It's unprofessional to follow someone without their permission, you know. Keep this up and I'll need a restraining order."

"But you always avoid me during work and now you reject my offer for simple company?"

"Company late at night at my car in the rain? And aren't you technically my boss? We aren't friends and I don't know why you're so interested in me, but I don't think you should be. I'm not looking for a man like you. Right now I'm just looking for a nice glass of red wine honestly."

"Really...?" he drew the word out to almost a parodying tone and you pursed your lips.

"Yes, really. Now I bid you goodnight, Dr. Crane." You opened the car door fully, ducking and stepping a foot in when the door caught and you looked up to see him holding it in a firm grip. He was stronger than you expected.

"Stop denying it, I see the way you look at me when you think I'm not paying attention. Stop hiding and face me once and for all," he insisted darkly.

You took a breath, desperately trying to calm your beating heart and yet the horrible feeling that this evening wasn't going to end on a dull note persisted.

"Don't hurt me, I'll-" you started to warn and his eyebrows shot up with a shake of his head.

"Call the police?" It sounded like mockery from his mouth and you scowled as he continued, his pale hand sprinkled with rainwater sliding up and down the car door frame.

"Hurt you, hm? Well, only if you want me to." He chuckled and you stared at his slightly floppy dewey dark hair and raised eyebrows.

"Why the hell would I want you to hurt me?"

"You tell me. I do know you secretly want something else, don't you? Something more... erotic?"

You scoffed angrily, hating how he was worming his way past your exterior and into attraction, but you couldn't let it happen.

"Take a raincheck. I'm going home." You tried to shut the door but he was still holding it in a death grip, knuckles white and veins bursting out the back of his hand.

"Stop fucking around, I don't have time for this sh-" you cut off your sentence with a yelp as Dr. Crane shoved you inside the backseat of your own car and you landed flat on your back as he came inside to hover over your vulnerable body, wetting his pink lips.

"Please! Don't do this!" you cried out of panic and he leaned back, breathing heavily.

"Don't go anywhere," he warned and you struggled to sit up, throwing your purse up front and he slammed the side door shut, getting more comfortable in the backseat, which you were not pleased about.

"This is MY car, get out," you commanded, but he was as cool as a cucumber as he cleaned his glasses with a cloth from his suit jacket.

"I just want to talk one on one, which we never do outside of the usual board meetings and it can be so boring, always about psychiatry and stats and police reports and this patient and these crazies and-"

"Oh sure you just want to talk. I'm not some kind of naive idiot to the desires of the opposite sex," you rolled your eyes and he scoffed, settling back on the seat with a cross of his legs and looking up to the car ceiling.

"It's so cold and wet tonight, shame we aren't someplace more cozy," he muttered and you awkwardly crawled into the driver's seat with your keys and fumbled to insert them in, starting the ignition.

"What are you doing there?" he asked mildly and even that sounded passive aggressive. God, he sure was insufferable.

"Turning the heat on because you're whining about it. I just wish you'd get out of here, completely violating my privacy."

"This is a public street you're parked on, isn't it? And is this how you treat all passengers?"

"I never have any passengers," you remarked bitterly and Crane leaned forward, putting his hands on the back of the seat and peering around to you as you glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

"Indeed. I know you're mostly a loner with almost no friends and orphaned from family or maybe you've lied and they aren't dead and are only estranged... Either way, no one cares and no one understands how you spend office hours in a facility full of the most criminally insane but you do it for the money and to quench your curiosity because deep down, you know - you know you're a freak too who sees no normal in what you have deemed a, oh say... corrupt kind of world."

You swallowed at his assertions and unfortunately fairly accurate reading.

"I don't need sympathy from you of all people," you snapped, putting the heat to full blast. It was freezing tonight and the defrost was battling the condensation filling up the windshield.

"I'm only trying to understand you myself, it's my job to psychoanalyze."

"I'm not one of your patients or experiments," you told him in disgust.

"Every human being is an experiment in the eyes of their creator, which is me for you because I happen to be the one who hired you in the first place. Without me, you would not have a job and therefore I created you in that respect," he replied in absurd smugness.

"Then what am I? Frankenstein's monster?"

His eyes flashed and he adjusted his glasses reflexively.

"I wish. No, you're my first prototype I have yet to diagnose."

You shut the heat off once the internal temperature was fairly toasty and cracked a window down a fraction for circulation. A beat of silence befell until he suddenly climbed into the front, dropping into the passenger seat confidently, and you realized how lithe he was, how easily he fit into spaces not designed for someone with such an overshadowing, all-encompassing ego.

"Now what are you doing?" you asked exasperatedly. He didn't answer and you hated the way looking at him was making your heart flutter despite your anger and the alarm bells ringing in your brain. Something about him was always... very off and you never could quite place your finger on it, he was a blind spot, but it was undeniable. Which was telling considering the people you were exposed to every day.

Crane reached up and removed his glasses entirely with a swipe to set them on the dash and your breath caught with that simple action. You admitted how he was very visually pleasing without those lens obstructing his intense blue colored orbs were. You glanced down and fiddled with the keys when he suddenly snatched them up out of your lap and pocketed them into his own pants with a manic expression.

"Hey, give those back!" you yelled and began to wrestle with him, arms flailing as he held his own above his head, palms up and empty.

"You want those? You have to do something for me first."

"I-Okay, what is it?" You dropped your arms and glared at him suspiciously. He smirked once, speaking with a tremor of excitement.

"If I was civilized, which I'm admittedly not, I'd ask you out on an old fashioned dinner date and then walk you to your door, give you a nice polite kiss and send flowers to your desk on Monday. But I can't wait anymore for that saccharine romantic scenario, so we'll get straight down to business. I want to fuck your brains out, right here in the car."

You blinked, rather stunned.

"I... I-I no, I can't, I mean that's-"

And here was where your confidence utterly failed as he suddenly lunged and grabbed you to pin you down inbetween the passenger and driver seats, head flung upside down almost to the backseat floor and legs helplessly kicking towards the windshield.

"Please, don't do this!" you yelped anxiously.

"Don't tell me you're a virgin who has never had a dick in you before," he whispered, misreading your fearful hesitant expression. Actually, you'd had sex once with a lame boyfriend back in college and since then, avoided the dating and hookup scene, content just to masturbate when you could.

"Oh, fuck, I should've guessed. What a shocking discovery," he wrongly concluded rather sarcastically and you cringed, twisting your head away from his warm breath and ridiculously good looks.

"This makes it all the more interesting, then," he murmured with a feathery caress to your cheek and you flinched, giving him a kick and successfully wriggling out of his grasp to curl up against the door in the backseat.

"I've been waiting a long time for our encounter," he mused, utterly unfazed at the negative reaction.

You immediately went to open the door, ready to run for your life if he became overly threatening, but he hit the button that locked all the doors. You manually unlocked your one door - thank God for that safety feature - but his deadly voice made you freeze.

"Are you quite sure you want to do that?"

"T-This is my ensured vehicle and y-you are violating every right of mine by t-taking over like this," you stated, but your voice was shaking like a leaf through the words.

"That's it, you are afraid of me..." he whispered slowly and the pure delight with pride in his voice was unmistakable. You turned to look at him directly, unable to hide and deny anything any longer.

"I think you are being very inappropriate right now," you admitted nervously.

Crane moved to join you in the backseat, but you felt stuck even though you could technically open the door and make an escape. There was no way he could really stop you, was there? He didn't have a weapon on him, did he?

"If you were really frightened, you would have bolted by now," he said as though reading your thoughts and you gulped, realizing he was right.

"Dr. Crane, I-" you were broken off by him abruptly grabbing your face and kissing you, his tongue sloppily forcing its way into your mouth and you naturally reciprocated while inhaling his sharp stinging scent of expensive cologne. He pulled back with a gasp and a mischievous spark in his eyes that made something awaken deep inside.

"You kissed me," you said in a stunned voice.

"That's precisely what I did, Y/N," he answered with another touch of smugness and you closed your eyes, knowing you were in too deep now. He was going to take this all the way and you felt helpless to stop it. Did you even want to stop him?

"I knew if I exposed myself enough to you, you'd finally stop being immune," Crane told you with a sort of self-righteousness as he ran his hands down your back and shrugged your coat off before moving to your front to remove your blouse carefully, button by button.

"I hate to see such pretty tits contained and so oppressed... Let's free them, shall we?"

He unclasped your bra and removed it, tossing it to the floor and you shivered, goosebumps peppering your bare arms and neck.

"Aww, is it too cold?" He made a pout and privately you wanted to smack those stupid lips right off his condescending face but it was if you were under a spell of a sudden, entranced by his actions and his hypnotic eyes. He trailed his fingers down from your throat to your nipples and you hardened at the stimulation, closing your eyes in regret. Dr. Crane was turning you on, dammit.

"Better than I could imagine..." he breathed, taking in your appearance for a minute while groping your breasts, squeezing, and you gritted your teeth as he teasingly tickled you under your arms, making your breath hitch and a stupid giggle slipped out.

"Sensitive, are we? I promise I won't hurt you."

You leaned back, casting a fretful look out the windows in case of onlookers, but the street was empty and the glass was streaky with rain, creating a thickly translucent rippled covering not unlike a shower curtain.

"No one knows," Crane stated flatly in response to your paranoia while untying his dress shoes and pushing them under the seats. You just nodded, taking off your own and then unzipping your pants the same time he undid his own. His tight dark grey briefs were bulging with his cock and you hesitated, absolutely unsure of what to do when he completely stripped and out popped out his erect glistening-at-the-tip penis in full view.

"Take it in your mouth," Crane ordered abruptly, pushing you down beneath him.

"Um, no I think that's disgus-" Your voice was cut off as you nearly choked; he roughly shoved his cock so fast into your parted mouth. The silky end of his tie tickled your nose as he inched closer, and clearly this was much more enjoyable for him than it was for you as he groaned in building ecstasy and you kept your mouth closed around it, afraid that if you moved, you'd gag or get hurt. He forced your head up a little and bobbed, but you could feel a dribble of precum seeping down your throat and now you reflexed, yanking yourself from him with a loud noise and banging the car door open to cough and spit violently out onto the pavement below.

"Get back in, do you want someone to see us?!" Crane hissed and you felt a sharp tug on your hair as he pulled you back. You shrieked and self defensively twisted to slap him straight in the face. He gasped from the unexpected blow, falling back and banging his head on the opposite window as you spat, wiping your lips of his mess.

"Can't take it like a common whore, can you? Feel like being a goddamn difficult bitch, don't you? Think you're better than me, do you?" he seethed, rubbing his cranium and you huffed.

"I thought you'd just put your dick in me, not that bullshit."

"It's called oral and many women in fact enjoy it."

"How do you know, you've done that before?"

He had a strange expression when he replied briskly.

"I've read up on the concept, you know."

"You've studied about women and sex. Amazing. Is that what you do on your lunch break or...?" you almost laughed, but the way he was staring at you wasn't in a joking manner. He had the look of an inmate one straw away from a full psychotic behavior break down. Basing from your training, you decided to distract his frustrating anger and talk nonchalantly to calm him down.

"Okay, I'm kidding around, I get it, and I don't mean to hate or spite you. Remember when I was initially employed at Arkham, fresh out of college, and I met you for the first time? I personally thought you were extremely cocky and looked waaay too young to be a top psychiatrist in such a grand high security institution. Now I can say with certainty that while you are, um, creative in your methods with the inmates and I do admit I find you very terribly attractive, I have to say Dr. Crane... I still think you're an arrogant son of a bitch."

"Call me Jonathan," he replied, unimpressed by the insult and wrestling off his tie.

"Well, Dr. Jonathan, you sure are a pretty piece of work," you replied with ample attitude and he was fed up, dumping his jacket and shirt from his body and twisting the tie in his fingers. He held it up and a muscle spasmed in face, jaw clenching and enunciating his cheekbones.

"You want me to choke you with this?"

"I'd really prefer you didn't and it would be very nice if you weren't such a dick forcing your sex on me," you answered matter-of-factly.

"Lie down or I'll fucking fire you from your position, understand?" he snapped loudly and was extremely serious as you glared, but then reluctantly laid back obediently on the seats just to avoid complications and he came down swiftly, carefully aligning to position his penis at your entrance. He cautiously touched the moist head to your vaginal lips when you held up a hand onto his chest, stopping him.

"Now hang on doctor, don't you want to warm up first?"

"I'm obviously already warmed up, Miss Y/LN."

"But I don't have lubricant on me, so you're going to have to get me naturally very wet for penetration because right now I'm dry as a bone," you warned for your own protection, but hardly expected him to listen.

"Don't tell me how to do it," he replied, snippy.

"I'm serious, you can't just stick it in there; it will be just as hard for you as it'll be for me and I don't want to end up seeing a gynecologist."

"So you aren't a virgin after all?"

"I had my hymen broken with a loser in the past," you told him and he raised one brown eyebrow, creasing his forehead with a few fine lines.

"Then how should I start, Miss doctor?"

You wordlessly took a hold of his index finger and guided it to your opening and he pressed lightly, feeling pooling liquid.

"You little liar, you're already discharging," he whispered disapprovingly and he massaged your clit in slow jerky rhythm. You nodded in approval, losing your control as he slipped a finger in and moved around enough to make you clench a bit, trapping his digit.

"How does that feel?" he asked almost clinically and you closed your eyes, urging him to put in another finger. He did and you almost orgasmed when he extracted much too soon, sighing.

"This isn't much fun for me," he whined and you made a face, shifting position to spread your legs wider, putting your arms up and accidentally smearing the fogged window with your fingertips. You looked utterly submissive, practically begging to be fucked, to get it over with (so you convinced yourself).

But for all his aggression to trap you in your own car for penetrative sex, Jonathan was now becoming oddly timid as he hesitantly closed the gap between you, realigning his bare body to yours.

"Wait, have you done this before?" you asked suspiciously and he was sheepish in answering.

"I told you, you are my first prototype."

"Shit, you're the virgin here?!" You laughed as though this made this experience any less stressful or partially contrived.

"Do you masturbate?" you then asked and he rolled his eyes.

"What kind of man of do you think I am?"

"Is that yes or no?"

"Doesn't matter, Y/N. Now, let me ask you a more important question: are you on birth control of any type?"

"I..." you hesitated to answer because if you told him 'no' would he go any further? You had pills at home as a precaution, but neglected to ever take them, assuming you'd be remaining single. But you had no intention of getting into a full relationship and certainly not being impregnated by this man.

"I left them at home," you finally answered truthfully.

"I have something for that then," he assured and you stared as he leaned back and rummaged in the pockets of his clothes on the floor. He produced a tiny pill container and dropped a pill into your open palm. You didn't ask why he was carrying around birth control pills, but assumed he had indeed been planning this for a while.

"Don't want any unnecessary side effects of something that I'll have to end up terminating anyway," he muttered bitterly as you popped it in and climbed into the driver's seat to swig some water from your plastic bottle in the cupholder, feeling grateful that at least he didn't administer that Fear Toxin he was always messing around with in the asylum.

"Now can we get started?" Jonathan asked impatiently and you took a breath, easing the front seat down so you were lying parallel to him. Jonathan clamored on top of your naked flesh and straddled you, his cock rubbing up against your thighs, then vaginal area and you squirmed, clutching onto his back. He pushed in gradually, but densely, and you whimpered at the stinging pain and then the growing pleasure bubbling around his cock within your walls and you clenched hard, much harder than you had with his fingers.

"Oh... Fuck, Jonathan..." you groaned and he bounced up and down lightly, thrusting with slaps of skin and you felt your bottom sticking with sweat to the leather seat as he kept at it for several minutes, gripping your hips and nearly plowing you apart. It hurt, no getting around it, and he wasn't privy to what you were feeling as he seemed entirely in his own zone, racing for his pleasure until you moaned loud enough to cause him glance down, realizing you were getting close to free falling off the edge.

"C'mon, you're so close with that pretty little pussy of yours, almost..." Jonathan breathed in your ear and as he hit the spot, finally the climaxing orgasm came with a bang and it was so intense, probably fueled by adrenaline and stress more than actual love, that you emitted a high pitched shrieking whine which trailed into a low moan of relief while it tapered off and he grunted, somehow thrusting even further. Yes, you had minimal experience, but had never ever been penetrated this far before and you dreaded how much longer he could rail you, but thankfully his own orgasm came with a grunting groan as he spilled into you and you held on, digging nails into his shoulder blades and nearly biting his neck. He panted heavily in your ear and his tickle of breath made your stomach flip.

He laid still on top of you for awhile, cock twitching and warming your insides. The windows were fogged up completely and the cold was now non-existent with the heat you and him were creating out of friction alone.

"You enjoy yourself?" you whispered hoarsely to Jonathan as his breathing slowed sluggishly and he looked like he was falling asleep, so you shoved him off your aching body and he blinked, rubbing his forehead.

"Yeah, that was satisfactory. Maybe I should bump up your paycheck."

"I'm not a prostitute, but thank you."

He smiled lazily, eyes rather unfocused, and you pulled your seat up with the lever, reaching for his glasses on the dash and handing them back to him. He, in turn, retrieved the car keys from his pants and tossed them back to you with a clanging jingle.

Casting a look around your car, there were streaky handprints on the fogged glass, thin swipes of fingers and imprinted palms decorating the back windows and you reached over to one and drew a heart outline in a patch of blank space. Jonathan's own finger speared through it, making a arrow.

"Very romantic," you commented sarcastically and moved to join him in the backseat as he started to draw a creepy face reminiscent of a familiar spooky icon (a clown? Maybe a scarecrow?) when he stopped and checked his watch.

"I need to go," Jonathan coldly stated out of the blue and began to hastily gather up his clothing, awkwardly dressing before he stepped outside and zipped up his pants, and inhaled the late October city air, somewhat out of breath. The rain had stopped and the skies were clearing, the full pearly white moon slicing through the curtain of storm clouds, and you drew your blouse around yourself with a shiver before sliding into underwear, realizing you'd never look at Dr. Crane the same since this intimately raw experience.

"So I'll be seeing you around tomorrow...?" you wondered aloud and although you meant for that to be purely work related, he clearly took it the other direction.

"Oh, I'll be seeing you." He smirked knowingly and then slammed the car door closed in your face, leaving you sore and to reel from whatever the hell this twisted specimen of a man just put you through. Did you like it?

Maybe.

Thanks for reading 🖤 First time writing for Jonathan Crane, so I hope this was halfway decent!

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ravenna-reid · 7 months

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Black Vixen & Ballet

Jason Todd x Ex-Ballerina Vigilante Reader

Another ballet show held in the heart of Gotham City. The opulent building was filled with the rich and conceited with their glistening jewels, glasses of alcohol and expensive clothing. You stood on the balcony that looked over the entrance and small bar that sat outside the theatre, silently judging and observing them all. Soon, all of the aristocrats that were here drinking and gossiping would file into the theatre and watch the Swan Lake, and pretend that they weren't some of the worst and most corrupt people in Gotham.

Hair cascading down your back and your fitted, satin dress the colour of the midnight sky trailing behind you, you simply held onto your untouched wine glass and watched. Someone's hand suddenly slipped between yours and your glass, smoothly taking it from your hold. Turning to see who was asking for your attention, you just managed to hide your surprised expression. That cologne, those eyes, you recognised it all instantly.

"Mm," He hummed, looking down at your nails as he took a sip from your glass. Claws is what the thugs on the streets were calling them, and it made you laugh. Black, slick and sharp, they were both pretty and lethal. Just like you. "I'd notice those nails anywhere."

His eyes flickered up to look at you, his dark raven hair hanging before them, still a little damp from his shower. He wore an impeccable suit, but it did little to hide how muscular he was.

"You're not still holding a grudge against me, are you?" You asked softly, a smirk on your lips as you took your glass back.

He cocked his head to the side, a disapproving glint passing through those ocean blue eyes.

"You scared me, what was I to do?" You reasoned, pretending to be upset and wearing your best, fake saddened expression. Jason moved behind you until he was at your other side, looking down at the bustling audience below.

"So is that what you do?" He began, "Hit first and ask questions later?"

"I guess I've been hanging around you for too long." You smiled, and he failed to suppress his own smile. Your eyes trailed down his tie to where his stomach was, and you could imagine the claw marks you had accidentally left behind.

"I did apologise." You replied, voice smooth like wine. It did something to Jason. Made him both love sick and feral. Weak at the knees and desperate.

Yes, you had apologised. You remembered that night and how he hesitantly closed the space between the both of you. How you had held your hand over the scratch marks to try and ease the pain. The look in his eyes and the thrumming in your chest. The cool breeze. The dark alley way with its broken streetlights. You had quietly explained to him what you were doing, and he gave you a curt warning to stay safe. Then he had pulled his hood back over his head and disappeared as quickly as he came.

Glasses clinking and fake laughter rippled through out the warmly lit room. He leant down on the railing and you couldn't help but take note of how close the two of you were. Just centimetres away from arms brushing against each other. So close yet so far away.

"Reminiscing?" He asked looking over at you, voice like whiskey on ice. You forgot that he knew you were once the foremost ballerina in Gotham. The night that changed it all being the night you performed as the Black Swan. Strong, elegant, skilled and striking. You were a dazzling star. Your hair was in a slicked back bun, make-up beautiful and fierce, adorned in black lace. He once mentioned how he had been there that night, much to your surprise, leaving out that he'd been forced to go by Bruce and Dick for socialising reasons. He thought you were the most stunning girl he'd seen, but soon realised you were too good for him.

You hummed in response, and he wondered how you went from an esteemed Ballerina to a feared Vigilante. From the Black Swan to being called the Black Vixen. You suddenly turned, leaning your back on the cool, gilded railing and turning to him. He watched as your silky hair moved against your shoulder. He swallowed hard, the intense fluttering continuing in his chest.

"If you're here for Dickinson..." you began, gliding closer towards him so no one else could hear you, "You better be smart about it. His thugs are everywhere."

His head instinctively moved closer to yours. How did you know about Dickinson? How did you know that was Jason's latest target? "What do you know?"

"Not enough." Your perfume flooded his senses, his eyes trailing from the end of your black dress back up to your eyes.

"You're here on a mission?"

Turning from him, you shrugged.

"Are you armed?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

Without meaning to, he grabbed hold of your arm. His grip gentle yet demanding. "Listen, you can't mess with these guys-"

You fiercely turned to face him again. "Don't you think I know that?"

You were both back in that alley way, looking at each other like you'd die for each other. So much longing. So much yearning.

"Jason!" Your eyes turned to another boy, hair dark and eyes bright like his, as he made his way over. Jason. It was nice to finally put a name to the face. The boy gave you a large smile before focusing on Jason with a sly smirk. "Well, who is this?"

Jason let go of your arm as he turned to his brother and cursed his timing under his breath. "She's a...a friend. She used to be a ballerina." Jason turned back to face you, but found an empty space instead.

"Huh," Dick chuckled. "Looks like she needed an excuse to quickly ditch you. Glad I could help her out." His laugh rang in Jason's ears, his arm falling around Jason's shoulders in a joking manner.

Jason shot his brother a cold look before searching the area for you. But you were no where to be found.

"Black Vixen...what are you up to?"

#jason todd #jason todd imagine #jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd fluff #jason todd x fem!reader #red hood imagine #red hood x fem!reader #dc comics #dcu #dc universe #dick grayson #nightwing

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charliemwrites · 2 months

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Chapter 1

Content: Violence, Murder, Horror Elements, Masturbation, Kidnapping, Threats, Mild Pet Play, the One (1) use of an ableist slur

It’s the middle of October when Soap convinces you to go camping.

Autumn has sunk its teeth deep into the countryside, bleeding green from the trees and leeching warmth from the days. Deep shadows and lengthening nights are cold enough to condense breaths into pillows of steam. All of the little critters are fattening up and bedding down for a frigid winter, prepared to be snowed into burrows and dens until spring pries away the ice.

Your hip already aches through the first half of your morning exercises. The ghosts of splintered shrapnel prick beneath tender scar tissue until the rust of sleep flakes away. Lying on hard, cold ground sounds like a one-way ticket to agony. You’d much rather be one of those fluffy bastards curling up to hibernate. You tell Soap this on Monday when he initially proposes the idea.

Besides, you add, trying not to chug your coffee, Soap’s in no condition to be fucking about in half-frozen woods either. Not with his finicky nerve pain.

On Wednesday, when you meet up again, he takes a different route. It’s been too long since you two last dipped into a civilian-appropriate but military-adjacent activity. Paintball, knife-throwing, base-jumping…

Your bed is starting to feel too soft and too big again. The city is loud but not the right way. The tedium of self-imposed routines is starting to grate on nerves still tuned for combat. If you don’t get out before the trap of winter snaps closed, you might go mad. You can see it in Soap’s eyes too, a manic glint behind glass blue.

But still. Camping feels too much like what you’ve just left – the shrinks probably wouldn’t approve. Not that you’d ask them.

On Friday, Soap offers a compromise. His grandfather (��Seanair”) left him an old hunting cabin out in the countryside. Nothing luxurious, but it’s got a fireplace, cots, kitchenette, bathroom. It’ll be more like holing up in a safehouse than roughing it for a mission. More importantly, it’ll be gentler on your battle-worn bodies.

That next Monday, you meet him at the café with supplies packed and an honest anticipation for a week off the grid.

“Yoohoo! Any murderers about?” Soap calls. “Any armed psychos? An angry raccoon, perhaps?”

You scowl, caught behind him in the doorway. “I thought you checked it out already?”

“Aye, but ye ne’er ken,” he reasons, shrugging. He shuffles in as you nudge him. “We’ve the luck o’ the devil, you an’ I.”

You snort as you start kicking off your shoes. “True enough, I s’pose.”

“Course, I like our odds against any weirdo wi’ a knife, don’ you?”

You shrug. “Maybe. Not so sure about a raccoon though. Think we’d be fucked.”

“Och, tha’s right. I remember your lectures about rabies.”

“Good.”

You snicker at his grimace, likely feeling the phantom sting of vaccines.

The cabin is cute, honestly. There are only three rooms – the living room/kitchenette, the bedroom, and the bathroom. The bathroom is small enough that you could stretch your arms across the width of it and touch both walls, but it’s got a working shower so you’ve no complaints. The bedroom has a dresser and a nightstand, plenty for you and Soap.

While you set to work putting the groceries away, Soap putters about opening windows and making up the beds. The two of you don’t immediately have much to talk about, considering how often you see each other and the long drive out. It’s alright, though, you’ve long grown comfortable in stretches of silence together.

Once settled in, you suggest a walk to explore the area. Part of it is genuine interest in appreciating nature before the sun sets early. But there’s also a large, paranoid part of you (sounding like your old captain) that demands you get your bearings. Just in case.

There’s a loch about a mile from the cabin, a beautiful sheet of dark glass big enough for decent fishing. You’re able to see the row of holiday homes on the other side but wouldn’t be able to see any people on their docks out there. You and Soap follow a deer trail for a way, exchanging stories of your respective childhoods.

No surprise that John MacTavish was a wild child with a rebellious streak that got him in trouble more often than not. He gets you laughing bright and easy before long, and for once it doesn’t feel like playacting as a Normal Functioning Person.

When the sun starts to skim the evergreens, you return to the cabin. You start up a pot of cheesy mac while Soap gets the fire going, pyromaniac that he is. Once it’s burning nicely, he starts closing up the windows. Not too soon either – the temperature is starting to dip and twinging at your hip, unhappy from sitting in the car so long.

The two of you hum over empty carbs and excess dairy by the fire, a glass of scotch for each of you. When you’ve had your fill, he washes the dishes, you pour another round, and the two of you settle together on the old sofa.

“Almost been a year,” Soap says after a while.

You sigh through your nose, stare into the dwindling pool of amber in your hand. “Three more weeks.”

“You miss it too.”

Against your will, your eyes slide sideways, to the hand he’s clenching and unclenching on his thigh. There’s a wicked line of scar tissue beneath the sleeve of his shirt where the surgeons salvaged what they could. Mostly successful too, apart from the damaged radial nerve that ruined his career.

“So much, Soap, fuck.”

You didn’t mean to say that. You’re supposed to be the healthy one here, encouraging this necessary and healthful change to your lives.

As if reading your mind, Soap hums, bumps his elbow into your ribs. “No shame in it.”

You shake your head. “I don’t even know what I miss.”

“Feeling useful, I reckon. Feeling… necessary,” he muses, subdued.

It’s insightful but too accurate. Too selfish. You rub your thumb over the lip of your glass.

“I hate that I can’t keep an eye on Price and Gaz,” you say. “Feels like I’m always waiting to hear the worst, ya know?”

“Yeah,” he whispers roughly. “I ken.”

The two of you end up falling asleep on the couch. Soap, sitting up with his sketchbook, and you folded into the corner against the arm, book pages fluttering between lax fingers. At some point, the cramped position aches enough to wake you. Your eyes flutter open, low fire throwing long, deep shadows across the wooden wall.

Something is watching from the window.

You jolt up, hand reaching for the gun you no longer carry on your thigh. The movement jostles Soap awake as well. It involuntarily draws your eye, just a fraction of a second. But the haunting shadow is gone by the time you turn back.

That’s not enough for you. You roll to your feet, hiss as your knee threatens to give. But you manage to get your balance and snatch your combat knife from your boot as you storm towards the door.

“Kit? Kit! The fuck is going on?!” Soap calls.

“Saw something!” you reply.

There’s a flashlight hanging by a hook next to the door. You grab it as you burst out into the chilly air, tensed for a fight. A quick sweep of the front yard and immediate tree line reveals nothing. Steps soft and careful, you approach the side of the house, expertly gripping your knife.

“On your six,” Soap breathes behind you.

“Copy.”

You round the corner, eyes scanning the trees, the brush. There’s no movement, no suspiciously rustling branches. You tilt your head, listening for anything past the normal sounds of the night. But there isn’t even an unusual silence in the dark world around you.

“Just a dream, then,” you sigh.

It wouldn’t be the first time. Unusual, though. Your nightmare-induced hallucinations usually conjure guns in your face or teammates bleeding out on the floor. Not strange figures at the windows. Still, you can hear the explanation of your shrink trying to soothe you. Middle of the night after drinking, in a new and atmospheric environment. Plus, there’s been all that fuss on the news about a serial killer; nowhere near you and Soap, mind, but still. Subconscious or some shite.

“Let’s do a sweep anyway,” Soap says.

Your chest warms. “Alright.”

Naturally, there’s nothing. Soap only gives you a one-armed hug as you return to the cabin. One final check of the interior – since you did leave the door open when you rushed out – and then the two of you turn in for bed.

The next day starts lazy and slow. A strange reprieve from your body’s military-trained urge to wake early. It’s nice, though, to snuggle beneath the covers with Soap’s soft snores only a few meters away. You play pre-downloaded games on your phone while you wait for him to wake, enjoying the lie in.

Breakfast is enjoyed on the little porch out front; you bundled up in a woolen throw while you sip coffee. It’s shaping up to be an unusually sunny day, and you agree to a longer hike around the loch before lunch. When you return, you settle on the porch again to read while Soap chops wood.

Which, well.

You don’t mind a bit of entertainment between pages… or paragraphs… or…

Soap hasn’t neglected his physique at all since the discharge. All corded muscles, broad shoulders, and tapered waist. Watching the bunch and release of his arms has always been a guilty pleasure of yours, and so blessedly indulged during training sessions in the 141.

You try not to sigh and drool over it (him) like a repressed Victorian.

“Ach, fer fucks…”

You snap to attention, book set aside. “Is your arm acting up?”

He’s set the hatchet down, grabbing at his elbow with a pinched expression.

“Aye,” he grumbles.

You trot to his side, pleased that he still instantly submits to your care. He lets you manipulate his arm, prod along the nerve pathways and bunched muscles that are spasming in pain. His groan has no business being that low or rough or close to your ear. But you ignore it like you always have, focus on getting him right. Barely even register when he sets his jaw on top of your head.

A few minutes pass in silence while you try to massage away the worst of the flare up. When he finally sighs, slumping into you a little, you gently squeeze his forearm.

“Bampot,” you huff.

“Aye, I ken,” he mumbles. “’S why I have you.”

You click your tongue. “Someone’s gotta keep you alive. Next time let me help.”

“Not on yer life.”

You pinch his side, grinning wickedly when he yelps and jerks away. Little shit. Your favorite little shit, damn him.

He allows you to help carry the firewood to the rack next to the tiny shed. It’s round back of the cabin, covered by an old blue tarp. Soap is in the lead and sees it first.

“Oh, well isn’t that pure dead brilliant,” he huffs.

“Hm?”

You peak around him and blink at the rust-colored splatters decorating the side of the shed. There’s a dark patch in the scraggly grass as well and drag marks into the trees. Clearly, some prey fell victim to the circle of life here. Recently, too, from the color of the blood.

“What do you think it was?” you ask. “There aren’t wolves here.”

“Nah, but coulda been a fox.”

You scrunch up your nose. “This close to us? Usually foxes steer clear of humans.”

“Feral dog, then, maybe.”

Maybe.

It’s a lot of blood for anything a dog or fox would risk taking down, though. Even a feral one.

“C’mon, let’s get inside. Need a coupla pills ‘fore mah arm starts taking the piss again.”

You help him stack the firewood and then follow him back to the cabin. And if you linger on the blood, your random dream, and the lingering sensation of eyes on you… well, nothing new for you.

It pours all of the next day. Soap says it’s good timing, that he won’t have to wash the shed himself. Both of your injuries are acting up, though, and you spend the day trying to find different positions to appease the ache in your hip. At one point, he has to help you to the shower, your leg feeling too weak to support your weight. It’s frustrating, but you’ve had nearly a year to learn to cope.

Soap lifts your spirits, though, like always. Convinces you to play Scrabble and keeps insisting that he’s just using Scottish words. It ends the way it usually does – you and him wrestling like children, trying to trap the other to determine the winner. You only just manage to get a hold of him, though he puts up a good fight. He eventually admits that “daylich” isn’t actually a word and he didn’t deserve the triple word score.

Then he breaks out a pack of biscuits as a peace offering and all is forgiven. The two of you nibble on those while watching a movie on your laptop and then shuffle off to bed.

Long after Soap has fallen asleep, you’re awake. The memory of his body against yours always leaves you feeling branded. Like the heat of him burns right through your clothes. It’s been… probably too long since you last got off. Way too long since someone else got you off. And yeah, you had a couple of shameful secret wanks around teammates back in the day, but things are different now. You’re not high on adrenaline in the military anymore. No excuse for shoving a hand down your pants.

Still, your thoughts spiral as you finally start to doze. Rough hands on your hips, your thighs, your throat. Gentle but teasing at the true strength they possess. A hot tongue along your cheek, treating you like something to savor… or to devour. A shadow looming over you, dwarfing you. Phantom sensations that you crave as much as you shy away, wanting it but knowing you shouldn’t.

The throbbing between your thighs rouses you. Sleep-addled, you give in. You’d be embarrassed of how wet you are if anyone else were to know. And of the soft, needy noise you make when your brush your fingertips between your thighs. But Soap is still snoring steadily, and the pounding of the ongoing rain makes you brave.

You stroke slowly and gently over the bundle of nerves at first, mimicking those dreamt touches. It’s almost as maddening even when it’s your own hand. Sleep is half-dragging at you, though, and you speed up, drawing tight little circles at the top, teasing lower to stoke the heat burning in your gut. Your breathing picks up, little breaths past an open mouth.

It’s really not going to take much. Not with how long it’s been, how much you want it, vague thoughts of your darkest fantasies flickering through your hazy mind. You tilt your hips down, get the pressure of your heel against your empty, aching hole. You rock a couple times, high-pitched noises caught at the top of your throat.

You come imagining a big hand around your neck choking off those sounds. Have to slap your free hand over your mouth as you shake and writhe through it. Drag your nails up your bare thigh just to balance out the unbearable pleasure. And then you go limp against the pillows, panting and shuddering through aftershocks.

When you extract your hand from beneath the blankets, you blink at the wetness coating your fingertips for a moment. If someone asked, the excuse you’d give is not touching anything with your wet hand. But truthfully, you’re just indulging in impulsive hedonism as you suck your own fingers.

“Fuck,” you whisper to the shadows.

Then you climb out of bed for a proper cleanup, ready to finally fall asleep and definitely not think about how much quicker you came knowing that Soap was right there the entire time.

It’s raining on and off the next day. You and Soap take a little walk during one of the dry patches, though it’s cut short with how sore your hip still is. Soap collects more firewood from the shed, keeps the flames well fed while you putter about. Nap for an hour, start rereading one of your favorite books, watch a scary movie with him, make American flapjacks just for the sake of it.

Even though you should be feeling stir crazy, Soap has always made for good company. The day passes pleasantly into an early night, the sun standing little chance against the thick cloud cover.

You and Soap are settling in with scotch when frantic knocking interrupts the peaceful quiet.

“Help!” a ragged voice screams. “Someone please help me!”

You hardly exchange glances before the two of you are up. Soap goes for the door, gun in hand. You scramble for the ever-present medical kit that earned your call-sign, left out on the counter.

Soap yanks the door open; a man tumbles in. Middle aged, lanky build, bleeding from a long cut on his forehead. His ankle is twisted at a damning angle. You scan him for obvious weapons, but his t-shirt and muddy boxers reveal nothing but bruising and scraped skin. His hands are empty as they scrabble at the floor, trying to drag himself inside. Soap slams the door closed and locks it.

“Please!” the man cries again. “You have to help me!”

You drop to your knees beside him, already popping your kit open.

“We’re going to help you, sir,” you say evenly, “but you need to calm down.”

“You don’t understand,” the man gasps as you help him sit up. “H-He… he’s out there.”

“Who?” Soap asks, grip shifting on the gun.

“S-some psycho,” the man answers. You work easily past his shaking, getting a look at his swelling ankle. Definitely broken… with force. “In a mask.”

You blink, shoot Soap a look. Have the two of you fallen into some weird horror movie by accident?

“What did he do?” Soap asks.

“H-he attacked us with a big bloody knife.”

“Who’s ‘us’?” you ask. “Who else was with you?”

“The lads – my friends – my brother. Oh, god…” He pales further. You brace him, eyeing the packaged shock blanket peeking from your kit. “Danny is dead. There was so much blood.”

“How many?” Soap asks, voice hard. “How many of you are still alive?”

“I-I don’t know. I barely got-got away. Oh, god—”

He dissolves into tears and whimpers. You rip open the blanket and drape it around the man, then scoot down to his ruined ankle. Over his head, you frown at Soap. Something is missing here. This man was with at least three other people, but one man attacked them? There’s something to be said for shock and surprise and fear, but still…

“Soap?”

“Gonnae see if I can find survivors,” he says. “I’ll send ‘em your way if I find any. You stay here, take care of this ‘un.”

“That’s stupid,” you argue. “You can’t go by yourself!”

“No different than recon, aye? Not gonnae engage, but we cannae leave anyone bleedin’ out there.”

Your mouth twists. No, no you can’t leave civilians potentially wounded with a killer out for blood. Discharged or not (war criminals or not… and you both are, technically) you’re both too dutybound for that.

“RV here in ten and I’ll have the car ready for exfil.”

“Affirmative.”

He crosses to you, knocks your foreheads together – a pre-mission gesture you never thought you’d receive again. You close your eyes for a second, squeeze the back of his neck. Then send him off with a firm nod.

You lock the door after him, then return to the man.

“Are you two military or something?” he asks.

“We were,” you answer, “medical discharge.”

“Oh brilliant! You’re telling me that my only hope is a couple cripples?!”

You level him a flat, unimpressed look. “I’m a medic with more kills than you’ve got chest hairs, understand? Shut up and brace. I need to wrap your ankle.”

He whimpers and whines and curses while you set and compress it. Nothing you haven’t heard before, vehement as it may be. Ungrateful, though, you think vaguely. Save a guy’s life and he’s calling you all sorts of derogatory names while you try to salvage his ability to walk.

“You done?” you ask, interrupting his latest stream of expletives. “I need to hear if someone is coming.”

That only shuts him up for a moment before he’s piping up again. “Do you have a weapon?”

You tug your pant leg up to show the knife strapped to your calf.

“Do you even know how to use that?!”

“Look, I know this is a lot for you, so maybe you should stop talking for a while.”

His face twists, brain turning to anger as he tries to cope with his own fear and new trauma. You don’t pay him any heed, wiping off his head and closing the still-weeping cut with butterflies. All you can hear over his wheezing is the rain outside. No footsteps or screams or, most importantly, gunshots.

With the worst two of the man’s wounds seen to, you take stock. You’re not dressed for any sort of confrontation in lounge pants and socks.

“Here. Start treating your legs and arms,” you say, pressing gauze and wound wash into the man’s hands.

“Where are you going?!” he protests.

“Need to prep to leave,” you explain. “Shout if you hear anything.”

He doesn’t look thrilled, but you’re already up and hurrying to the bedroom. You climb into a thick pair of cargos – relieved that your fashion sense hasn’t improved since the army – and a thermal shirt. Your pistol is waiting in the side pocket of your duffel, loaded and holstered. The weight of it is comforting against your thigh; you’ve missed it.

You grab the bags and carry them back to the door, check your watch. It’s only been four minutes. If Soap isn’t back in another six, you’re going out to get him yourself, injured civilian be damned. Everything you’ve gone through together; you’re not going to lose your best friend to some overdramatic wanker with a knife.

“What are you doing now?!” the man asks.

You give him another once over. He’s done a decent job prioritizing the worst scrapes and cuts, they look clean enough. Most importantly, he seems less faint than when you left. Giving him something to focus on must have helped.

“Checking the car. We’re leaving as soon as Soap gets back,” you answer.

“A-at least give me something to protect myself with!”

You try not to sigh in annoyance. What good would he even be, unable to walk and shaky on adrenaline? Still, you take pity and tug the knife from your boot, offer it to him handle first.

“Not the gun?” he complains.

“No.”

You jog out to the car, gun in one hand and duffels in the other. It’s raining again, getting harder by the moment. There’s a steady, sharp pain radiating throughout your leg, threatening to knock it out from under you. You grit your teeth as you toss the bags in the backseat and move to the ignition.

And the car doesn’t start.

“Shit.”

You don’t waste time trying it again. It should be in perfect condition; it must have been tampered with.

When you approach the house again, you hear shouting from inside. You pick up the pace, nearly skid across the wooden floor when you get there. The man is huddling up by the couch, white knuckling the knife.

“I-I heard something!”

“Where?” you demand, scanning the immediate area. Thank fuck that Soap’s seanair believed in minimalism.

“In the back.”

You frown. “The only way in is through windows back there, and those are locked.”

Right?

“I know what I heard!”

“Stay here, then.”

You click the safety off and pad the short hallway to the bedroom. Don’t bother announcing yourself, or any idiotic “who’s there”. You kick the unlatched door open and sweep through the room just like you would for a raid. The tiny lamp on the nightstand is still on, illuminating the sparse space.

You check under the first bed, then sidestep and tilt your head to check the other. Nothing.

“There isn’t—”

The window is open. The window is fucking open. How?!

You spin on your heel, just in time to see a hauntingly familiar mask bent over the gurgling body of the man. There’s no hesitation as you raise the gun and fire twice, but the killer has already rolled out of the way. Well fuck that.

You rush from the bedroom, fire another two into the couch as you round the corner. He’s a fast fucker, waiting by the wall adjacent to the hall as you exit. And he’s fucking big. Slams into your side – your bad side – like a tank. It fucks your balance, and you go down with a snarled curse, winded as all his weight lands on your much smaller frame.

On training and instinct, you slam your elbow back. There’s a crunch, a grunt of pain. But damn him, he doesn’t let up. A big hand finds yours on the gun. You yelp as he squeezes hard enough to feel the bones bend. The gun fires – bang, bang, bang. His head is right by yours, the hard edge of his mask pressing into your temple, panting in your ear.

You lash out with your other arm, though your aim is off. Instead of hitting his throat, you get his jaw instead. You plant your boot on the floor and push, trying to get out from under him. Instead, he rolls with your back against his chest. The gun clatters as he snakes a thick arm around your throat. You grab at his forearm, but you know you have no hope of matching him in strength.

You scrabble for the knife in your boot, but it’s gone.

Fuck, you gave it to—

The cabin ceiling is getting spotty.

Your fingers brush the killer’s leg, find a familiar shape tucked at the side of his boot. You snatch up the knife and drive it into his calf. He growls, but the arm on your throat blessedly disappears. You suck air, blinking past dark edges. Twist onto your front and blindly fumble for your gun.

Manage two shots right to his chest. He falls limp. You wait a beat, two. He doesn’t move again.

You click the safety on and holster the gun. And then, out of morbid curiosity, crawl closer to the body.

“Holy hell,” you breathe as you get a good look at the mask.

He’s wearing a skull over a black balaclava. Not just a prop either you realize when you tap at it. It’s real. Human. Thin cracks spiderweb along the front orbital bone, the corner of the eye socket – from where you elbowed him, you think. Beyond them, his eyes are closed and still, the skin painted black.

“Big scary fucker,” you murmur. And if you’re a bit admiring… well, it between you and a dead body. A couple dead bodies. Can’t forget about the other guy. “That was almost fun.”

“Kit!”

You jolt, barely able to hear Soap’s voice over the pounding rain, but relieved to hear it. A hiss escapes between your teeth as you get to your feet, hip protesting. You have to grab at the couch to catch your balance. Then brace yourself and walk carefully towards the door.

Your fingers are just centimeters from the doorknob when an arm wraps around your neck again. You flail, try to kick off the door, but it hardly even makes him stumble. Then there’s a sharp pinch in your arm, sibilant shushing by your ear, and the world goes dark.

The world comes to you in bits and pieces.

Something soft under you. A slight ache in your hip. Fabric around your bare legs. Voices? You think you recognize the rumble of Soap’s brogue, but not whoever he’s speaking to.

Soft golden light creeps past your fluttering eyelashes. Soap is sitting across the room on… a big floor cushion? You blink a couple times, adjusting your slightly blurred vision. But yep, that’s him, sitting on a gigantic pillow. And… is that his throat mic?

“Mm… John?” you call, rubbing at your eyes.

“Aye, Kit. Nice ‘n slow now. We’re alright.”

You hum and push yourself up, limbs heavy. Once you’re sitting, Soap speaks again. Gentle and calm.

“You remember what happened?”

You pause, frown. It comes to you in a slow trickle. The trip, the forest, the cabin… and then it floods back. The injured man at the door, the killer, the struggle. The ambush as you were going to meet Soap at the door.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

“Aye.”

You give him another once over. That’s not a throat mic; it’s a collar. A thick black leather thing, complete with a silver chain that trails off somewhere behind him. You stare for a second, bewildered.

“Don’t be jealous. You match.”

Your head whips around to the hulking figure in a doorway to your right. He’s just as imposing as you remember, tall and fucking built, dressed in all black and mask still on. The soft lighting casts spooky shadows across the eye sockets.

The words process a moment later and your hand darts up to your neck. Sure enough, there’s a wide leather band around your neck. You’ll give it this, though – you didn’t even notice it until he said something. Not too tight, comfortable even. Clearly made with long-term wear against skin in mind. There’s a chain attached to yours too and you follow it to an anchor in the wall.

“If it’s any consolation, ye look right bonnie,” Soap calls.

You snort. “’Course I do.”

The killer shrugs off the wall. You watch as he saunters closer in long, heavy strides. No point in scrambling away or trying to run – you’d have a limited radius of escape if he didn’t grab you first. Besides, you’re not about to cower to some spooky bastard with a couple dirty tricks up his sleeve.

He crouches down well within your reach, clearly not concerned about you lashing out. You tilt your head in defiance, meeting his eyes for a moment before he flicks his gaze down. He reaches out, gloved fingers catching your chin. Not hard, but firm enough that there’s no arguing when he tilts your chin up.

Fabric brushes the sensitive skin of your neck, above and below the collar.

“Pretty kitty,” he purrs. “Glad I didn’t bruise this lovely neck.”

Two fingers press against one side a little harder, edging beneath the leather. You recognize the gesture as you swallow. He’s checking your pulse. You’re proud that it’s still steady and unhurried.

“Not scared?” He doesn’t say it like it’s a question.

You arch your eyebrows. “Should I be?”

His eyes flicker. “Not if you behave.”

You run your tongue over your teeth, resisting a sneer. Past his shoulder, Soap is watching with a smirk. Unharmed, you note again. He’s fine. You’re fine, despite slight soreness from the brief struggle. If there was something to be concerned about (apart from the obvious) he would have let you know right off the bat. So, you take a calculated risk.

“Yeah? And what do you consider behaving?” you ask.

The corners of the killer’s eyes crinkle. You knew enough masked men back in the military to recognize a hidden smile. He’s amused by your snarky question. Another good sign.

“Good pets obey their masters.”

You blink, breath leaving you in a soft rush. It… makes sense. Just not the answer you expected. Stupid, maybe, given the collars, leashes, and dog beds. You’ll have to blame the lingering drugs.

“There are so many shelters, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you blurt, bewildered.

The man snorts, hooks a finger under your collar and gives an almost playful tug. An entirely instinctive part of you catches its breath. You’re glad he’s not measuring your pulse anymore.

“Those can’t talk back,” he answers simply, shrugging.

Soap barks a laugh. “Well, you’ll get what you asked for with us then.”

You grin crookedly, showing all your teeth. “And then some,” you agree, reaching up to tug the hand from your collar.

He jerks harder this time, unbalancing you towards him. You catch yourself on both hands, feel a blaze of heat across your nose and glare up at him through your lashes.

“No touching, kitten,” he says. “You’ll have to earn that.”

You try not to roll your eyes, not quite willing to push your luck too far yet. But it’s a near thing.

“Sure, let me get right on that,” you scoff dryly anyway.

He clicks his tongue, but no further retribution comes save for one last warning tug. Then he’s standing, towering over you again.

“I need a shower. You two settle in.”

And he just walks off. Like he didn’t just take two former SAS operatives as human pets. You wait until you hear distant water before turning to Soap.

“What happened?”

“Ambushed me,” he grumbles, sitting back against the wall. “Snuck up as I was trying to get you untied. Bastard is trained.”

Soap’s pouting, even though there’s an entire police case of victims who weren’t as lucky as him.

“Trained like us, you mean?”

“Aye.” Soap pauses, looking at the floor pensively, brows furrowing. “Means he had every reason and way to hurt us.”

You nod. “He had me in a hold and his knife hand free. Could have done anything with it. Let me stab him instead.”

Soap hums. “And, well, there’s a basement. Could have brought us there too, I reckon.”

He glances at the doorway the killer was lingering in when you woke. You get what he’s saying – or not saying, as it were. The two of you are hale and whole only because the killer decided to make it so. Because, as all evidence seems to suggest, he wants pets.

“You figure he means it? About… us?” you wonder.

Soap shrugs. “He’s no reason ta lie.”

That’s what you’re worried about.

“News says he’s a sadist,” you point out. “His idea of a pet might be...”

“Aye, but then why do all this?” He gestures to the big soft beds, which you know must have been a bit expensive for their size and comfortability, and the well-made leather collars. You’ve even got a blanket at your feet for the cool air. “Nae, I think even sadists miss a bit ‘o companionship now n’ then.”

You hum. Makes sense, in the part of you that’s seen the worst humanity has to offer and risen up to greet it. You’ve seen plenty of shit, plenty of people, and the things they’re capable of. But even “monsters” go home to family, to hobbies, to entirely wholesome things that they enjoy just because.

That’s the hard part about war. Seeing the most depraved and evil examples of humanity and reconciling that they have qualities one can recognize in themselves.

“The plan, then?”

“Say we go along with it for now,” Soap says, shrugging. “Not like we could get free as we are anyway.”

You hum in agreement. The chain is clipped to the wall anchor by a thick padlock, and feeling at the collar earlier, you know it’s the same on the other side. The collar itself is too high-quality to come apart without something sharp. So you’re stuck. Even if you did will a lockpick into existence, you’ve no intel on the rest of the house or even where you’d go from the house.

“But listen, Kit, I’m no’ gonnae let anything happen to you. If this gets violent, I’ll tear the walls apart with my hands if I hafta.”

You smile, wish suddenly and fiercely that you could hug him. He looks like he could use it; god knows you could.

“I know, John,” you soothe. “I will too.”

He nods, jaw twitching, then sighs and sits back again. The two of you sit in silence for a few moments, digesting the plan. You take an actual look at the room you’re in – a den, it seems like. A fireplace in one corner, a decent sized couch to your left. Beyond it, you can see a clean and modern kitchen. There’s a coffee table, end tables, lamps, a goddamn rug. It’s downright cozy; like something out of a magazine.

“Nice voice, though, aye?” Soap chirps suddenly, snapping your gaze back to him.

“Soap.”

“Och, don’t ‘Soap’ me,” he grumbles. “You look me in the eye and tell me tha’s no’ a voice made fer sex.”

And damn him, you can’t.

“Can’t say I was thinking about his voice when he was waving a big knife at me.”

“He can wave his big knife at—”

“I’m gonna kill you myself—” You snarl, balling up your blanket and chucking at his stupid, wiggling eyebrows.

“Oi, you two,” aforementioned sexy voice chastises from the hallway.

You wrinkle your nose as Soap grins at you, a shadow in the corner of your vision as the killer comes into the room again. He brings a cloud of clean water and bergamot. He smells good.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you hiss, dismayed.

“Problem?” the killer asks.

He’s got the mask on again (or still? You hope he doesn’t shower with it on, that’s unsanitary) but you can hear him arching an eyebrow. Stubbornly, you turn away to glare at Soap some more. It’s obvious he realizes what you’re referring to from the way he smothers a snicker, though.

Shithead.

You don’t get away with it for long before a hand is pulling your jaw up. Rough only because you resist for the briefest fraction. Once he’s got your face where he wants it, though, your captor’s grip isn’t painfully tight.

“When I ask you a question, I expect an answer, kitten. Understood?”

Your hand twitches to grab at the hold but remember what he said about touching without permission. Stubborn as you may be, you’re not actively trying to incite violence against you or Soap. The plan is to go along with… whatever this is. So you swallow a bit of your pride.

“Understood.”

He hums like that’s not quite the answer he wanted, but it’s acceptable for now.

“Now, is there a problem?” he asks again.

“Apart from the kidnapping?” you snip. “Everything is right as rain.”

He snorts, smooths his thumb over your chin, slow and dangerous. You go still, refuse to falter but careful not to provoke further.

“You’re going to be trouble, aren’t you?” he muses almost to himself.

“Must have expected it,” you reason honestly, “know you watched us for a few days.”

He tilts his head, eyes eerily unblinking within the unholy shadows of the skull. “Longer’n that, pretty thing.”

You open your mouth but don’t know what to say. Longer than the days at the cabin? How long? And how did you and Soap not notice?

Your spiraling thoughts are interrupted by fabric gliding over your bottom lip. His thumb threatening to slip past. You snap your jaw closed, nearly catch the tip of his finger in your teeth. He chuckles and finally releases you, making for the nearby couch.

He settles in with sigh and flicks on the TV. There on the screen is a flashing headline:

Another Ghost Victim Found.

Masterlist

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #reader fic #dark fic #serial killer ghost #serial killer au #scottish cabin in the woods #scitw

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ponderingmoonlight · 2 months

Text

Sanemi losing it completely when you're out drinking

Pairing: Sanemi x fem!reader

Word Count: 1,3k

Synopsis: He shouldn't worry, shouldn't even think about bringing you back home when you're out enjoying a careless night with the other hashira. BUt what if you get too careless? What if alcohol turns you into a monster just like his father? Sanemi has no choice.

Warnings: This contains a lot of trauma on Sanemi's side regarding an abusive father + alcohol abuse so if those are topics that make you feel uncomfortable please don't read, super duper hurt but fluff in the end to heal y'alls broken hearts after hihi

omg I'm sooo excited for your piece of mind regarding this fic @sanemifucker

He’s acting ridiculous and he knows it. Sitting outside the house far past midnight, watching from afar how people go in and out regularly. He should have called it a day, should have stayed right at his estate where he belongs.

But there’s no way he’ll let that slide. There’s no way in hell he’ll just wait for you to return after your little girls’ night out.

What if you’re drinking?

“Please stop, you’re scaring the kids!”

“Scaring the kids? I couldn’t care less about those disgusting little things. And you-“

His father grabbed his mother by her collar and dragged her into the air, feet dangling over the ground unpromising.

“Who do you think you are to tell me what to do, slut?”

“STOP!”

Before his little self even realized what was doing, he lunged towards his father head-first and sent him straight to the ground.

“You…you…you little shit!”, he cried out before ramming his fist into Sanemi’s body over and over again until eventually, darkness consumed him.

Sanemi doesn’t even notice his own heavy breaths and how he clenches his fists so hard that blood spills.

What if you turn aggressive, reckless, foolish?

What if you get hurt like his mother?

He springs up so fast that his head feels dizzy for a moment, not even realizing how his hands pound against Mitsuri’s door.

“Shinazugawa-san!”, the pink-haired woman cries out with reddened cheeks.

“So you still decided to come-“

“I’m only here to look after (y/n)”, he mumbles distantly, already making his way inside.

There you sit. Ears bright pink, right next to Tengen who fills your empty cup with what looks like sake.

His heart clenches so suddenly at the sight of you with that glass in your hand that he it feels like exploding any given moment. The flickering lantern light that dances across your face and highlights your flushed cheeks. Your laughter, light and carefree, echoing through Mitsuri’s estate like a beautiful melody.

But all Sanemi can focus on is the way your fingers curl around the delicate cup, the liquid glinting amber as you raise it to your lips.

A cascade of memories floods his mind all over again — his father’s rough grip on a bottle, the stench of alcohol mixing with the iron tang of blood, the echoes of his mother's pained cries reverberating through their small home. His chest tightens, breath hitching as the past and present blur together in the ugliest way possible. He wants to reach out, to pull the glass away, to shield you from the poison that shattered his world since day one.

“We’re leaving. Right now”, he barks at you while grabbing your wrist and yanking you upwards, sending the cup shattered onto the floor.

“Sanemi, w-what?”, you stutter.

You feel like an idiot, stumbling over your own feet when Sanemi drags you outside without any mercy. The second you run against the wall of fresh air, you feel like fainting for a moment, losing your balance as you trip over a branch.

“Did you really drink so much that you can’t even walk properly anymore?”, he jeers at you with his eyes spitting nothing but disgust your way.

“N-no, I-“

“Had a fun night out, huh? Drinking so much that you can’t cough out a straight sentence, sitting next to Tengen while letting him fill your fucking cup. Can’t you see how disgusting you are?”

Even though your senses are blurred, you can feel your heart breaking at those harsh words. When you left, he even kissed you goodbye and wished you a good night. What happened that made him this upset? And why does he look at you as if you’re the most sickening creature on this planet?

“Sanemi, I-“

“Was it worth it, (y/n)? Did it make you happy, getting drunk like this?”, he now screams on top of his lungs while your eyes fill with salty tears.

“I’m sure you had a great time drinking sake with Tengen, who knows what you guys did when I was gone. What if you turn aggressive!?“

“STOP!”, you finally cry out.

“I drank three cups of sake before you came and insulted me like that! And the only one who's acting aggressive at the moment is you, Sanemi Shinazugawa!”

Sanemi stops in his tracks, hand still keeping your wrist in place while turning around to look at you.

Fuck.

Sanemi's harsh words hang in the air just like your despair, a stark contrast to the warmth and laughter that filled the room moments before. Your eyes widen, the light in them dimming as the sting of his insult sink in completely. You’ve been laughing, enjoying a rare evening of relaxation, but now your expression is crumpled with hurt.

Sanemi's anger vanishes as quickly as it flared when he slowly but surely starts to realize what he just said. Did he really call you disgusting, aggresive? You, the most precious angel walking on earth?

The pain glimmering in your glossy orbs speaks values as well as the way your hands tremble ever so slightly. A heavy silence settles between you, his very own words paired you’re your pained voice now echoing in his mind in mockery.

He fucked up.

Oh, he fucked this up completely.

“(y/n) I’m…I’m sorry”, he finally hushes out.

What if you leave him? What if you’ll never talk to him again? He ruined your night out of his own selfishness, made you feel like an idiot when he’s the only one who’s acting like a jerk. Fuck, he even screamed at you, slapped that cup out of your hands like a maniac. You don’t deserve this. He doesn’t deserve you.

“I didn’t mean…I just…It’s not you. It’s me, my past…”, the stutters.

You want to stay mad at him, want to let out your anger and frustration when he just ended that one peaceful night of the year with his cruel words and strange behaviour. But something about the way his face drops forces you towards him. Something about the way his voice breaks urges you to cup his cheek with your hand.

“Tell me about it”, you demand gently, watching how he fights against a pool of tears that now threatens to spill over his reddened eyes.

“When I saw you with that drink…It brought back all that shit I tried to burry. My father was an fucking addict, always came home drunk and hit my mother…He was a useless piece of shit because of that damned alcohol, forced her to take care of us kids all by herself. That’s why I never drink, I’ve never been drunk in my entire life. But when I saw you with that drink….I snapped like an idiot and I…All I see is him when smelling that...”

“Sanemi.”

You cup his face with both hands, gently pushing him towards you so that his face is only inches away from yours.

“I get it. I just wished we’d talk this out before you’re coming at me out of nowhere. For a second, I really thought you’d end this…”

“Ending this? Us?”

You find yourself entangled in a passionate kiss just milliseconds later, almost swallowed whole by all the affection and longing Sanemi puts against your lips.

“I might be dumb, but not that stupid. You’re my everything (y/n). I’d rather die than giving you away.”

“That’s good to hear”, you mumble breathlessly.

“But please…You need to talk to me, Sanemi. Especially about stuff like this. I need to know what’s going on. We’re a team, right?”, you continue gently.

His eyes widen and stare down at you in sheer disbelief when only a trail of tears seems to remain on your face. Aren’t you mad and disappointed because he screamed at you like this out of nowhere? Don’t you need space? But instead, you’re suggesting…him opening up?

“You're not mad because I called you those nasty things?"

"To be honest I'm still a little hurt, but I get it. I bet it's hard to watch other people drink when alcohol fucked up your whole life", you reply in an instant, your eyes gleaming in nothing but sincerity.

"And I won't drink ever again when you're around. I promise."

"You'd...You'd really do that?", he mutters in sheer surprise.

"I don't need sake in my life. But you, I definitely can't afford to lose you."

Tags: @chilichopsticks @hellkaiserinphoenix @ynackerman9499 @keepghostly @beatrexworld

@froufrousnowman @hidazinie @tomiokathedepresso @poketrainer2270 @chaoticwinnercupcake

@lees-chaotic-brain @wordskeeper @polarbvnny @sugu-love @ryva @baku2345

@komelrebi-san @kentocalls @barbuse @sunshine7queen @lavenderdrxp

@yaninnaacu @hopefulbelievertimemachine @laurencrsnt @sanemifucker

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astaroth1357 · 2 years

Text

Demons in the Dark

What if they have glow-in-the-dark eyes?

Contents: No warnings aside vague mentions of imminent danger. And bugs and snakes.

~♡♡♡~

Lucifer

Seeing Lucifer in a dark room is incredibly unsettling. You know those horror movies where the protagonist sees a pair of demonic eyes from shadows? You've found the inspiration.

His eyes burn with the color and intensity of molten glass and they that just loom ominously in the darkness, usually well above people's heads!

Lucifer knows exactly how haunting his eyes can look, which is why he prefers to sneak up on Mammon when it's dark and he's up to no good…

The mental image of Lucifer's crimson eyes have long since burned their way into the secondborn's nightmares...

He tries his best not to scare MC with them, but it's undeniably unnerving to see disks of pure hellfire roaming around the kitchen looking for a glass of water…

Mammon

His eyes glow just the prettiest shade of gold you'll ever see. Think of a mound of ancient coins glinting away under a treasure hunter's torchlight.

Mammon knows full well how attention grabbing his eyes are, which is part of why he always wears sunglasses when out stealing. People can't see'em glow if they're all tinted up behind his frames!!

He's also pretty proud that his eyes don't give people nightmares like Lucifer's, but since they glow like little sundrops when he's out, moths fly into his face… a lot…

He is far too embarrassed to admit to MC that he also wears his sunglasses outside for bug protection, so he makes up some shit about it being part of "Devildom-style" they just wouldn't understand.

Sometimes, the MC swears that if they look close, his pupils look like Grimm signs. But has to be a trick of the light… Right?

Leviathan

Levi's eyes glow a citrine orange but weirdly, his pupils actually slit instead of dilate in the dark.

Though he will never admit it, but he actually has pretty bad night vision in his normal form. (Which isn't that surprising given all of screens he stares at.)

It's a little comical watching Levi stumble around in the dark if he needs to go grab something. The MC can just follow his eyes as he smacks into a lot of walls…

His demon form can kind of make up for it, but only so much. If things get too dark, Levi can change into it so he can see his surroundings with the help of UV light.

"Snake Vision" makes the dark more manageable, but it's not very good for gaming at all so he rarely thinks to use it. Everybody knows that past a certain brightness in the room, don't expect Levi to be of much help.

Satan

Magically enchanted his eyes to look exactly like a green-eyed cat's in the dark. I'm dead serious.

Imagine just going about your business then two grown man-sized feline eyes pop out from behind a corner. They even have nocturnal eyeshine so feels like you're being hunted!

Sometimes he can't help himself and he'll sneak up on people with his eyes closed so he can open them over their shoulders or peeking around corners.

He has given the whole House about as many heart attacks as Lucifer has pulling those shenanigans, I swear…

Belphie is the only one generally unaffected and he always gets a big laugh from when Satan scares the others. The youngest boys just be like that, unfortunately...

Asmodeus

His eyes look like a kaleidoscope in low light. Every slight tilt of his head makes them reflect a whole new wave of fractals and colors.

Asmo is just as aware as Mammon that his eyes are gorgeous, but unlike Mammon he wouldn't DARE cover them up!! Sunglasses are for sunny days, which they don't ever get down in Hell.

Asmo's eyes are integral to his charm spells, so he takes extra care to be sure that they are as healthy and bright as they can be! He won't even accept eyebags.

Seeing Asmo's eyes in the dark kind of like seeing a trippy optical illusion just... staring at you. It's less unnerving than the others but it's equally hard to ignore.

To this day, he brags that it was his eyes that caught Solomon's attention when they first met. (Solomon actually wanted to pluck them out to use as potion ingredients, but he'll let that stay a secret.)

Beelzebub

Beel's eyes are probably the most normal of all of the family unless you look at them suuuper closely.

In his normal form, his eyes will just glow a nice shade of purple with nothing fancy happening. But in his demon form, they get that glassy, compounded film akin to insects with his iris still trapped and moving around under the surface.

Thankfully, they do not bulge out of his skull. They even give him the ability to see and track objects in fast motion, which does wonders for his reaction time.

... Somewhat unfortunately, though, his line of sight is more narrow than an inscets so it can look like he's trying to look everywhere all at once to compensate. His eyes will constantly dart around the room as if he is trying to follow the flight pattern of a coked out fly.

At least he mostly only uses this during fights or sporting events where they really come in handy. Honestly, if there's anything more jarring than red eyes, it's stumbling across bug-eyes that they can practically see right through you.

Belphegor

Belphie's eyes glow purple, but they don't shine nearly as brightly as his brothers'. In fact, they have a steady, calming pulse when stared at which is very unnerving.

Total darkness is really when Belphie gives off his best "sleep paralysis demon" vibes. His eyes are really relaxing to look at, but only in the same way that the little light on an angler fish would be enticing to its prey. It's a trap, don't fall for it.

Belphie CAN put people to sleep this way, but he hates doing it because it means he has to somehow not blink for ages. He really has to be motivated to want to see someone zonked out.

For a couple centuries, Mammon would send Belphie to talk to Lucifer if he was working too late in order to (compassionately) knock their brother out so he could get some rest.

Lucifer's since gotten wise to this trick, but sometimes if he's really been going too long he will forget until he wakes up on the nearest couch post Belphie "convincing" him to take a nap.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #tw: bugs #tw: snakes

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pearlessance · 2 months

Text

Feelin' Empty? - Idle Threats [iv]

Series Summary — Joel has watch duty with Jackson’s twenty-year old, smart-mouthed brat and gets more than he bargained for.

Chapter Summary — Joel reminds you to heed his warnings.

Pairing — Joel Miller/Reader

Warnings — Explicit sexual content MDNI, brat taming, age gap (32yrs), mean!Joel, religious imagery and symbolism, catholic guilt, jealousy, light angst, spanking, edging

SERIES MASTERLIST

[cross posted to AO3]

Joel waits several minutes before leaving the bathroom. He cleans himself up, tries to collect his thoughts, tries to swallow down the bitter taste you left behind.

And when he emerges back into the front of the bar, it isn’t Kelly’s smiling face that grabs his attention. It’s you, of course it’s fucking you, because you’ve picked up your things from the bar and moved instead to a booth.

You’re not alone, either. Abel sits at your side, grinning down at you with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Joel doesn’t know Abel well. He knows he works in the armory, that he keeps stock of all the weapons and ammunition that pass through Jackson. He doesn’t know about the knife wedged in Joel’s boot right now, though.

He pushes the thought from his mind. His jaw clenches, and he takes in a slow breath, and then he’s forcing himself to return to the bar. Tara’s refilled his glass, and Joel has never been more thankful.

“I was starting to worry,” Kelly says as Joel sits on the barstool at her side. “You feeling okay?”

Other than the fact that he just had a religious experience with a girl half his age only to find her nearly sitting in the lap of another man moments later? Yeah. Fine. “Peachy,” he answers, taking a long sip of his whiskey.

Abel’s older than you by several years. Younger than Joel, but far from age-appropriate. He’s gotta be in his mid forties, but Joel can’t deny that he’s handsome. Tall and built and rugged, with a thick black beard he keeps trimmed up like some sort of pretty boy. Beneath the cream colored cowboy hat he wears, Joel can see matching dark curls poking out of the sides. And he’s got those bright blue eyes, too, which are currently swallowing you up with no remorse.

Joel grinds his teeth. Takes another sip of whiskey. He hears Kelly say something. A question, maybe, but he doesn’t hear it. “What was that?”

“I was just asking if you two have history.”

It takes him a little off guard. Is he so obvious? He must be, though. Because Kelly’s sunshiny smile falls as she looks over at you, and Joel begins to feel a little bad for her. Because this date is going nowhere, and he thinks she knows it, but she’s still trying. “Not really,” he answers. “We were on patrol together a couple of times.”

She nods slowly, mulling his answer over like there’s a secret hidden between his words. Joel supposes there is. “Did something happen?”

Christ. Was she this nosy with everyone in Jackson, or just with Joel? He doesn’t want to answer. So he doesn’t. Finishes off his whiskey and nods to Tara for another.

This is too much. And Joel suddenly realizes the solution to all of his problems right now; Kelly, Abel, you—is just to simply get the fuck out of here.

But he can’t leave you alone like this. It’s not safe. He knows exactly what sort of thoughts are running through Abel’s mind right now, knows exactly what he’s thinking when he licks his lips and smirks down at you. Joel can hear him faintly, saying, “You’ve got such a pretty smile, darlin’.”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Kelly suddenly says. She laughs but there’s no joy in it, no amusement at all. She rises to her feet with a heavy sigh. “I’m gonna go, Joel.”

It’s only with her words he remembers why he came here, remembers that he was supposed to try on this date with Kelly to distract himself from you and has, catastrophically, failed. He thinks about asking her to sit back down, but then realizes he can pay closer attention to you without her chattering in his ear, so Joel apologizes instead. “Kelly, look, I’m…I’m sorry. I don’t think I’m…cut out for this kinda thing.”

She nods slowly, looks over to you one last time. “I get it,” she says, reminding him of your conversation in the bathroom.

I get it, but I don’t understand. It hurts just as bad in his memory. Cuts just as deep.

When he looks up at her, a storm cloud has replaced all that carefree sunshine on her face and rainwater lines her lashes. His eyes soften, and Joel wishes he would’ve ended this the moment he stepped through the door to save everyone a little bit of pain. “Kelly…”

She shakes her head, clearing any remaining sadness away. “Really, Joel, it’s fine. I’m not blind, alright? You can’t hide something like that.”

His brows furrow. “Like what?”

Kelly gathers her jacket with one hand and waves the other between you and him. “That,” she says as if it’s obvious, like the magnetic energy pulling him to you is some physical, tangible thing. “Whatever it is, it’s not exactly subtle. And, Joel, that girl’s trouble but she doesn’t deserve any more hurt. Neither of you do. So, whatever it is, just make sure it’s real.” She turns to leave, but at the door she turns her head back to him, watery eyes making their grand return. And then she says, “Nothing’s promised anymore. Take the good where you can get it.”

Joel tosses his whiskey back in one gulp. He presses his fingers into his temple, trying to alleviate the ache, grateful for the soft hum the alcohol has created in his bones. He hears the ring of your sweet laughter and his eyes follow the sound.

He watches through hooded eyes as Abel pulls you to the other end of the bar where there’s a small, open space near the jukebox. He takes your hand in his, the very hand that you licked clean moments ago, and raises it above your head. Abel’s spinning you in a circle, and there’s a carefree smile on your face, and it makes Joel feel hollow. Like the part inside of him that you’ve carved out for yourself has been vacated, demolished. It makes him feel empty.

You look happy. And that’s the part that kills him.

Joel wants that for you. Wants you to be happy and safe and satisfied and loved. And it can’t be him that gives those things to you, can it? It would put a target on your back for cruelty, and Joel has to protect you from that. You say you don’t care what the people of Jackson have to say about you, but he does. Joel knows himself. Knows that if he ever overheard someone talking bad about you and it was his fault? There would be more than just an argument with his little brother as punishment.

There would be blood, and loss, and death. And Joel doesn’t want that. He only wants you—sweet and soft and innocent and bratty and perfect. He doesn’t want to taint you with bloodstained hands, doesn’t want to tarnish you any further than he already has.

But then you glance over at him from around Abel’s shoulder as he sways you to the soft blues song that plays. He’s got one hand wrapped in yours and the other on your back, a respectful distance above your ass. Far more respectful than Joel has ever been to you.

And there’s that look in your eyes again, the one that makes him feel warm, comforted, safe. It grows and grows the longer you stare at him until it’s engulfed every cell in his body, thawing him from the inside out. And when you look away as Abel whispers something in your ear, that warmth in his chest remains. Muted, but ever-present.

Joel is a selfish man. He’s come to terms with it. He knows from experience that if it ever came between choosing the few and choosing the many, he’d let the world burn if it meant keeping his people safe. The ones he loves, the ones he’s chosen. He’s not ignorant to the fact that you have, inescapably, found your way into that category of people he’d sacrifice the world for.

But he doesn’t want to be selfish with you. He doesn’t want to, even though he already has been. Because the selfish thing he’s doing now will hurt you later on, just as Tommy said. No matter what, even if things go perfectly to plan, someone will suffer for what the two of you have done. And Joel really, really doesn’t want it to be you.

If there was a way to guarantee that he would be the only one left bleeding at the end of this calamity, Joel would be snatching you out of Abel’s hands and taking you home before the song was over. He’d damn himself without a second thought, without a single regret because Kelly is right; nothing is promised anymore. And Joel wants to hold onto that warmth for as long as he can, wants to hold onto you for as long as he can.

Even if it’s selfish. Even if it’s sinful. Even if it hurts.

But he doesn’t want to make a scene, doesn’t want to embarrass you. Which leaves him stuck, sitting at the bar, sipping whiskey to fill the void you left behind, watching Abel play all his tricks to attempt to woo you. Joel even watches some of them work.

Abel’s funny. Or at least, you find him so. Joel knows because every couple of minutes you’re giggling or snorting or grinning with a shake of your head. He queues up music on the jukebox and the two of you dance to Have You Ever Needed Someone So Bad by Def Leppard and Joel thinks about chewing on glass.

You’re glancing over to the bar every few minutes, but Abel is completely unaware of Joel’s hard stare. He understands, though, how easy it is to succumb to your witchery. How being in your presence makes everything else—people, problems, morals—fade into the background. Joel wonders if he gets that same lovesick look on his face that Abel currently wears.

It’s painful to watch. Every second of it makes Joel feel like he’s splintering apart. But he forces himself to stay put—to keep a close eye on you. To keep you safe. Because he can see the thoughts as they flit through Abel’s head, can see him appreciating the curve of your neck, the softness of your lips, the arch of your nose. Joel can relate because he’s been there—enthralled, captivated, hypnotized. And he knows Abel will do anything to take you home with him, to make you his. But that’s not going to happen because Joel will never allow it.

So he watches the two of you dance until the sun sets below the horizon. He watches Abel push your hair behind your ear, watches your cheeks turn crimson when he compliments you, watches him pluck his cowboy hat from his head and place it onto yours. And it makes him sick—makes his knuckles go white, makes him grind his teeth, makes him sweat.

But Joel has never, ever, been as angry as he is when you lay your head against Abel’s chest and he presses a kiss into your hair. Because holding your hand and touching your spine over your jean jacket with the other is one thing—but kissing you? No.

Fuck. No.

It sends him into a blind rage. Joel realizes it’s been simmering since the moment he left the bathroom, that watching the two of you become real cozy in front of the jukebox only served to stoke the flames of fury beneath his skin.

He’s going to kill him.

Joel grabs a half empty beer bottle by the neck and smashes it against the bar top.

The commotion grabs all the attention in the room, including yours, but Joel doesn’t notice. He only sees Abel and his hands on you and his lips against your head and the smiles he’s stealing from you, smiles that should belong to Joel.

His ears are ringing. Fuck the people of Jackson and the bullshit they’ll have to say. Fuck watching you when he should be holding you. Fuck your age difference and the notion that it’s wrong and fuck the wrath of God. But more than anything, fuck Abel.

He doesn’t take more than two steps before someone pushes him back. A solid force standing between Joel and his vengeance. He shoves and shoves but it doesn’t move, and he thinks about raising the glass bottle in his hand to whatever stands in his fucking way—until Tommy’s voice cuts through the red fog in his mind.

“Joel,” he says. “ Joel. Joel, take a walk. Talk a fucking walk. Right now.”

His brother stands in front of him, one hand wrapped around Joel’s wrist, the other shoving his chest, pushing Joel backward.

On the other side of Tommy, Abel stands with his shoulders squared and his fists clenched at his sides. He’s pulled you behind him protectively, completely oblivious that Joel is no threat when it comes to you.

In fact, Joel realizes that maybe you’re the true threat in the room. Making him feel these things, tempting him toward sin. The true forbidden fruit, the snake in the grass. And it’s only now Joel realizes it’s far too late for him.

Tommy pushes him out of the bar. The winter air stings Joel’s face, his hands—ice cold compared to the boiling temperatures within. “Go home, Joel,” his brother says, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t be stupid.” There’s something in his eyes. A warning, maybe. Joel listens, leaving you alone in the bar with Abel and Tommy and Tara and whoever the fuck else.

Because Joel is lucid enough to know Abel won’t hurt you. He’s also lucid enough to know that if he did, there would be nothing strong enough to keep Joel from ripping him apart.

So, he appeases his brother.

He walks the streets of Jackson but he doesn’t go home. He can’t go home, not now. He’d only lie in his bed and convince himself to come find you. And Joel’s tired, so fucking tired of beating himself up for this.

It’s too late. Too fucking late. He’s already sunk his teeth in deep, already cracked the bones and sucked out the marrow, already given into his lust, his gluttony, already listened to the hissing from your forked tongue and let himself believe it. The poison will set in later down the line, he knows. But later isn’t now and forbidden or not, Joel Miller is starving and you’re fucking delicious.

There’s a big willow tree on the side of the street opposite your house. Joel stands beneath the weeping branches, comparing the sway of the limbs to his grip on his sanity. He leans against the wide trunk and waits.

And waits.

He sees you less than twenty minutes later. You’ve got your jacket pulled tight across your chest and your steps are hurried as you skip up the stairs and try to fight off the midnight chill. The moonlight reflects in your hair, and Joel thinks you look like some sort of angel. His desire for you is incessant; a gnawing against his psyche, a want that’s both unholy and divine.

Joel watches you fumble with the key, wondering if you intentionally forgot to lock your front door that night. It wouldn’t surprise him anymore—you bratty, venomous little thing.

He waits until you disappear inside before he pushes away from the tree and crosses the street. Joel’s careful as he steps up the creaky stairs. And, much to his relief and satisfaction, the door has been, once again, left unlocked.

It’s dark on the other side, nothing to illuminate the space but the soft glow of the lamp in your bedroom. He follows it like a moth to a flame, but Joel stops when he notices his coat hanging over the back of the couch.

He only just now remembers he left it at the bar in his haze of fury, and can’t tell if it makes him feel tender or irritated, seeing the dark brown canvas hanging there so casually, looking far from out of place. On the one hand, he loves that you thought of him, loves that you saw it, and felt entitled to claim it as yours for the time being. Even though you danced with another man all night, even though he knows Abel likely begged to walk you home, it was a piece of Joel that you decided to take. And the realization brings him a deep satisfaction, knowing you chose him.

But bringing it home means you assumed Joel would show up here at some point. And he can’t help but feel a little played. Like this has been your plan all along; to provoke him to anger, to incite a reaction from him. And the worst part is that it worked—Joel did just what was expected. But he doesn’t regret it for a single second, still feels the residual wrath in the palms of his hands and he wants so badly to give you a spoonful of your own medicine.

You want to be bratty, to taunt him? Fine. But you need to understand that your actions are not without consequence.

When he pushes open your bedroom door, Joel ignores the gasp of surprise you let out. Your hand goes to your chest in an attempt to slow your racing heart, and his hand finds a home around your neck. He pushes you against the wall, and expects you to fight back or shove him or shout out curses or something— but all you do is rest your hand against his wrist. His touch is bruising but yours is affectionate and, just like that, Joel’s lost all control yet again.

His knees go weak at the sultry look in your eyes, at the smirk playing at your pretty mouth, at the deviance you exude. “Tommy told me to stay away from you,” you say.

Joel realizes his brother is now playing both sides, trying to drive from the back seat. But Joel’s already driven over the cliff, now in a complete free fall. It’s too late. Too late. And he thinks it might’ve been from the moment he first saw you. “S’that right?”

“Said I’ll be the reason you get kicked out of Jackson if I’m not careful,” you continue. “You should go, Joel. It’s not smart for you to be here. Go back to Kelly.”

“I’m not goin’ anywhere,” he says. And he means it—there’s no getting rid of him now. Not anymore.

“Maria won’t let you stay. Not if you kill someone.” He’s not talking about Jackson or Maria, and he thinks you know it, but he can see your hesitance beneath all that sinful seduction and decides the conversation can wait until tomorrow.

“You did that shit on purpose.” It’s a statement, and the wicked gleam in your eyes all but confirms his suspicions.

“Yeah. And what’re you gonna do about it, huh?” Your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and a breathy sigh escapes him at the sight.

“I oughta spank you till your ass is red,” Joel says, noting the way your pupils dilate at the threat. And it is a threat—one he swears to make good on. “Always being so disrespectful.”

“Abel’s nice, Joel. Says he’s good at making girls come, that he’s been practicing longer than I’ve been alive. Said he’ll make me feel good, that he’ll be real gentle with me. And you and I both know just how much I like older men. ”

The image you create has Joel’s fingers tightening around your throat. “Gentle?” It’s laughable. “That what you want, little girl? Want me to be gentle with you?” He tilts your face up with his thumb beneath your chin, presses his body against yours. Your hand goes to his belt buckle as it digs into your belly, and your legs fall apart on instinct as he wedges his knee between them.

You seat yourself right over his denim-clad thigh, hips rolling already, desperate for friction, for relief.

He chuckles darkly and says, “Yeah…didn’t think so.” Joel presses into you harder, because he knows just how bad it hurts. Knows just how that longing feels, knows how bad it aches. He grabs a fistful of your dress and hikes it up over your hips. He wants to see the mess you make, and he’s rewarded with the embarrassed whimper you let out in response. “Filthy little thing,” he says. “Don’t want it gentle at all, huh?”

At the sight of you grinding against his thigh, Joel forgets what he came here to do. Forgets he’s supposed to be giving you a taste of your own medicine, supposed to be showing you just how difficult it was to watch you flirt with another man. Because he thinks you look so pretty like this, he doesn’t have the strength to stop you. Joel wants to watch you fall apart just as much as you need to, wants to touch you till you shake, wants to lick your clean afterward, wants to make you feel so good no other man will ever compare.

But you’re not quite there yet, he knows. He can feel you’re not quite relaxed, not quite as pliable as he wants you to be. But he knows how much you like hearing his disgusting words, and so he lays it on thick. “Dirty fuckin’ girl. Lettin’ me fuck you with my fingers in public and that still ain’t enough for you, hm? You want more, always wantin’ more. Beggin’ me all the time.”

He’s surprised when it doesn’t work as well as he hopes. You’re moaning in his ear—breathy, needy little sounds that make his hard cock seek you out behind his zipper—your hips move restlessly, creating more and more friction, and there’s a telling dark spot beginning to form on his jeans. But something is off.

Joel can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s something. And he begins to spiral, heart racing behind his ribcage. Because what if you’re finally coming to your senses, finally realizing he has nothing to offer you? What if the whole thing was just some fantasy to you? Maybe you’ve gotten your fill of him, gotten your rocks off enough times to be satisfied. What if he’s here, willing to sacrifice everything just to be close to you, while you’re slowly growing tired of him?

But then he tears his eyes away from his knee and sees the downright evil look in your eye as you let out a dramatic moan and say, “Oh, Abel!”

And he’s had it. Absolutely fucking had it.

Joel steps back, fists his hand in your hair, and pulls you towards the bed. You’re giggling and he’s seething as he sits on the edge of the mattress and takes you over his knee. “Fuckin’ brat,” he says. “Tired of your attitude. Think you know everything. Think everything’s a goddamn joke.”

You spread your arms straight out above you, fingertips disappearing beneath the pillows. And you're sitting on your knees, ass arched beautifully, and Joel’s mouth waters when he pulls your dress up to expose a pair of royal blue panties, ones he hadn’t been able to properly appreciate in the dimly lit bathroom. “What are you gonna do, Joel? You’re gonna spank me? Really?” You scoff in disbelief. “All bark and no bite. Why don’t you— Joel!”

The sound of his harsh slap reverberates through his head, sharp and delicious. He feels his muscles relax almost instantly—almost as if he needs this more than you. “I told you, baby,” he says with a slight tilt of his head. “I don’t make idle threats.”

“Joel! You can’t—you—! What the fuck?”

He smacks your ass again, harder this time. Your whole body tenses and a soft little whimper leaves you, one that sends shivers down his spine. “Watch your fuckin’ mouth,” he warns.

There’s already a hand-shaped mark blossoming across your smooth skin, and Joel rubs the tender flesh to soothe. Your hands are fisted in the sheets, shoulders shaking with each desperate inhale. “Joel,” you cry.

“Wasn’t it just five seconds ago you were moanin’ some other man’s name?” He brings his hand down against your ass again, a stinging slap that has you shoving your face into the pillow. “C’mon, now,” he says. “Where’s he at, baby? Thought he was gonna make you feel good.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, words muffled through both the sheets and your giggles. “I was just kidding!”

“Nah. I don’t think you were.” When he strikes again, it’s lighter this time, on the opposite cheek. Your skin is reddening beautifully, and Joel licks his lips as he watches the damp spot in your panties become more and more prominent as the seconds tick by. “How’s that feel? Hurts, doesn’t it?”

“Yes! God, Joel—I said I was sorry!” You sprawl out further in front of him, spine bending, thighs clamped tightly together. He knows you're enjoying this, can see it in your face, but Joel doesn’t think you’re quite getting it and he needs you to understand.

He brings his hand down again, so hard this time his palm tingles. Your legs cross at the ankles and your muscles go rigid. He holds you in his lap with one hand and uses the other to stroke your hair out of your face. “Imagine how I feel, baby. Imagine how much it hurts to see him makin’ you laugh, makin’ you go all red. How much it hurts to see him kiss you.”

“Then you should’ve taken me away from him,” you say quietly. And it forces Joel to pause—to see through his frustration for just a moment. Because you’re right. He should have. He wanted to.

“You know I can’t do that, sweet girl,” he says, thumb stroking gently over your reddened flesh. “Can’t let you get away with bein’ bratty, either. Think five is enough?”

Joel laughs when you press your face into the mattress and let out a dramatic groan.

“Gonna make you count with me, baby,” he says. “Can you do that for me?”

When you lift your head and look up at him, Joel gets that zealous feeling again, twisting up his insides—warm and intense and heavenly. It makes him want to lean over and kiss your cheek, your forehead, makes him want to hold you so close the concept of disconnect becomes foreign. You nod slowly in answer, and he wonders if you can feel it, too.

He watches your face this time as he brings his hand down sharply against your ass. The cutest crease forms between your brows, and your knuckles turn white as you clutch the sheets. He caresses the supple flesh, squeezing softly as he waits.

You let out a long breath. “One,” you choke out, and Joel feels pride swell in his chest. Already you’re following his direction. All it took was a little discipline.

“Good girl,” he praises. “Bein’ so good for me, baby. Sittin’ so pretty.” Joel’s attention leaves your flushed face as you begin to squirm. And it’s only then he realizes just how much this is affecting you—the seam of your panties is soaked. The fabric has gone from blue to almost black, wet material clinging to every dip and curve of your pussy, leaving nothing to the imagination. And Joel moans at the sight—he can’t help it. “Oh, little girl…look at that,” he whispers, voice thick with admiration. “Now you’re finally gettin’ it.”

This time when his palm connects, it’s right in the center of your ass, lower than before—and Joel can almost see your clit pulsing. “Two,” you whimper, eyes squeezed tight to try and fight your oncoming tears. When you catch your breath, you begin pleading almost immediately. “Please, please, touch me. I need you.”

He clicks his tongue. “Shh, baby, I know,” he says. “I know it’s hard, wantin’ something so bad…having it so close…” He slides his middle finger over your panties, right through your slit. It’s featherlight and teasing and torturous. You tilt your hips back to meet his soft touch, but he only pulls away, leaving you trembling in his lap. “And then it gets taken away from you,” he continues. “Leavin’ you all needy and cold and hungry. ”

Joel strikes your ass with his tingling palm, grinning to himself in satisfaction at the art he’s made of your skin. “Joel,” you cry, shoulders shaking with every deep, ragged breath. “Joel, please.”

“See? Knew you’d forget his name. Happened so quick, darlin,’” he mocks. He snakes his hand beneath your dress, tracing the curve of your spine, stroking in reverence. “S’posed to be countin’ for me.”

Your voice is breathy and broken as you say, “Three, Joel I need it, oh my god.” This time the tears do come, sliding slowly down your flushed cheek. Joel reaches over and swipes it away. He runs his knuckles softly over your jaw, ignoring the rocking of your hips.

“Shh. S’alright, little girl. I’m here, nothin’ to cry about,” he coos. And then he takes your arm in his hand, pulling you up off the mattress. “C’mere, baby. I’ve got ya.” When you lean back on your heels, knees pressing against the side of his thigh, Joel kisses the tip of your nose with his lips stretched into an amused grin.

You reach for him, hands finding the coarse hair of his beard, pulling his face to yours, crushing your mouth to his. You taste like heaven, and Joel lets you take control for a single moment. Lets you bite his bottom lip, lets you lick into his mouth, lets you run your hands through his hair and tug the curls at the nape of his neck. But the moment you reach for his cock, Joel grips the back of your neck and pulls you quickly away. “ Please,” you whimper, and you sound so fucking pretty begging for him that his resolves wavers.

But then he remembers the way it sounded when you said Abel’s name and Joel’s jaw feathers. “Arms up, sweetheart. Still got two more to go.”

A whine leaves you in protest, but you do as he asks. Joel helps you take off your dress, tosses it to the floor in the pile where he left his faith, and runs his rough fingertips down your bare chest.

“You’re so pretty baby,” he says truthfully, thumbs ghosting across your nipples. “You know how pretty you are?”

No answer comes in the form of words, but you clue him in on just how desperate for him you are when he sees your head fall back at the light touch. Your lips part with a ragged breath that turns into a moan when he leans forward and takes one nipple into his mouth.

He swirls his tongue, flicking it over the hardened peak. He pinches the other gently between his thumb and forefinger, massaging the delicate flesh of your breasts. And when he pulls away, pushing you back down against the mattress, Joel can’t hold back the grunt that leaves him at the pressure your body creates over his cock. He’s so hard it hurts. And he knows the cure, longs for it, but he has to finish this. He has to make sure you remember what happens when you disrespect him, when you entertain another man.

Joel hooks his fingers in your panties and slowly pulls them down. A low, throaty groan leaves him as he sees the mess you’ve made. It’s pornographic and dirty and obscene and Joel has never, ever wanted something so bad in his life. “Fuck. This all for me, little girl?”

“Yes,” you say, breathless. “It’s yours, Joel, all for you.”

He pulls your panties further down your thighs, cock throbbing as he watches strands of your slick snap as they disconnect. Your pussy is glistening, and Joel wants to feel it, wants to taste it. But he resists, knowing it’ll be worth it in the end. “I know it is, baby,” he mutters.

This time when he brings his palm down against your ass, the sound is sharper, louder than before without the fabric between you. Now it’s just his hand and your flushed skin, and it isn’t until now that Joel realizes just how badly he needs to touch you.

Your hips lift up towards his hand, looking for relief that won’t come. “Four,” you sigh.

“Good girl,” he says. “One more, yeah?”

Through panting breaths you ask, “And then you’ll touch me. Right, Joel? Right?”

The words are so innocent and hopeless that he can’t hold back his dark laughter. You’re being so good for him right now, and Joel knows you don’t deserve any more punishment than this…but the opportunity to tease you is just too sweet to resist. And Joel has already established that, when it comes to you, he’s got no restraint. “What’s wrong? Hm?” He slides his middle and index finger through your pussy, chuckling at the blissful moan you give in response, down to your clit where he circles once, twice—and then back up, gathering your wetness on the pads of his fingers. He spreads you open and traces your entrance, careful not to push inside. “Feelin’ empty, little girl? S’that it?”

You’re nodding frantically, eyes transfixed as he lifts his fingers covered in your slick to his mouth and sucks them clean with a groan. “God, Joel, I can’t take it anymore,” you say.

But he knows better. If he can sit there and watch you dance with another man for hours, you can handle a little desperation. “Good. Now you know how I feel. One more baby,” he says. “Then I promise I’ll touch you, just like you said. Yeah?”

“Yes, yes, please. One more.”

He makes it the worst one yet. When he slaps your ass the sound reverberates through his ears, and Joel knows it hurts because his palm stings and he starts to feel a little bit guilty. Because the relief it brings him to have finished, to have made you suffer in the same way he has, is incredible. So much so that he wants to do it again—wants you to act out, to be bratty, just so you’ll end up over his knee with his handprints on you again. And that’s wrong, isn’t it? It has to be. It’s fucked up, wanting to punish a little girl for his own satisfaction.

But then your shoulders drop, and delight shines in your eyes, and Joel knows you enjoyed it as much as he did. So, even if it is fucked up and wrong and immoral, it’s something he shares with you and, somehow, it makes it all worth it. “Five,” you whisper. And you immediately go to sit up, to crawl into his lap, but Joel stops you.

“Stay still, baby. You just lay right there, I’m gonna take care of you, ‘kay? Just like I promised. Don’t gotta lift a finger, pretty girl.”

Joel shifts from underneath you. He stands up, admires the way you look sprawled out over the sheets with your pussy dripping and your ass marked in the exact shape of his hands. You’re so beautiful it pains him, so flawless it hurts. Joel has to remind himself to breathe as he unbuttons his flannel and tosses it aside.

By the time he’s unbuttoning his jeans, you’re getting desperate again—needy little thing. He watches you squirm, watches you press your thighs together and arch back towards him.

Once he’s got his jeans off, he climbs over you, takes his aching cock in his hand, and presses a kiss between your shoulder blades. “My perfect little girl,” Joel murmurs against your skin. He slides the head of his cock through your slit, coating himself in your slick, smirking as you whine for more. “This what you want? Yeah?”

“Yes, yes, God, give it to me, I need it, I’ll be so good,” you beg as he circles your clit.

And what is he supposed to do but give in to you? You’re always good when he’s got you alone like this. “I know you will be, baby. Say please.”

“Please, please, please — ohh.”

You feel like damnation as he eases inside. Your long moan sounds like a psalm, his fingertips on your ribs are like keys to the gates of heaven. It feels so fucking good to be inside of you that Joel feels like a thief. A brigand, a predator, a vulture. Because in the back of his head, he knows the truth, knows you can never really be his, knows that the age difference between the two of you means that you’re not meant for him. And he’s stealing, taking from whoever it is you should belong to…but he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to stop.

He moves slowly, pushing in deep until there’s no spot inside of you left untouched. And when he pulls out, his cock is wet with your slick, and Joel shivers at the sight. “Oh, God, Joel, it feels so good.”

“I know, baby,” he says. He leans back, straightening his spine so he can watch himself disappear inside of you. The dark hair between his hips has been made darker by your wetness, and the muscles in his thighs flex with each slow, meaningful thrust.

There’s something different tonight. Something even more holy than any other time he’s been this close to you. His heart aches behind his sternum and pressure builds in his throat. The feeling chokes him, runs through his veins as naturally as blood. And though it’s never felt quite like this, Joel knows this feeling. Knows, too, that it terrifies him.

But he doesn’t want to ruin the moment. Doesn’t want to take himself out of the sacred time he has with you. So, he leans into the feeling, letting it take over all those thoughts of sin and doubt, all those thoughts of guilt and shame. He pushes them away and loses himself in you instead, picking up his pace, fucking you hard. “Feels real good, hm? You know he’d never make you feel like this, sweetheart. Just me, ain’t that right?”

“Yes! Yes, mmhm, just you, just you.” He can feel you clench around his cock, squeezing your walls tighter with each cruel thrust. His name sounds so pretty in your mouth, Joel thinks.

Already he’s fighting release, fighting to hold himself back. “Fuck, baby. That’s right, just me.” He snakes his hand beneath you, fingers finding your sensitive clit a moment later. He swipes his hand back and forth quickly, delighting in the way you begin to shake. “Don’t want nothin’ fuckin’ gentle. Wanna be fucked just like this, hm? Fucked like the little slut I know you are. You fuckin’ love this cock, don’t you baby? Hm? Say it, sweetheart.”

“I love it, I love it, I love it, ” you say, and Joel’s heart pounds a little faster in his chest. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, God,” you cry out. And he knows you’re right there, can feel it in your trembling limbs. Joel grabs your ass with his free hand, raised skin hot to the touch, and spreads you open for a clearer view.

The sight of his cock stretching you open nearly does him in. But he resists, because he wants to come with you, wants you to drown him. “Give it to me,” he says, thrusting in deeper, stroking your clit faster. “Give it to me, baby. C’mon. There you go, thaaat’s it. Good girl, that’s a good fuckin’ girl. Shit, pretty little pussy’s soakin’ me. Gonna come inside, hm? How’s that sound, sweetheart? Want me to fill you up?”

There’s a moment of hesitation, but then you’re nodding and you look back at him with hazy eyes and say through your moans, “Yes, I wanna feel it. Please come inside me, Joel, please.”

He doesn’t last another second. His orgasm hits him so hard his vision blackens and he sees nothing but bursts of light, hears nothing but your sweet sounds, feels nothing but admiration and devotion and worship. For you, all for you.

Everything for you.

He fucks you through it, doesn’t stop until he’s completely spent, even though you've finished and come down and your knuckles are white around the sheets, too sensitive to care about anything else but the steady movement inside of you. He gives you every last drop, makes fucking sure of it. And when his muscles go slack, he presses his sweaty forehead to your spine and tries to catch his breath. He breathes you in deep, holding you in his lungs, in his heart.

And he doesn't want to move, but then you let out a sated little giggle and say, “Joel, you’re squishing me.”

He laughs quietly, presses a kiss to your shoulder, and slowly pulls out of you with a groan. He crawls to the other side of the bed, pulls the comforter back, and helps you crawl underneath it. And when he nestles in beside you, he’s a little startled when it’s a natural reaction to pull you close. He wraps his arms around your waist, hooks your thigh over his hip, leans into your hands as you thread your fingers through his hair and scratch lightly at his scalp.

It’s intimate and closer than he’s been to anyone in a very, very long time. But he doesn’t hate it. And he doesn’t hate it when you pepper kisses over his face, either. And he really doesn’t hate it when you arch your back, tits pressing against his chest, and smile like there’s nothing in the world that makes you happier than being here with him, just like this.

He knows you are, but he has to ask. “You okay? It wasn’t too much, was it?”

You shake your head. “No, not at all. I…” You stop, chewing on your bottom lip. “I, uhm…”

“What is it?”

You look away from him, suddenly very interested in the shadows you make on the ceiling by rubbing your cold feet over his legs. “In the morning, I’ll have to go talk to Robin,” you admit. “She…she makes this tea, something you can drink to prevent unwanted…uhm,”

Joel thinks it's real cute, the way you’re struggling over your words. But he decides to grant you a little ease. Thinks you deserve it. “You don’t have to do that. I had a vasectomy before the outbreak,” he says. And when a crease forms between your brows, the question written plainly on your face, he explains, “It’s a procedure that, uh…makes it so I can’t…you know. Do that. Shootin’ blanks.”

It’s only then he realizes the gravity of the situation. Realizes that you didn’t know, because the two of you have never had this conversation, and you were ready and willing and begging to risk everything, to risk being tied to him forever, all for a single moment of bliss, of sweet relief.

“Oh. How convenient,” you say.

“That’s somethin’ you were worried about?” He begins to wonder if you’ve ever felt pressured by him to do things you didn’t want all in the name of pleasing him. Realizes that never once has he asked for your permission. He’s always just…told you what to do. Bossed you around. And there’s a power imbalance here because of his age, isn’t there? His mouth runs dry, his blood runs cold. “You can say no, baby. At any time, with anything. You know that, right?”

You nod, and he feels the panic bleed from his chest as you explain, “I know. I wanted it, too. And I wasn’t worried. I trust you, Joel.”

That fucks him up. Blows through all the defenses he’s put up, all the walls he’s built to keep you out, to keep you at arm's length.

I trust you.

God, he’s fucking done for.

You let out a long breath. He feels at ease the moment you nestle your head in the junction of his shoulder, muscles relaxing as the tension subsides. “I don’t want to see you with her,” you whisper against his throat.

“You won’t,” he says quickly. “I never should’ve gone in the first place.” It’s the truth, and Joel means it. There’s no one for him but you and he knows by now that there never will be.

“So…I’ll only be with you, and you’ll only be with me, and we’ll keep it quiet for a while. That way everyone’s happy.”

“Yeah,” he says. But it’s not enough. Just seconds after the words leave your mouth, there’s a pull within him for more. He wants to parade you around Jackson, to hold your hand and kiss you over dinner at The Tipsy Bison and dance with you so every man in the commune knows who you belong to.

But he can’t. He can’t.

It’s not enough, but it has to be.

Joel can tell there’s another question on the tip of your tongue. He gives you time to work through it, to form the words in whatever way makes you most comfortable. But the longer you stay silent, the deeper that crease between your brows becomes. You swallow thickly, open your mouth, close it again. And Joel feels his heart shatter in his chest because he knows. He knows because he feels it, too. And the words crack in your mouth as you say, “Joel…Joel, I—”

“I know,” he says, because he can’t hear you say it. He can’t. It’s too much. It’ll rip him apart. But he gets it, he understands. He presses his lips to yours, kissing you deeply, hoping you can sense his piety. When he pulls away, your eyes are wide and glassy and you look just as frightened as he feels. “S’okay, baby. I know. Get some sleep.”

Joel holds you a little tighter.

[part three] [part five]

#joel miller #ao3 fanfic #ellie williams #joel miller smut #idle threats #pearlessance #jackson era joel #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel tlou #tommy tlou #jealousy #brat taming #the feedback on this here has been insane i love u all so much #joel miller fanfiction #fanfic #smut

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cheralith · 7 months

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to a heart's content — 「 single father!miguel o'hara x reader (part iii) 」

content warnings ; fem!reader, implied fem bodied!reader, use of she/her pronouns, reader wears dresses and makeup, mild violence mention

contains ; single father!miguel o'hara, boss!miguel o'hara, assistant!reader, angst, angst with some comfort, unedited/not beta read as of 2/24

word count ; 8.5k

notes ; we're so back. am i severely late to posting this? very. did i at least get it done after too many months? also yes. i also apologize in advance to those i tagged that are no longer interested in the series, as i merely tagged people that had commented regardless of time. lmk if you no longer want to be tagged in the last part, i promise i won't take offense at all!

parts ; one two three four (tba)

THREE YEARS AGO

“My name is (Y/N) (L/N), it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. O’Hara. Please let me assist you at any need possible.”

Miguel peered at you through his reading glasses, averting his attention from his laptop to fully examine the stranger that stood in his office. Dark hazelnut eyes scan the appearance of a young woman dressed in black slacks and an ironed white blouse standing stiffly next to his superiors that eyed him with more eagerness than he liked. He could already tell that you were a shy one, a person that wasn’t too accustomed to the outside world and its people; you stood with stiff posture; it was one that exemplified nerve rather than confidence from the way that you almost seem paralyzed in your place.

Caldworth, one of the superiors that stood by your side, placed a wrinkly and veiny hand on your shoulder and showed you off to him as if you were a painting up for bidding. “We choose a sharp one for you. (Y/N) here is rather attentive, so don’t be shy about letting her get to know you better, Miguel.”

Miguel stayed quiet, still skeptical about this sudden new arrangement for him that was brought up at the last minute. He lacked a certain sort of anticipation that would usually behold anyone else in his position—a new person entering their work life would usually be an exciting, rousing meeting seeing as how it would be a new addition to what the higher-ups would refer to as “family.” A loose term, Miguel often thought… very loose, even. To even have the courage to compare coworkers to something as intimate as family was something that didn’t sit well with Miguel. Blame it on the certain circumstances on his own familial life, but even anyone else that had their brain in the somewhat of the right spot would understand that mere coworkers were nothing compared to family.

At least in his case.

“I’ve greatly admired your work in the past,” you said almost robotically, “so I hope I can be of any help in your future accomplishments—no matter how big or small.”

Miguel cocked his head. He fought the urge to raise an eyebrow at what he began to concur was something scripted via his superiors. Something about your tone of voice seemed… flat; devoid of any actual enthusiasm.

Caldworth and his partner began to see themselves out, leaving him to babysit you. “Well, you two have at it! Maybe go out for a cup of coffee to familiarize yourselves, get to know each other better since you both are essentially going to be around each other all the time,” Caldworth stated, making Miguel twitch from the last part.

Just before they left, Caldworth offered the glint of his eye over his shoulder, the peek of a tight-lipped grin ever so slightly visible.

“And don’t forget, we’re all family here!” he cheered before the slam of a door shut you and Miguel in.

Immediately, Miugel noticed that your shoulders caved inward, indicating that you were finally able to breathe properly without the surveillance of people that were essentially in charge of your life. He eyed you again from the top of his glasses before he took them off and rested them in between his fingers, letting them dangle lazily.

“Did they tell you to say that?”

You jolted in your spot. Nerves seemingly reshocked with the same anxiety from before, you turned yourself to face your new boss again with a much more paled, yet evident expression—wide-eyed, pursed-lipped, gritted jaw—and swallowed thickly. Almost in a shameful manner, you silently nodded your head.

“W-was…” you started, “was it that obvious?”

“Somewhat,” Miguel murmured simply and closed his laptop. “Don’t listen to what they say, just make yourself as comfortable as possible. I’m sure neither of us want to be that comfortable with each other.”

Your lips pressed themselves into a tight line, hitching a sharp breath before it’s replaced with another stiff nod. There was no user’s manual of sorts that was given to you by your superiors. They merely told you to do exactly what Miguel needed, so if this is what he wanted—for you two to maintain distance—then so be it. If anything, it’s easier to breathe this way for both parties.

And it was like that for a rather long time; the both of you never came too close to the other person. It was strictly a professional workplace relationship, one that didn’t issue any room for intimacy because it wasn’t needed. There were no lunch or dinner get-togethers outside work hours, there was barely any small talk between you both, and you and he didn’t even bother getting each others’ personal numbers despite being consistently around the other like air—both parties thought the work phones were more than enough. There was no need for you to learn about his likes, his dislikes, his favorite foods, and Miguel couldn’t certainly be bothered with your own slices of life. To each their own, if you minded your business about him, he’d do the same to you.

It was a fair trade and a sufficient barter that satisfied you and him; there need not be any excess of the unnecessary.

That was, until a certain day that Miguel was held back during his usual hours to continue working on lab reports—work that didn’t allow him freedom from this hell of a company to see his own salvation.

“If it’s an urgent matter, Mr. O’Hara, I don’t mind taking on some of the workload,” you had said softly as you placed the last stack of packets on his desk that needed proper annotation. “I’m your assistant, after all. It’s my job to help you out.”

Miguel rubbed his forehead out of exhaustion and shook his head, “You’re my assistant from 9 to 5 only. I’m not gonna be like those shocking pricks and work you longer than needed,” he muttered and stretched out his neck, joints crackling. “Go clock out, (Y/N). I’m sure there’s someone waiting for you at home that needs attending to.”

Suddenly, the atmosphere had gone awkwardly quiet. The tension was only broken by the scritching of your shuffling feet before you coughed.

“Um, there’s no one in particular like that for me, unfortunately,” you whispered through a forced laugh that quickly dissolved. “So again, I don’t mind staying late…”

Miguel stiffened in his seat and mumbled an apology for his blatant inconsideration. Right… you were still rather young and didn’t seem the type to have a family yet. “No boyfriend? Or girlfriend… I’m not one to judge.”

“No, Mr. O’Hara.”

“No parents?”

“I moved out, so no.”

“Not even pets?”

“None.”

“... perhaps friends of sorts?”

“...”

Another sigh heaves itself from his aching lungs. What he’d do for a cigarette right now to kill this awkward tension. You were a rather shy person that isolated herself from most people, but Miguel didn’t think you’d detach yourself this much from the crowd.

You proposed your assistance once more, as third times always a charm. “Please let me assist you, Mr. O’Hara. I truly do not mind staying overtime if needed.”

Miguel, at first, thought you might be kissing his ass for a possible raise, but the thought quickly disappears when you genuinely appear concerned for his well-being given the fact he looked ultimately much more disgruntled than usual. Despite your timidity, you could be a stubborn one, so Miguel gave in before he tired himself even more with mild arguments that he was sure would drain whatever life he had left in him.

He inhales sharply and fiddles with his bag for a bit before he pulls out an array of keys, gently detaching a pair of them. One of them is his car key. The other—his house key.

“Take these,” he said and gestured them to you. “I’ve trusted you enough to drive my car on multiple occasions, so now I’m entrusting you to my daughter.”

Your eyes widened briefly, brows raising to new heights. Blinking in the alikeness of an owl, you repeated, “Your… your daughter?”

Miguel supposes this is what succumbs to him after not revealing even the most personal, yet basic parts of himself to a coworker. He hasn’t even revealed his birthday to you, let alone his family, so he can’t say he’s too surprised at your reaction.

“Yes, my daughter,” he repeats and starts scribbling on a post-it. “Her name is Gabriella, she just turned five and is in kindergarten. I’m gonna call up the daycare and tell them that you’ll be picking her up from school. After that, drop her off at the house and just… just kind of stay there until I come home. There should be leftovers in the fridge if she gets hungry. I’ll take a cab home… I dunno.”

Miguel sticks out the post-it note containing both the address of the daycare and his apartment number. With caution, you take and examine them closely with a mild surprise still on your face of the new information about your boss that you thought you should’ve learned a while ago. You begin to see yourself out of his office with an evident nervousness in your being before Miguel spontaneously gets up and grabs your wrist tightly, forcing you to look at him.

A chill goes down your spine when you see a menacing and unusual red glint in those pools of mahogany. His once-drained face is suddenly stony and rugged with his teeth bitten back to avoid any unnecessary threats. The physical contact makes your nerves go cold and paralyzes you into place to force you to stare into those eyes that you’re not sure aren’t even human, a sort of malicious crimson tint gleaming over brown hues.

“Do not… let anything happen to her,” he hisses under his breath, his tone jaggedly sharp, “Not a single scratch, yes?”

It takes a while for air to breathe itself back into your lungs, yet only a partial amount of it revives your body because all you can reply is a choked out,

“Yes.”

Miguel lets go of your wrist like it’s a heated iron rod, the burn of it stinging his hand with the aftertaste of your skin still damped on his palm. You quickly leave after that, leaving him to sigh and stare into nothing before clutching the picture frame of his daughter that sits on his desk—praying that you’ll live up to his expectations and arrive home to an unscathed Gabriella.

And throughout the duration of the three years you and Miguel have spent side by side, with each repeated question he’d contritely ask again and again, he did each and every single time you had to take care of her. The hours became longer, more strenuous, and created a blockage between Miguel and Gabriella that only you were able to bridge between. Gabriella—whose particular shyness reminded Miguel of a certain someone—eventually warmed up to you and began to treat you much more familiarly as time passed, growing accustomed to wrapping her body around your legs when she saw you during pick up and always asking what was for dinner that evening as if you’ve been there since her birth.

Gabriella grew very fond of you, Miguel noticed. There was some sort of mimicry in her actions at times that mirrored your own habits like how she’d tilt her head and purse her lips to the left when she was confused like you did or she’d randomly walk briskly in the same fashion you marched. She’d slip in a mention of your name during small discussions here and there, a praise never failing to tail her words.

“Miss. (Y/N) bought this headband for me! Isn’t it pretty?”

“Oh, Miss. (Y/N) taught me how to solve that problem yesterday.”

“Can you make cookies like how Miss. (Y/N) does? Yours taste weird.”

While you weren’t always present around the O’Haras, Gabriella made sure it seemed like you were.

There was a particular time that Miguel was helping her on some homework assigned over the weekend. The assignment had discussed different careers that children might be interested in the future and when Miguel had asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up, Gabriella, who couldn’t have been more than six or seven around the time, replied all too simply,

“I want to be like Miss. (Y/N).”

Miguel was astonished. He had expected an answer like a professional soccer player due to her love of the sport or a scientist like her father, but to aspire to be someone that seemingly was just an occasional companion? To him, it didn’t make sense.

“Like, do you wanna work for Daddy when you’re older?” Miguel asked, attempting to clarify what she meant since she knew enough to understand you were associated with her father.

Gabriella shook her head and mindlessly continued to draw what seemed to be a portrait of you in… a pink dress? “Nuh uh. I wanna be a princess like her.”

Through furrowed brows, Miguel chuckled a little aimlessly. Of course she’d still believe fantasy and magical things—she was just seven after all. Initially, he wanted to merely correct his daughter, but was a little curious as to what sort of silly information you had been feeding her. “Miss. (Y/N) is a princess?”

“Yep, she told me herself!” Gabriella exclaimed, her hand fisting a yellow marker that scribbled on a crown on the drawing. “She said she used to be a princess, but she ran away ‘cause a giant, fire-breathing lizard tried to kidnap her!”

“I think it might’ve been a dragon, mijita,” Miguel corrected gently, trying to go along with the usual trope fairy tales portrayed.

“Nuh uh, it was a big and creepy lizard, she said!” she retaliated stubbornly.

“Well,” he started again, attempting to choose his words a little more carefully this time around. “How come you don’t wanna be like Ariel? Or Tiana? They’re princesses, too, right?”

She shrugged. “I like them. But they’re not Miss. (Y/N).”

Something unnatural began to seep into Miguel’s chest. He knew that Gabriella liked you quite so, but he didn’t expect for her to almost admire you in such a fashion that inspired her to be like you. In his eyes, you were nothing but the assistant that loyally stood by his side and abided by his every word—to him, it seemed like you were more of a butler or servant than a princess.

But in his daughter’s eyes…

“Why? What’s so special about (Y/N)?” Miguel inquired with a growing curiosity to try and see you in the same light as Gabriella.

She shook her head, displeased with the informality given to you by her father. “You gotta say Princess (Y/N). I don’t have to ‘cause she said it’s okay.”

He sighed, “Okay, fine. What’s so special about Princess (Y/N)?”

Gabriella set her marker down carefully and thought for a little while. Her eyes suddenly lit up with delight, an affirmative grin set on her lips.

“Well, she’s really pretty… like reallyyy pretty. I wanna be just as beautiful as her one day,” she praised, making Miguel’s brows rise at the sudden compliment. “She’s really nice, too. She never shouts at me like the teachers or coaches do… and she always lets me have extra dessert when I do a good job on my homework.”

Miguel fell silent. Perhaps it was more than mere admiration, but idolization for Gabriella. She viewed you in a way that Miguel hadn’t even thought of because he only viewed you as his coworker. But in Gabriella’s eyes, you were more than just her babysitter—you were literal royalty to her. He shouldn’t be one to complain though—he’d take his daughter following in your footsteps over some others that might lead her astray. You were… sufficient enough, he supposes, even if Gabriella didn’t think so.

“She’s super smart too—like you, Papá! Maybe even smarter,” she retorts, making Miguel twitch. “And I like her voice a lot. I really like it when she reads me a story because her voice is pretty. Sometimes she sings this song to me to help me sleep.”

“Oh?” Miguel questioned, “¿Y, qué canción es esa?”

“I keep forgetting the name and words of it…” Gabriella pouted after a moment of attempted concentration. “But it went somethin’ like…”

She began humming an off-tune melody that struck a dissonant, yet familiar chord within Miguel, but it was impossible for him to find why it was so eerily familiar to him. Was it perhaps from an old song? Or a film he’d seen before? It was a calming song, one that was perfectly suited for a child’s lullaby, but something about it seemed almost so customary to him.

“Ya gotta marry her,” his daughter said plainly and began to resume her artistry, ignoring the sudden startle she gave her father. “So that way, I can become a princess, too.”

Miguel helped himself to the nearby cup of water to soothe his choked throat after the scare she gave him. “Sweetheart, I’m not a prince, though.”

“Yeah, I know,” his daughter replied without missing a beat. “But you know what you are, though?”

Dare he say that Gabriella had grown akin to you the same way she had with her father. Something about her praise and regard for you seemed to mirror the way that reflected alike to her father, yet Miguel couldn’t tell if she had managed to draw a line between the images of you and him. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if Gabriella could even define a difference in her adulation between you and him besides the fact one was her parent.

But when the thought of Gabriella potentially viewing you as sharing the same title as him—a parent—something seeds inside Miguel. He doesn’t know what it is or what it will grow into, but there’s one thing he knows for sure.

The seed of you in his life and hers is here to stay, whether he likes it or not.

Gabriella’s smile grew wide before she happily announced,

“You’re her knight in shining armor!"

PRESENT

If he squinted properly and took a closer look, perhaps Miguel could make himself hallucinate enough to try and visualize the golden chandelier above your head as your haloing tiara. It was the main light source nearly the entirety of the venue, but something about the way the light glistened around you made you seem almost holy, like you were a divinity gracing your presence on the wretchedness they called Earth.

Blame it on the wine, but Miguel couldn’t help but notice that you looked more celestial tonight; a unique sort of ethereal that he’s only seen in the finest of paintings. The banquet hall is covered in layers of silkened gold, only emphasizing your best features in the spotlights of reflecting amber.

You’re talking idly (per usual, unfortunately) with a coworker from Human Resources that he’s seen you often have mild conversations with on the weekly, a rare familiarity that he only knows he’s been graced with in full; so it’s truly no surprise that there’s a placid stir of envy growing within Miguel as you’ve decided to not give your semi-cold shoulder a break even tonight, even with the rarity of a compliment given by him. At least there’s been somewhat of an improvement—you’re actually holding miniscule conversations with him every now and then as you both chatter with the crowd as long as there’s a third party.

Yet he still hasn’t been granted mercy of having a proper one-on-one with you, yet.

But beggars can’t be choosers, so Miguel must make do with what he’s offered.

The coworker, finally, is called by one of his project managers and politely excuses himself, leaving you to Miguel’s devices at long last. Like a flower’s petals given little to no care, your smiling face wilts into the solemn countenance that Miguel has grown accustomed to seeing for the past week when you turn your gaze back towards the table, a sliver of Miguel caught in the corner of your eye. In time, he just barely catches a glimpse of your eyes flickering toward his figure before they return to stare at the nearly empty plate of food with a slight dismal.

A choice of what words to say jumble in his mouth. They toss and jump about while not giving him full comprehension of what they mean and Miguel grows frustrated at his lack of intelligibleness because it wasn’t every day that his resolve could be so cowardly in front of someone. Usually he was the one that made egos shrink, but upon your grace, his own could only grow so small.

You can tell there’s an awkward silence amongst you both despite the audible chatter throughout the banquet hall and the idle conversations among your tablemates, so you break it first but stiffly shuffling out your phone and dialing Gabriella’s babysitter for tonight—a blue moon occasion since neither you nor Miguel could be present. Gabriel is out of town and because there were only so many people in the world that Miguel could trust with his beloved, the elderly next-door-neighbor was the last resort.

“I should probably check up on how Mrs. Darcie is doing,” you splutter with a dry mouth. “I forgot to teach her how the TV remote works and I’m sure she must be bored out of her—”

Unconsciously, Miguel gently pries the phone out of your shaking hands, the connection between skin and skin electrifying his nerves more than he liked. He takes notice of the size difference between your hand and his own and eyes carefully at how easily your fingers would be able to slip into the gaps of his all too easily; like two connecting puzzle pieces.

He places it face down on the table to avoid further distractions. “I’m sure Mrs. Darcie is alright,” he attempts to soothe as he places his hand over your own, nearly caging it between his fingers. Miguel struggles with fighting the urge to squeeze it delicately—he doesn’t know if he’s earned that privilege, or if he ever did. “Gabi is most likely preparing for bed, we shouldn’t distract her.”

Eyes flickering toward your covered hand, the warmth that envelopes it from Miguel’s makes you swallow thickly.

“Ah,” you murmur and timidly pull back your hand to place back on your lap to Miguel’s disappointment. “Right… Never mind then.”

And suddenly, he’s back to square one. Silence plagues the air again between you and him, only this time, it’s thicker and grimier almost. Perhaps it was the oddity that was the physical contact that added to the musk of it; Miguel prays that you didn’t find it uncomfortable.

A fork is plucked between your fingers and you go to idly poke at your food to fidget with something other than your hands. “I hope she’s okay. Gabi, I mean. I-It feels a little odd leaving her with someone other than you.

Rays of hope and enthrallment embellish Miguel’s being from the fact that finally… finally you’re the one attempting a conversation with him after much too long. And not only that, you’re beginning with something bold, even if you don’t realize it. Despite the fact you’re rather unconscious of what you’re saying, something within Miguel perks up at the fact that you’re worried about Gabriella in the same sense… that he is.

That a parent is.

He fights the urge to physically shake his head to brush the thought off. Miguel hums, a semi-sorry attempt at being suede and casual. “Mrs. Darcie has had eight children in her lifetime, I’m sure that she’s definitely had her experience of taking care of kids,” he says seemingly nonchalantly. “Gabi, if anything, is lightwork to her.”

A soft delight pings in his chest again when you reply almost instantaneously, “She is indeed a good girl, very well-behaved.”

“She has her moments,” Miguel snorts, fondly remembering a few of younger Gabriella’s temper tantrums and outbursts of tears.

Something golden, something bright blossoms within him when he hears you let out a soft chuckle at his reply. It’s abrupt, but it’s short and sweet enough that he feels accomplished, enough for him to savor the taste of it. “All children do from time to time. But she’s definitely one of the better apples of the bunch.”

Miguel thinks you’re right; it wasn’t often that parents, new ones especially, were granted with the privilege of having obedient children, so he’s one of the lucky ones. Perhaps Gabriella being a good kid was the universe giving him mercy as a single parent, as society often thinks it takes two to tango when it comes to childcare most of the time.

But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Even if Miguel wasn’t aware of it, some of the responsibility was lifted off his shoulders when you entered the picture, as the duties of nurturing a young child were now in your favor the moment you had signed your work contract. For that, he harbors guilt from time to time when he thinks that you never exactly signed up to be a babysitter, let alone a parent figure to his kin that you were still unaware of.

And then it hits him.

It comes all of a sudden—his senses downpouring from the cloud of his daydreams and thoughts.

It’s not a good realization by far. If anything, it’s the very opposite, one that’s one the other end of the spectrum. It’s a deathly epiphany and one that he doesn’t like to acknowledge but is forced to.

Miguel stares blankly at the tablecloth, eyes droning into the satin folds of it as they mimicked the waves of a crashing ocean. A sort of paleness infects his face, the color of it draining slowly and he goes still when he feels his heartbeat thundering in his ears.

You’re quick to take notice of your boss’s current disposition, growing wary of his wide, blank eyes and gritted jaw, along with his knuckles growing white as they fist his slacks. A shallow breath is echoed from him; you furrow your brows.

“Mr. O’Hara?” you murmur, leaning toward his figure.

Miguel’s mind stirs. If Gabriella views you as a parent-figure, what exactly would you think of it? You’re not much younger than Miguel is, only falling behind a mere four or five years, but you’re still significantly young that you’ve got your whole life ahead of you that you’d need to experience by yourself. The remnants of youth are still planted onto you despite being well-adjusted to the adult world, so to put the responsibility of a child on your shoulders? Miguel feels contrition flood into him.

What if you didn’t even want children?

It’s a fact that you care for Gabriella, but do you harbor the same type of love for her that she has for you? Does she even understand what your role is in her life and that there’s a strict boundary between you and Miguel and Gabriella? He knows he can’t just shackle you onto a weighing responsibility, but when Gabriella is a part of this dilemma, the complication increases tenfold.

Your boss seems to be frozen in time, seeing as how not a muscle in his limbs nor his face were moving, but his eyes were wide open, almost glazed with fear. A feathery hand goes to place itself over his tightened fist before you ask again, “Mr. O’Hara, are you okay?”

The worst case scenario infects Miguel’s thoughts—you standing in the same shadow of his ex, exiting through the same door she had walked through just a few days after his daughter’s birth and breaking his entire being into little pathetic pieces.

This time, however? He wouldn’t be the only one with a shattered heart.

A thick swallow goes down your throat. You gently shake his hand with your own to attempt to break him out of his frigid state, a worry beginning to settle itself in your stomach. “Mr. O’Hara? Can you hear me?” you declare a little louder than the first two times.

Your voice makes him blink and he clears his throat, feeling his cheeks warm at the sudden loss of composure. “Yes, I-I’m fine…” he mutters as he tugs at the tight collar of his dress shirt.

You nod with visible skepticism. Miguel turns away from your gaze to avoid further questioning, since he knows you’ve been at his side long enough to know his behaviors. “Are you sure?”

He nods and stifles a sigh, nodding. The flurry of what had just occurred in his mind lingers almost painfully and it takes him a while to remember where he is and why. Right… the annual celebration gala… with you… to make up for the date that never happened.

His mind is a mess. It’s an incoherent tornado of everything and anything, with images of all kinds flashing throughout his mind—young Gabriella’s drawing of you and her as princesses that she insisted on framing, your face of disappointment that you gave him when he ditched out on the date, a flashback of his ex slamming his old apartment door on him as an infant Gabriella screamed and wailed in her crib, you hugging his daughter after her winning goal, Miguel’s frazzled self as he showed up too late to his daughter’s first Parents Day with a teary-eyed Gabriella, him finding you quietly reading a sleepy Gabi a bedtime story after a long shift at work, you making baked goods in the kitchen with her.. you tucking in her into bed… you suddenly with a suitcase in hand, a sobbing Gabriella in the back as Miguel begged you to stay before you slammed the door behind you and leaving them—

Miguel stands up abruptly, making you jump. The collar and tie around his neck suddenly seem too tight and his throat runs dry. The air grows hotter and his vision starts to blur.

“Mr. O’Hara,” you start as you also stand up, “Is everything alr—”

“I need some air,” Miguel barely chokes out before he leaves the banquet hall without another word. He can just barely hear you ask if there’s anything you could do before he turns a sharp right and leaves the entirety of the building altogether, choosing to remain in the back garden to breathe in fresh oxygen, a relieving chill to the air.

A hand goes to loosen his collar and tie and he can feel himself gain consciousness again. The sky is draped with an ink blue all over, speckles of the night stars scattering all around. The floral smell of many garden flowers fills his senses and Miguel grounds himself properly before he settles himself on a stone bench to balance in his mind.

He attempts to reason with himself.

Clearly, you don’t mind being with children, and obviously you don’t mind being with and taking care of Gabriella. She’s not simply a job to you that you’re forced to work with—you’ve said it yourself. Otherwise, you wouldn’t go to her games nor would you remember to bring her small gifts of her liking. You’ve done things for her out of your own initiative many times. Gabriella is your world, Miguel thinks, as much as your hers.

Now there’s the problem of you being with Miguel, if your feelings haven’t changed all too much. In all honesty, Miguel thinks if he’s with the right person, he’s sure to put in effort into stabilizing and nurturing a proper relationship. He hadn’t had the time to go around and look for love because of work and Gabriella, so serving as this sanctuary that came to him was basically a perfect fit into his life—don’t mind it took him three years to notice it. You’re worth putting that effort in.

Finally… there’s the possible chance that you reject Miguel’s proposal of being Gabriella’s secondary caretaker.

…

Miguel attempts to process it in a more… positive light. One that won’t send him spiraling.

But it’s nearly impossible.

How is it possible to settle a middle ground of happiness, or at the very least… satisfaction, between you and him and Gabriella? How do you imagine a happy ending to a dawning of Gabriella’s happiness? How can Miguel ever face you after asking such a thing?

His vision shakes again, another hurricane of impossible questions begins whirling in mind. The bile in his stomach churns uncomfortably and his hands grow clammy again. His feet feel like they’re sinking in the dirt. Somehow, even at a staggering height compared to most of his colleagues, Miguel feels small once more.

Would he be able to cope with such a—

A loud crash and multiple screams suddenly break Miguel out of his state and he whirls his head to see what was happening inside. The peek of something green slithers inside the massive hole in the glass ceiling indented in the building, and it doesn’t take Miguel long to know what’s happening.

He sprints back inside the building and into the banquet hall, the opposite way where everyone is headed and takes a swift peek inside to what was happening.

A horrifically large green lizard crawls on the floor, letting out an agonizing roar of sorts with its tail swishing about and knocking everything and everyone in its path over. Dr. Curtis Connors, the one foe Miguel had fought a few months ago and had just managed to escape his grasp, had come back for revenge in a newer, more improved, more terrifying form of his initial self-experiment. News of his identity had leaked out immediately the moment that he had defeated the mad doctor, and every work that was researched by him that was deemed irrelevant by Alchemax was unpublished and/or destroyed—that included raiding everything in his personal lab—an urgent executive order made by Tyler Stone himself.

Hungry for revenge for the destruction of his work, Miguel was certain he was back for revenge as back when he was still sane, the amount of research that Dr. Connors had put in was extensive and yielded long years in the making, spanning over nearly three decades of research that was wiped away in the matter of a single day thanks to Alchemax.

Miguel quickly turns a corner, hidden from the public eye, and commands his suit on before quickly re-entering the banquet hall. He swings up towards the domed ceiling and carefully analyzes the area.

There’s still a few people scattering from the room, shrieks echoing from the walls. His eyes go to search for where you are in desperation, praying you’re safe somewhere outside, but a flash of light pink catches the corner of his eye. He nearly snaps his neck when he finds you running in the opposite direction of where most people are headed—towards the garden.

“(Y/N)!” Miguel yells out without thinking and slaps a hand over his mouth. Thankfully, you don’t hear him due to the commotion inside the area as you swim against the current of people. You fight the urge to fall down with every person that bumps into you amidst the chaos before you thankfully make it near the exit.

He lunges down from his spot on the ceiling, lassoing a few people that nearly get crushed under Lizard’s humongous tail and bringing them to safety properly on the way, making his way towards your figure. Rubble from the many columns begin to collapse on themselves; clouds of dust and debris fog the first floor of the hall with the wreckage already trapping some people inside.

A large chunk from the wall creaks and begins to teeter over the south exit, where you’re headed. A certain distraction diverts you from noticing the large cement framework around the exit that’s about to topple on you to Miguel’s horror. In the nick of time, he just barely manages to snatch you by the waist from a thrusted sprint just before the framework collapses with a thunderous boom.

You and Miguel cough from the dust it created. It takes a good second for you to process what your fate might’ve become, and it takes just another second for you to regain your consciousness. A good part of the exit is now blocked, but that doesn’t stop you from taking off your heels and attempting to climb over it.

Miguel barks out and grabs your arm that’s now scathed with slight scratches. “The hell are you doing?!” he exclaims worriedly.

You turn back with a teary and troubled look on your face, much to his shock. Abruptly, you turn back towards the exit and attempt to tug back your arm from his firm grasp. “M-my boss… he’s inside the garden,” you croak miserably out as you try to pull yourself over the fallen column. “I need t-to know if he’s safe…”

Lizard lets out another mighty howl and patters toward the stage, his tail once again swinging haughtily and ignoring anything in its path. Miguel shouts at you to duck and pulls you down along with him. You prop back up and without his arm on yours, you use it to your advantage and grunt yourself forward onto the column.

Miguel wraps a large hand over your ankle and weighs you down from moving any further. “Hey, you need to get out, now. You can’t be here, no one should be,” he urges.

The shake of your head concerns him—right, you’re too stubborn for your own good. “I’ll be fine. P-please, just leave me be.”

“Not when you’re about to get killed,” he declares and juts your ankle more towards him. The motion makes you fall into his chest and Miguel uses one hand to properly secure you to himself, the other launching and swinging a web to the north entrance.

You squirm and fight against him, pleading desperately for him to drop you and leave you alone. A frame of tears threatens to fall from your eyes from frustration and despair when you get put down. Miguel has to physically stop you from running back into the banquet hall once again—you put up a fight though. You thrash against him, clawing and weakly punching at his stronger arms, imploring for him to let you back inside.

“You don’t understand—” you gasp as the remnants of the people inside flood out. Looking over his shoulder, you gaze at the exit solemnly. “Please… I need to know if he’s alright—he h-has a young daughter back at home and if anything happens t-to him—just please let me go!” you wail.

He grabs you by the shoulders forcefully and settles you down, the stream of tears falling from your eyes running his throat dry once again. Miguel has never seen you cry, or even come close to crying. Not when Gabriella forced you to watch what she considered “one of the saddest movies in existence”, not when an entire glass beaker had toppled and its shards pierced your skin, not even when Miguel had first scolded you about your many mistakes on the very first document you turned into him.

Glassy eyes meet concerned, masked ones. Your lip trembled violently, the words all jumbled in your mouth about to spill. “Just let me check if he’s alright,” you just barely whisper.

He bores his gaze into yours as his composure does its best to upkeep him as best as possible. Miguel, from the inside of his mask, bites his lip and sighs. “I promise you, I’ll make sure Miguel gets home safely.”

“What if you don’t?” you accuse with furrowed brows.

“I’ll bring him home safe and sound,” he says firmly. “You said he has a daughter, right? I won’t let her become an orphan. I swear on my life I won’t.”

Your gaze doesn’t falter, even when Miguel attempts to soothe you by chafing the chilled skin of your arms up and down in a calming manner. Unbeknownst to you, you and him share an image of Gabriella in your minds; it brings a sting of ache to your chests.

“How can I trust you?” you ask dryly.

“Because,” he goes to weave a string of webbing through the north entrance and takes you out into the safety of the outside. He settles you on the corner of two intersecting streets that sit nearby the building, with your tears still falling and hands trembling. A hand carefully holds your cheek and wipes away descending tears on your chalky face, Miguel ignoring the squeeze of his heart with each one that puddles on the sidewalk.

“... I’m your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man.”

Spider-Man leaves you on the sidewalk idly with the blurry figures of your co-workers and other people in the company whizzing by you with no concern for anyone else other than themselves. It takes a moment for you to understand what just happened and with whom, suddenly hit with the pang of realization that you had just met the Spider-Man: the well-known vigilante protecting Nueva York from all corners, beloved by the public. Excitement can’t seem to conjure itself within you, however, your gaze still lingering on the building that Miguel was possibly in.

A hesitant step takes you forward back to the building, but your phone vibrates abruptly from a notification from Mrs. Darcie. Word must’ve gotten out so quickly that it reached the O'Hara's neighborhood, as her text was asking if you and Miguel were alright. Your thumbs shake as you try and type up a response to let her know that you were at least alive, but you know that Gabriella wanted you both home.

The least you could do is make sure half of that concern was eased. You were counting on Spider-Man to do the rest.

With an arm reaching out for a taxi, you rush into one and tell the driver to step on the gas, promising to tip extra. You’d be willing to give all the money you had with you if it meant that you could be with Gabriella for tonight.

You’ve underestimated the nightly rush hour this Friday night had brought upon, because there’s a sea of cars that are equally as stuck as you are amidst the road. Tangible fingers go to grip your hair frustratingly, and asking the driver to go any further was basically useless. Each minute you wasted on the same road you had been on for what was nearing twenty minutes made you more anxious by the minute.

“I-isn’t there some sort of shortcut?” you ask the driver hoarsely. “I don’t care what roads you have to take, just please get off this one. I’m begging you. I have a child that’s waiting for me.”

His eyes give you a quick glance in the mirror, and empathy embeds itself in his equally tired eyes. He must be a father himself, you think, as he gives you an affirmative nod and swings off the road onto a much more bumpy and gravelly, but visibly less dense one.

It’s nearly an agonizing hour later off the road—it would’ve most likely reached around two or even three if you stayed on the main road—but you thankfully make it to the O’Hara’s residence. Your body moves on its own, flying out the elevator and speeding down the floor of the apartment. You burst open the door, visible sweat misted on your forehead and an ache to your limbs but all that is ignored when Mrs. Darcie greets you with relief, with a sleeping Gabriella settled soundly on the couch as her favorite TV show buzzes in the background.

She grasps you tightly by the arms. “My goodness, thank heavens you’re alright,” she murmurs quietly. “That must’ve been quite a scare… are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” you gasp out tiredly. “But how is she? Gabi, I mean… d-does she—”

Mrs. Darcie shakes her head. “She fell asleep a while ago, she doesn’t know. I just managed to get informed thanks to my son who works near the building. But where is Miguel?”

Dread floods your face once more, remembering why you left the banquet in the first place. Somehow, however, your phone vibrates and receives a text from the one and only. A loud sigh escapes your lips and you crumple to the floor as the feeling returns to your numb legs as Miguel’s texts ease your worries.

Hey I’m alive and alright. I saw you leave earlier, hope you’re safe. I’m omw home.

You fight the urge to burst into tears from the relief as Mrs. Darcie helps you back up. “I’m assuming that’s him,” she says gently as she encourages you to take off your heels. “What a waste of night and beautiful dress. Shame that blasted giant iguana or something had to ruin it.”

A broken laugh leaves you from her gentle humor. You glance down at the dress that the mysterious Lyla had given you tonight and sigh sadly at the many tears of the tulle and fabric. The dress looked expensive and you planned on wearing it again for formal events, but alas, fate has decided to toy with you.

“That’s alright,” you mutter as you help Mrs. Darcie gather her stuff back up so she can finally leave. “I have plenty of others to use in the meantime.”

The elderly woman leaves you inside their apartment after bidding you a goodnight to tend to Gabriella, who’s still sound asleep and oblivious to what was happening to the world and people around her. That’s a good thing, at least, you think to yourself as you tidy up the living room around her quietly. Ignorance is bliss, sometimes.

She’s still small enough that you’re able to carry her to her room even at her age and it reminds you a lot of when she was younger, when she’d pretend to be asleep so you could carry her yourself to go back to her room. Nowadays, she knows her bedtime and does it by herself, but assuming she had been waiting for you or Miguel to come home, sleep had snuck onto her as she waited and waited.

You put her down gently, hoping not to get any of the leftover debris on your soiled clothes onto her freshly-washed body. The action just barely stirs her awake, her eyes slitting open at the slightest bit. Your blurry figure just barely makes it to her senses and she grins sleepily.

A titter escapes her lips. “You look like a…” Gabriella starts, her words faltering due to a fading consciousness.

“Like a…?” you whisper softly, a hand stroking her hair gently.

“Like a…” you can tell she’s trying to find the words in her very limited vocabulary currently, her brain threatening to shut off at any second now. “Like a princess, I think?”

You raise your brows at her description as Gabriella immediately falls back asleep. You suppose you do look much more dressed up from usual, but your cheeks tingle a hint of warmth at the comparison of literal royalty. You blame it on the drowsiness.

Your own tiredness begins to crawl up your spine as you stay by Gabriella’s side in her darkened bedroom, her quiet breaths soothing you like a lullaby. With heavy eyelids threatening to shut close at any minute, you fight the urge to give into the Sandman, insistent on Miguel’s return.

Miguel…

His name rings aloud in your mind for a moment.

Miguel…

“I promise you, I’ll make sure Miguel gets home safely.”

Spider-Man’s familiar voice suddenly jolts you awake. Your brows crunch together. How on earth did Spider-Man know Miguel’s name when you merely referred to him as your boss? Perhaps he saw Miguel in the garden beforehand? Maybe Miguel had an earlier oncoming with him from before and Spider-Man just knew him from that one incident? Or… he just happens to know the names of all the citizens of Nueva York because… that’s just how Spider-Man is?

Or, was Miguel actually Spid—you shake your head in the same second you think of such a stupid reasoning. That’s impossible…

… you know in your heart that it just is.

Any reason that you attempt to give, you think of it as either obnoxious or just simply impossible. Maybe you did let it slip that your boss’s name was Miguel… that just seems like the most plausible reason. After all, your adrenaline was at an all-time high and you could barely remember what had happened before the takeover, let alone the conversations you had.

Whatever it was, it was going to bring Miguel back home, and that’s what ultimately had mattered in the end. It probably wasn’t even your business to prod around.

At Gabriella’s visible sleeping state, you stand up and start to head towards the bathroom to fix yourself up, but the sound of the master bedroom’s window suddenly shuffling open makes your nerves electrify. Miguel’s bedroom sat just right next to Gabriella’s, and it was also the bedroom that was nearest to the complex’s fire escape, so a break-in at this time of night was highly plausible.

Grabbing one of the displayed metal baseball bats on the wall, you turn off Gabriella’s lights and lock the door behind, ensuring her safety first before yours. You’re careful to tiptoe around the more creaky parts of the floorboards, desperate to make yourself not seen by the intruder as you step closer and closer to Miguel’s bedroom. The door is just barely ajar, and the lights are on. A distinct shuffling, bed springs, and a masculine groan echo from the crack of the doorway and when all is silent from the other side of the door, you make your move and burst in, ready to swing at whoever threatens the O’Hara residence.

The bat is suddenly grabbed from your hands from a familiar neon orange webbing and thrusted to the side of the room, where it thunks against the wall and falls limply. You gasp aloud and with nothing to defend yourself with, you look up with fear in your eyes that suddenly turn to shock from the sight in front of you.

There, standing in the same blue and red vinyl suit you had crossed paths with earlier, without its mask completing the look… and thus, exposing the face of the man you had been waiting for to come back home to you.

a/n ; second to last part to this mini-series and once again, i apologize for this nearly six-month delay, last semester was rough for uni. almost made this into two parts, but i felt like they just belonged together and i quite like the blend of them together.

thanks for the patience for those who stuck around and have waited far too long for this, you deserve this! i'm glad to see you all again <3 thank you endlessly for reading and likes/comments/reblogs are always noticed and appreciated (づ ᴗ _ᴗ)づ♡

taglist ; @secretlyrexlapis @urbimom @p1nkliquor @julesclues @averagefloydlover @apurpletrashcan @raeisthebae @mvchmp @um-well @nintendh-e @eddieslooneymoonie @deputy-videogamer @xochyw @honeybeeznuts @aspens-cove @btszn @scaleniusrm @goldenpoison @the-pan-liquid (if you'd like to be either added or removed from the taglist, please lmk! i know it's been awhile, so hi again haha)

#spider man: across the spider verse #across the spider verse #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #miguel o'hara fluff #miguel o'hara smut #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara imagine #atsv miguel #across the spider verse x reader #miguel ohara x reader #miguel o'hara x fem!reader #fem!reader #fem!y/n

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simplygojo · 11 days

Text

The Devil He Made Me - Ch. 5

Authors Note: THANK YOU ALL FOR YOUR KINDNESS ON THE LAST CHAPTER!! I hope this one is also up to your standards!

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x f/reader

Series Summary : After being found by Gojo and his first year students in a sticky situation, y/n joins Jujutsu High under the close supervision of Gojo. As time passes, the two of you become close, with a strong unspoken bond forming as you work together. Although, there is something dark looming over the situation, and those at Jujutsu High are determined to get to the bottom of it, before it is too late.

Chapter Summary : Y/n shows significant improvement in her cursed techniques over the next few weeks, but her nightmares continue to haunt her each night. Soon, Gojo sends y/n and the first-years out on a mission to tackle a special-grade curse, but the mission quickly goes wrong when some foul play is suspected.

Taglist: @mawhoreagaa; @peqch-pie; @blue-serendipity; @simplyyyuji; @starrnai; @sorcerersseestars; @n1vi; @angryglitterperfection; @krak-jj; @coweringbear; @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni; If you'd like to be added to the taglist, leave a comment to let me know :)

Word Count : 6.2k (sorryyyyyyy I had a lot to say in this one)

Warnings : Violence, blood, suggestive remarks, also mildly unedited...

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

The past two weeks brought about a change in you. Since the day your cursed techniques had emerged in full, something had shifted—not just in your power but in your confidence.

You’d been training harder, pushing your limits as often as you could, determined to master the new abilities that had manifested.

Gojo had taken you and the first years on several missions—low-level cursed spirits that provided practice but nothing particularly challenging. Still, you could feel it in the air, the sense that something bigger was coming.

One evening, after a quiet day around the school, you found yourself in the common room, staring out the window as raindrops ran down the glass. The patter of rain was calming, yet your mind was restless.

Your limbs ached from the long days of training, but it wasn’t the physical strain that bothered you.

It was the nightmares—relentless, vivid, and painful—that plagued you every night. You hadn't spoken about them yet, unsure if they even meant anything, but they were getting harder to shake off.

The door slid open, and you glanced up to see Gojo sauntering into the room. His white hair was slightly tousled, and as always, his signature rounded sunglasses did a poor job of hiding his striking eyes, but his grin was unmistakable.

“Hey,” he drawled, hands shoved casually in his pockets. “You look like you’ve seen better days.”

You let out a soft chuckle, though your smile barely hid the exhaustion. “Thanks, I really needed that boost to my self-esteem.”

Gojo smirked, taking a seat beside you on the small couch, tilting his head with that annoyingly charming confidence.

“You know, I’ve noticed you’ve been skipping out on sleep lately. Must be tough, trying to keep up with me and all.”

You blinked, raising an eyebrow. “How could you possibly know that?”

His grin widened, eyes glinting mischievously behind his sunglasses. “I’ve got great eyes, remember?” He said, shooting you a wink.

You rolled your eyes at him, crossing your arms. “Right.” You realized he was referring to his Six Eyes technique.

So does he just know everything? You thought.

Gojo clasped his hands together and stretched them out in front of him. “So, what’s up?” He asked, looking over at you. “What’s keeping you up at night.”

You hesitated for a moment, biting your lip as you tried to figure out how to bring it up.

“What? Are you dreaming of me, y/n?!” He said, dramatically clutching at his heart, a sly grin plastered on his face.

You punched his arm, “Shut up, you wish.” You teased with a smile on your face.

“There is something I’ve been meaning to bring up to you though…” The words felt heavy on your tongue, but there was no point in hiding it anymore. “I’ve been having these weird nightmares,” you said finally, your voice quieter than you intended. “Every night, for the past week.”

Gojo didn’t interrupt, his head tilting slightly, in an almost cat like manner, as if urging you to continue.

“They’re always the same. Just…pain. Searing, unbearable pain, so real that it sticks with me even after I wake up.” You paused, rubbing your temples.

“But there’s nothing else. No images, no memories—well, there are, but as I wake up, they all fade away, and it’s just the pain. It feels like—like it’s not just a normal dream.”

For a long moment, Gojo said nothing, his playful demeanour fading into something more serious. His face softened, and his eyes looked deep in thought as he stared in front of him. After a moment, he sat up slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he processed your words.

“Nightmares, huh?” he said, his voice lower now. “Didn’t think you were the type to lose sleep over those.”

You sighed as you began fiddling with your necklace. “It’s not about losing sleep. It’s…they feel too real, Gojo. Like they’re more than just dreams. I don’t know if it’s connected to my cursed energy or something else—I’m still new here—but I know that it’s getting worse. I wake up every night with this... lingering feeling, like something’s waiting on the other side that I can’t reach.”

Gojo leaned back against the couch, his head tilted up as if considering something deeply. “Sounds like your body’s trying to tell you something. You’ve been pushing yourself pretty hard lately—maybe too hard.” His voice dropped slightly as if to drive the point home.

You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, he held up a hand. “But, if it’s not that,” He continued, “it could be your cursed energy evolving. Sometimes, when your energy changes, the body reacts in weird ways. Nightmares could be one of them.”

You shook your head, frowning. “But why pain? Why something so... specific?”

Gojo shrugged, but his tone was thoughtful. “Your cursed energy is different. It’s still evolving, and it might be trying to tell you something you don’t fully understand yet. Or...”

He paused, the playfulness slipping back into his voice as he gave you a knowing smirk. “Maybe you’re just being dramatic.”

You shot him a sharp glare. “Hey! What the hell!? You know I am not being dramatic!” You shouted at him accusingly.

Gojo let out a loud laugh in response, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looked at you with a smug grin. “Relax, relax, I’m just messing with you.” His voice was teasing, but there was an underlying softness in his gaze, which did not budge from yours, that made you pause.

You huffed, crossing your arms in front of you, but a small smile tugged at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“Hey, that’s what everyone loves about me,” Gojo replied smoothly, stretching his arms above his head before letting them fall back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh.

"But seriously, you’ve gotta ease up a little. If you want, we can see if Shoko can monitor your dream or something to find out some answers."

You raised an eyebrow, turning to look at him. “Shoko? You think she can help with this?”

Gojo shrugged, leaning back on the couch as if the suggestion was no big deal.

“She’s smarter than she lets on. If anyone can figure out what’s going on with your cursed energy, it’s her. Plus,” he added with a smirk, “she’s got that whole ‘doctor’ thing going for her. You know, credentials and all.”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly at his casual tone. “You make it sound like you’re just recommending a spa day or something.”

“Well, to be fair,” Gojo said, grinning wider, “a spa day wouldn’t hurt either. You’re wound up tighter than a cursed spirit. A little relaxation could do wonders.”

He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to feel more personal. “You’re not a machine, y/n. It’s okay to take a breath.”

He had a point, though you hated to admit it. The nightmares, the intense training, pushing yourself so hard day after day—it was starting to weigh on you—And you were not some expert sorcerer. But stopping felt like giving in, like letting the fear of the unknown win.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “I guess you’re right,” you admitted reluctantly.

Gojo gave you a triumphant grin, clearly pleased with himself. “I’m always right, you should know that by now.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you.”

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk taking on a mischievous edge. “Oh, you’re thanking me now? Careful, y/n… You keep this up, and I might start expecting more gratitude.” He stood up, but his eyes never left yours.

You shot him a playful glare. “You wish.”

Gojo leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping into a lower, teasing tone. “Oh, I do. And trust me, I’ve got a pretty vivid imagination.” His gaze lingered on you for just a beat too long, a suggestive glint in his eyes.

Your heart skipped a beat, heat rising to your cheeks despite your best efforts to stay composed. “Oh God—Shut the hell up,” you muttered, trying to ignore the way his words had affected you.

Gojo laughed, straightening up as he made his way toward the door, giving you a playful salute. “Catch you later, y/n! Sweet dreams.”

You groaned, his laughter echoing down the hall. Even after he was gone, you couldn’t help but smile to yourself, your pulse still racing from his remark.

With Gojo, every conversation felt like a tightrope walk between playful teasing and full-blown flirting—and that unpredictability made everything between you that much more entertaining.

—

The following evening, after a particularly gruelling training session, you found yourself lounging in the common area with Maki, Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi. The air was light, filled with the sound of Nobara’s laughter as she playfully taunted Yuji for losing yet another sparring match earlier that day.

“You’ve gotta stop holding back, Yuji,” Nobara teased, nudging him in the ribs. “You’re making me look bad.”

Yuji pouted dramatically. “I’m not holding back! You just fight dirty.”

Maki snorted. “She’s right though, you know. You’re still telegraphing your punches like a rookie.”

“Hey! I’m getting better!” Yuji protested, throwing his hands up in mock defeat.

“You’re getting something,” Megumi chimed in dryly from his seat, not bothering to look up from the book he was pretending to read. “Not sure if it’s ‘better’ though.”

You grinned at the banter, feeling a warmth in your chest as you watched the exchange. It was nice, these moments of camaraderie.

You had no memories of your life before waking up in that forest. You didn’t know whether you had friends or a family somewhere, so it felt nice knowing that, despite that, you were surrounded by people.

Even though there was constant danger surrounding your life as a sorcerer, there was comfort in knowing you had people who had your back. People who you could laugh with, spar with, and, when the time came, fight alongside.

Maki leaned back in her seat, glancing over at you with an amused smirk. “You’ve been quiet, y/n. Something on your mind?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off, but there was a heaviness in your chest that you couldn’t quite shake. “I guess I’ve just been thinking about some stuff.”

Nobara leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand as she eyed you. “Like what? Spill it, y/n.”

You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you should say it. But these were your friends—if anyone would understand, it was them. You took a deep breath. “Apparently, the higher-ups are suspicious of me.”

The room went quiet for a moment, the atmosphere shifting. Yuji, who had been lounging on the couch with his head tilted back, sat up straighter. “Suspicious of you? Why?”

You gave a half-hearted chuckle. “I don’t know. Maybe because of the whole... cursed energy—found with no memories in a forest—thing. It’s different from what they’ve seen before. I guess they don’t trust it.”

Yuji frowned, his brow furrowing. “That’s messed up. They tried to kill me last year, too. If Gojo-sensei wasn’t around, they probably would’ve executed me by now.”

“Wait, what?” you blurted, eyes widening in disbelief. “They tried to kill you? Are they trying to kill me?”

He nodded, a humourous smile on his face. “Yeah, when they found out I had Sukuna inside me. They don’t exactly give you the benefit of the doubt when they’re scared of what you can do.”

Maki crossed her arms, her expression hardened. “The higher-ups are always looking for reasons to control or eliminate anything they don’t understand. But they probably aren’t going to go that far with you—you aren’t cursed. You’re just different. They’re cowards, hiding behind their rules.”

Nobara scoffed. “Seriously. They’re a bunch of old geezers who think they can decide who lives and who dies.”

Megumi, who had been quietly observing the conversation, finally spoke up. “They’ll leave you alone as long as Gojo-sensei has your back. He’s the only reason they don’t go after Yuji anymore.”

You felt a lump form in your throat at Megumi’s words. It was comforting to know that Gojo was protecting you, but it also felt like a heavy weight to carry.

“I guess... but what if they find a reason to come after me anyway? What if Gojo can’t protect me forever?”

Yuji leaned forward, giving you a reassuring grin. “If that happens, we’ve got your back. You’re one of us now, y/n. The higher-ups can suck it.”

Maki smirked. “Yeah, and I’d love to see them try. They wouldn’t know what hit them.”

Nobara gave you a firm nod. “Exactly. We’re a team, y/n. They’ll have to get through all of us before they even think about touching you.”

Your heart swelled at their words, the tension in your chest easing just a little.

Despite the uncertainty, despite the danger that came with being a sorcerer, there was a deep sense of comfort in knowing that you weren’t alone in this. You had friends who would stand by you, no matter what.

“Thanks, guys,” you said quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It means a lot.”

Yuji grinned, the mood in the room lifting again. “Hey, don’t mention it. We’ve gotta stick together, right?”

Maki nudged you with her elbow. “Besides, you’re not going anywhere. If the higher-ups have a problem, we’ll deal with it when the time comes. You really need to try and relax, y/n.”

Megumi’s gaze softened, and he gave you a brief nod of agreement. “Exactly. You’ve earned your place here, y/n. Don’t let them make you feel otherwise.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, feeling a warmth spread through you. Maybe things weren’t as hopeless as they seemed. Maybe, with friends like these, you could face whatever came next—together.

—

The next day, Gojo gathered you, Nobara, Megumi, and Yuji together in a classroom. “We’ve got a special grade curse,” Gojo announced, his tone unusually serious as he addressed the group. “Abandoned hospital on the outskirts of town. Reports of multiple cursed spirits, and they’re getting stronger by the day.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the mention of a special grade curse. The last few missions had been easy in comparison, but this? This was going to be a real test of everything you’d learned so far.

—

The abandoned hospital loomed before you, its decaying walls and shattered windows casting eerie shadows in the dying light. Vines had overtaken much of the exterior, twisting through broken glass and crumbling stone, giving the building the appearance of something that nature itself was trying to reclaim.

"Classic horror setting," Yuji muttered as you all stood in front of the hospital. "Why is it always places like this?"

"Spirits like places where humans suffered," Megumi said quietly, his dark eyes scanning the perimeter. "Hospitals, prisons, battlefields—they’re drawn to them."

"Stay alert," Gojo said, his tone more serious now as he led the way deeper into the building. "Special grade curses are unpredictable. We don’t know what we’re dealing with yet."

You could feel the tension rising in the group.

“Anyways, good luck, students! Don’t die!” Gojo shouted in an animated sing-song voice, giving one final wave as the veil lowered between you.

Nobara rolled her eyes. “Well isn’t that encouraging. What a weirdo.”

As you entered the hospital, the air immediately grew colder, and the stench of mould and decay hit you like a wall.

You felt your insides stir—this place was so spooky—they were reacting to the oppressive atmosphere that pressed down on your chest.

It was hard to tell what was more unsettling—the building’s slow disintegration or the cursed energy that seemed to pulse within its walls barely contained.

As you moved through the hospital's dark, twisting hallways, your mind was racing. The last few missions had been tough on you, but you had proven yourself over and over again. You were ready for this—right?

Even though you had faced some curses before, there was always an element of unpredictability, especially with a special grade. They didn’t play by the same rules as lower-level spirits, and you had only been a sorcerer for a total of a few weeks.

But you knew you had no choice but to come along with everyone on the missions.

Gojo had said that he needed to keep you busy and away from the school grounds where Principal Gakuganji of the Kyoto School and other suspicious higher-ups had access to you.

So you just agreed, you didn’t want to do any more tests, you knew you were telling the truth.

As the group approached the hospital's central operating room, where the cursed energy seemed to be strongest, the floor beneath you suddenly shook.

A deep, guttural sound echoed through the walls like the building itself was alive and groaning in pain.

"Here we go," Yuji muttered, cracking his knuckles, his fists igniting with the usual blue hue.

The door to an operating room burst open, and a wave of cursed energy hit you like a physical force, forcing you all to slide back.

Inside the room, a grotesque figure hovered in the air, its body a twisted mass of blackened flesh and pulsating veins. Its face—or what was left of it—was a gaping maw of jagged teeth, and its limbs dangled unnaturally as though they had been broken and twisted in every direction.

"That’s a special grade, alright," Nobara said through gritted teeth, her hands already wrapped around her hammer and nails.

The cursed spirit let out an ear-piercing screech, and the room itself seemed to warp and distort under the pressure of its cursed energy. You covered both of your ears at the piercing noise.

Shadows twisted and stretched along the walls, making it difficult to tell where the real threat was coming from.

"Formation B!" Megumi called out, taking the lead as the team snapped into action.

You moved to the side, focusing your energy into your palms, ready for action. Gojo had warned you about overextending, but now was not the time to hold back. As the others engaged the cursed spirit, you felt your energy pulsing within you, stronger than ever before.

The battle was intense. Yuji charged in with his usual reckless enthusiasm, landing powerful blows on the curse, while Megumi summoned his shikigami to distract and confuse the creature.

Nobara, always precise, launched her nails with deadly accuracy, each one imbued with her cursed energy.

But despite their combined efforts, the curse wasn’t going down easily. Its grotesque form seemed to regenerate almost instantly after each attack, its twisted limbs snapping back into place as it shrieked and lashed out with dark tendrils of cursed energy.

Suddenly, you noticed more curses charging down the narrow hallway—no—not more curses, duplicates of the special grade?

“Uh, guys, we have a few more problems coming this way!” You shouted, sending a beam of cursed energy at one of the creatures.

Their grotesque forms slithered out from the shadows, their eyes glowing with a sickly light as they attacked with reckless abandon.

The cursed energy in the air was heavy—borderline oppressive, and as the battle wore on, you realized with a sinking feeling that you were being overwhelmed.

Gojo, for the first time, wasn’t watching over you.

As you fought, your heart pounded in your chest, adrenaline surging through your veins. The cursed spirits were relentless, their attacks growing more vicious by the second, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself separated from the group, struggling to hold your own.

And then you felt it—a foreign cursed energy, dark and unfamiliar, taking hold of you.

It surged through your body like wildfire, the feeling of it coursing through you—it was strong. Without thinking, you raised your hand, mimicking the shape of a gun with your fingers, aiming toward the cursed spirit in front of you.

A blast of black-coloured cursed energy surged from your fingertips, its force unlike anything you'd ever experienced.

The energy was different from your usual vibrant blue—it was pitch black, rippling through the air with an ominous weight.

There was a heaviness to it, darker, more sinister, but at the same time... strangely familiar. It moved through you like a shadow, one you hadn't realized was lurking within.

The cursed spirit in front of you didn't stand a chance against the sudden surge. The black energy ripped through its grotesque form, sending it flying backward, crashing through walls like they were paper.

The ground beneath you trembled as the creature's screech echoed in the air, growing distant as it was hurled away, disappearing into the rubble.

You tried to catch your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly, the world tilting slightly from the exertion.

Before you could even see if the special-grade curse had been exorcised, a new threat emerged—swift, a lower-level curse appearing out of nowhere, claws sinking into your abdomen.

The impact was immediate, brutal, knocking the wind out of you. You doubled over, your mouth filling with the bitter taste of blood as it poured out uncontrollably.

You barely had time to process the pain before the curse hit you again—this time, its hand wrapped around your head, slamming your skull into the cold, unforgiving concrete tiles beneath you.

The ground splintered on impact, the sharp sting reverberating through your entire body. Stars danced in your vision, your mind struggling to focus, to hold onto any semblance of control.

Panic clawed at you as your heart hammered in your chest. The dark energy you’d released moments ago had drained you, leaving your body weak, vulnerable.

You could feel it—the slow creep of defeat as the curse pressed its advantage, its grotesque laughter filling the air, a mocking sound that only fueled your fear.

Your body trembled as you tried to raise your hands, summoning the familiar blue shield of your cursed technique.

The shimmering barrier flickered to life just in time, forming a protective dome around you.

The curse snarled in frustration, raining down blow after blow, but your shield held—for now. Each hit reverberated through your bones, the blue light shuddering with each impact.

But the cracks were already forming. You felt them—spiderweb fractures spreading across the surface of the shield, each hit making it weaker, thinner.

You clenched your fists, pushing every ounce of energy you had left into maintaining it, but that dark energy had drained you. The curse was too fast, too relentless.

A crack split through the shield, a web of blue light that shimmered before faltering, and your heart raced as you realized the inevitable.

You were going to die.

The cursed spirit’s claws were mere inches from your face when the blue light of your shield finally gave out. Your last line of defence crumbled like shattered glass, leaving you exposed, and the curse roared, lunging for the kill.

For a heartbeat, everything froze. Then, out of nowhere, you felt a familiar presence surge forward.

Gojo.

His cursed energy slammed into the battlefield. The air around you shifted, becoming dense, almost suffocating.

The cursed spirits recoiled instantly, their monstrous forms trembling as if they could sense the inevitable destruction headed their way.

Gojo appeared in front of you in a blur of motion, levitating just above the ground, standing tall between you and the four special-grade curses, his back to you as if daring them to try anything.

His aura crackled like electricity in the air, the sheer force of it pressing down on everything around him. You’d felt his power before, but never like this—never so raw, so lethal.

The cursed spirit that had nearly killed you snarled, preparing for another attack, but Gojo didn’t flinch. He raised a single hand, fingers splayed casually, but his tone was ice-cold.

"Stay back."

One of the special grades, a grotesque mass of limbs and dark energy, didn’t heed the warning. It charged forward, screeching, its enormous claws slicing through the air, aiming directly for Gojo’s head. But before it could get close, Gojo moved.

It was so fast you barely saw it—just a blur of white and blue as Gojo flicked his wrist.

A ripple of cursed energy erupted from him, invisible but devastating. The curse was obliterated on contact, torn apart mid-air with such force that the shockwave blasted debris in every direction.

The ground itself cracked beneath the sheer impact of Gojo's technique.

The other three special grades barreled around the corner, coming from where you had been separated from the group, likely sensing the death of their comrade.

Their twisted forms shrank back for a moment, cautious, as Gojo turned his head slightly to glance at them. His grin was there, but it was chilling—predatory, and his eyes were sharp.

"Next." He said coldly.

Another one of the special grade duplicates, a hulking beast with jagged scales and red eyes, let out a bone-shaking roar and lunged at Gojo.

This one was smarter, possibly the main body, using its enormous bulk to tear through the ground and debris, sending it flying toward Gojo. But it didn’t matter.

Gojo barely blinked as he raised his other hand. His cursed energy flared, but this time, it was different—stronger. T

here was a low hum in the air, the kind that made your skin crawl. With a flick of his fingers, the air in front of him seemed to ripple, and in an instant, the curse was halted mid-charge.

It stopped as if hitting an invisible barrier, limbs flailing, confusion flashing in its eyes.

This must be Gojo’s infinity.

Then, Gojo clenched his fist, and the curse was crushed—its body caving inwards under the pressure of his cursed energy.

It let out a final screech before it was flattened into the earth, nothing but dust and blood splattered on the ground where it once stood.

The third curse, a lanky figure with long, twisted arms, hissed, its grotesque eyes flicking between you and Gojo as if weighing its chances. Without warning, it shifted its target—to you.

In a blur of motion, the curse moved faster than you could track. One second it was by Gojo, and the next, it was in front of you, its arm outstretched, claws aiming directly for your throat.

You didn’t have time to react. You could barely breathe, the pain from your earlier injuries making every movement agonizing. Blood dripped from your wounds, pooling beneath you as you struggled to stay conscious.

Your vision blurred, and the only sound you could make was a weak gasp as the curse closed in.

But it never reached you.

Gojo’s energy flared again, a wave of blue light cutting through the air like a blade. The curse froze mid-strike, its arm mere inches from your neck.

Then, with a sudden explosion of power, it was ripped apart, and shredded into pieces by Gojo’s cursed technique. The pieces fell to the ground with a sickening thud, leaving you gasping for air.

“I’d really advise you to stay away from my students,” his voice lower, more dangerous than you’d ever heard it. “I can be quite protective over them.”

There was only one curse left now, and it was by far the most powerful.

The final special grade stood at the far end of the battlefield, its monstrous form pulsing with energy. It was larger than the others, its body covered in thick, armoured plates that gleamed in the dim light. Its eyes, burning with malice, locked onto Gojo—and then onto you.

The curse bared its fangs, a guttural laugh vibrating through its chest. “You,” it hissed, its voice dripping with malice, “Don’t you feel it?”

The curse taunted, eyes gleaming with twisted amusement. “It’s almost time for you!” It yelled with a wicked snarl, its voice rising to a fever pitch.

Gojo didn’t react at first; his body was still, and his gaze was fixed on the curse. But you could feel it—the rage building beneath the surface, bubbling up in waves.

"Where did you and your ugly little friends come from?" He asked the curse, ignoring its previous statement, slowly walking towards it.

“When I lowered the veil, there was only one of you. No way I missed these other guys.”

The curse snarled in response, but before it could move, Gojo was already in front of it.

“If you don’t answer my question—I’ll kill you.” He said coldly.

The curse spoke in response but ignored the question Gojo had asked it. “Dirty human.” It managed to get out.

Gojo’s hand shot forward, palm outstretched, and his cursed energy exploded.

The impact was instantaneous. The curse was blasted backwards, crashing through walls, buildings, anything in its path. But Gojo didn’t stop there.

With a burst of speed, he was on the curse again, kicking it with such force that the ground cracked beneath their feet. The curse let out a deafening roar, but Gojo’s expression remained unchanged—cold, furious.

His cursed energy wrapped around the curse, constricting it like a vice, squeezing until the armour plates cracked and shattered under the pressure.

“You think I’d let you live after that?” Gojo’s voice was calm, almost too calm. “You were going to kill them. You were going to kill my students. That’s pretty rude, you know.”

The curse screeched, but Gojo tightened his grip, his cursed energy surging. The ground beneath them split apart, deep fissures forming in the earth as Gojo’s power reached its peak. His eyes, glowing with that terrifying blue light, locked onto the curse one final time.

“You made the wrong choice.”

With a final, devastating blow, Gojo obliterated the curse. The explosion of energy sent shockwaves across the battlefield, levelling everything in its path. When the dust settled, there was nothing left of the curse but ash and rubble.

Gojo stood there, breathing heavily, his fists still clenched at his sides, blood smeared across his face. His cursed energy lingered in the air, buzzing with intensity. Slowly, he returned back to you.

You were slumped against a pile of debris, barely conscious. Blood coated your skin, pouring out of your mouth and wounds, your breathing shallow and ragged.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The pain was overwhelming, and darkness threatened to pull you under.

His cursed energy still crackled in the air, fierce and oppressive, like a storm that had yet to pass. But that didn’t matter now.

What mattered was you.

His heart hammered in his chest as his eyes locked onto your broken form.

Your body was covered in blood, your skin pale, your breathing shallow and labored. He could see the faint rise and fall of your chest, but the sight only made his stomach twist. He was there in an instant, dropping to his knees beside you.

"Satoru..." you whispered, your voice barely audible, but it was enough to catch his attention.

He flinched slightly at the sound of his name from your lips—so familiar, yet, in this moment, it felt like it held a weight that was too much for him to carry.

His breath hitched, and for a second, his mask of invincibility cracked.

He was no longer Gojo, the strongest sorcerer, the untouchable protector. He was just Satoru, the man who nearly lost something far more precious to him than a battle.

The word echoed in his head, not from his lips, but from your past whisper when you'd said his name before, breaking the invisible wall between you two. Now, as he knelt before you, it felt different—more raw, more real.

His hands hovered above your wounds, trembling, unsure whether to touch you, heal you, or just... hold you.

The usual cocky smirk that adorned his face was long gone, replaced by an expression of sheer panic, something so uncharacteristic of him that even he struggled to recognize it.

“You almost died,” he muttered, voice low and thick with emotion. His eyes, for once, weren’t hidden behind his glasses or his blindfold. His gaze wasn’t calculating or aloof. It was vulnerable, filled with something he hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge until now.

You could barely register the words through the haze of pain. Everything was blurring, the edges of your vision fading in and out. Your body was so weak, every breath you took was a battle.

Yet, even through the fog of agony, you could feel him—his presence, his cursed energy, the way his fingers ghosted over your skin. The gentle tremor in his touch told you what his words couldn’t.

“Save your strength. We’re getting out of here. I’ll take care of everything.”

But there was no more strength left in you. Your vision darkened further, and your body slumped into his touch. You were fading, and Gojo knew it.

His emotions roared in his chest, battling against the calm control he was supposed to maintain. He couldn’t lose you, not like this.

“Damn it,” he hissed, his voice trembling with an edge of desperation.

He whipped his phone out of his pocket quickly and held it up to his ear with his shoulder, his thumb gently brushing over your wrist to reassure himself that your pulse was still there.

“Damn it, y/n...Shoko! I am coming back to the school now, y/n is in critical condition—please be ready.” He hung up the phone with urgency.

The faintest rise and fall of your chest reassured him you were still with him, barely hanging on. But that was enough for now.

The last thing you saw before unconsciousness took you was his face, inches from yours, those baby-blue eyes soft yet filled with an intensity that sent a warmth flooding through your cold body.

Gojo heard footsteps running down the hall.

The first to arrive was Yuji, his eyes wide with worry as he took in the scene. "Gojo-sensei!" he called out, his voice shaky as he stumbled over the rubble toward you both.

Nobara and Megumi were right behind him, their faces pale, their exhaustion evident, but the sight of you drained the colour from their faces even more.

Yuji’s gaze landed on your bloodied, battered form, and his heart sank. “Y/n…” he whispered, his voice full of disbelief. He rushed forward but hesitated, unsure if he should get closer. “Is she…?”

“She’s alive,” Gojo muttered, his voice low and tight as he attempted to keep up his lighthearted attitude, “What kind of teacher would I be otherwise.” He let out a soft chuckle, “But she’s hurt—badly.”

Megumi’s eyes darted between Gojo and you, his normally stoic expression faltering.

He had seen you fight, and all three of them felt you unleash that dark black-hued cursed energy, but seeing you like this—so fragile, so broken—it was something none of them had been prepared for. "What happened?" he asked, his voice rough.

Gojo shifted slightly, his grip on you tightening as he stared down at your unconscious form, the tension radiating from him palpable. "Something was off," he finally said, his voice laced with frustration and suspicion.

The students exchanged confused glances. Yuji frowned, stepping forward. "What do you mean?"

Gojo sighed, his usual playful demeanour nowhere to be found as he continued, "When I lowered the veil, there were no signs of these other cursed spirits. Not even a trace of their energy. I was monitoring everything, and they didn’t exist... until they did."

Nobara’s brow furrowed, the gravity of the situation settling in. "So, what? They just appeared out of nowhere?"

"Exactly." Gojo’s voice was sharp, filled with a rare intensity that made the air feel heavier.

His usually carefree posture was replaced with something far more serious, more protective. "Curses that strong don’t just pop up. Someone—or something—wanted us caught off guard. Those curses weren’t supposed to be there, especially not after I lifted the veil."

Megumi’s eyes darkened with realization. "A setup."

Gojo nodded, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the surrounding area once more. "That’s what it looks like. Whoever orchestrated this knew we’d be here. And it seems they wanted y/n—" he glanced down at you, his expression softening just slightly, "—and the rest of you vulnerable. If I hadn’t come back when I did…"

Yuji’s fists clenched, anger simmering beneath his usually easygoing expression. "But why now? And why would they target y/n like that?"

Gojo didn’t answer immediately, his gaze still fixed on you. His jaw tensed as if holding back something deeper. "I don’t know yet," he finally said, his voice low. "But this wasn’t just a random attack. Someone’s playing a dangerous game."

Nobara, ever the blunt one, crossed her arms, frustration clear in her tone. "Whoever they are, they’re going to pay for this."

Gojo’s lips twitched, a shadow of his usual smirk returning, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Oh, they will," he murmured, voice dark with a rare, controlled anger. "But for now, we need to get y/n back to Shoko. She’s lost too much blood, and this cursed energy…"

His voice trailed off, and for a moment, none of the students spoke. The atmosphere was thick with unease, the weight of what had just transpired sinking in. Whatever this was, it was far from over.

"Let’s move," Gojo finally said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He stood, lifting your body with a gentleness that seemed at odds with the sheer power he had unleashed only moments ago.

As the others gathered around, a collective sense of resolve washed over them.

They might not know who or what had orchestrated the attack, but one thing was certain: they would fight back.

And Gojo would make sure that whoever was behind it would regret ever targeting you.

108 notes · View notes

charnelhouse · 2 years

Note

I’m not saying soap would definitely eat ghosts cum out of red but …

A/N: Ghost x F!Reader (Red Fox) x Soap. Mentions of painful sex/dp.

It’s between the three of them. The moments are rare, but they happen. All those near-death experiences. All that bloodshed and adrenaline working through them like dry, rasping kindling ready for a fire.

“Fuck, lass,” Soap mumbles against her throat, fingers knotting in her hair. “Yah make me feel like I'm burnin’.”

She’s trembling, her lashes wet and clumped together, and a terrible bruise creeping across her cheekbone, swelling something fierce. Ghost’s enormous hands latch onto her hips. He cocks his head, blue eyes breaking ground as they meet Soap’s. It took him a long time to realize that Simon even had blue eyes due to all the coal-dark war paint hiding the truth of them.

Simon’s thumb sweeps over the bruise on Red’s cheek. He presses his naked lips to it, and she shudders. “I’d kill the bastard again,” he declares. “I’d kill him a thousand fuckin’ times, duchess.”

Soap seals his front to her back, touching her between her legs. He lives for how she gets wet and locks up tight like a monkey fist knot.

He calls her a calamity. He calls her a hurricane, banshee, and siren and says it with so much deference that you’d think he was the one in love, not Simon.

Fuck it. Maybe, he is.

Maybe, he’s a foolish mad cunt.

***

When he walks in on them, he isn’t sure if it’s an accident or another invitation.

He assumes that nothing Red or Ghost do is ever unintentional.

The hallway is full of shadows and gray-blue moonlight. 3 am. A safe house in Cork. The air here smells like yellow furze and cider, and Red demanded they take her to the butter museum.

Ghost has her cheek shoved against the wall as he fucks her from behind. Her linen sleep shorts are around her ankles, her back arched, and her legs kicked apart. Ghost claims her in long, powerful strokes, and she’s nearly forced onto her toes each time he drives to the hilt. The flesh of her ass quivers, and her teeth flash white as she bites down on her lower lip.

Their noises are low and quiet - everything wrapped in tissue paper and wool.

He steps closer, and Ghost turns his head to look at him. His mask is on, his eyes glinting like bits of black glass as he coaxes her through it. Soap doesn’t know what Ghost calls her in the dark. He doesn’t know everything they discuss when they’re curled up together, when they communicate through expression alone.

He watches as Ghost’s pace grows sloppy. He’s breathing hard, his hand on her waist visibly tightening as he braces his other hand on her shoulder. Soap continues forward. The team is sleeping below them. Just a floor away.

He knows he won’t get instructions here. This is all just instinct. The three of them functioning as a single unit as they have done out on the field. The only wrinkle in the fabric is that he can’t wind himself into the golden net that holds them together.

You must love her then.

Shut up, Johnny.

He knows he has a place with them, more so than the rest of the team, but sometimes he wishes he could have more. He wishes he could absorb the two of them to understand what scuttles through their heads day in and day out.

“Fuckk,” Simon rasps, sinking to the root as he empties himself. “Good girl…bloody fuckin’ good for me….I want-”

The words dwindle to red-hot coals. He whispers them into her ear so that Soap misses the rest.

It’s not an accident.

When he eases himself out of Red, she flinches. Simon’s cock hangs heavy between his legs, shiny with Red’s cunt. Soap wonders if he’s branded her insides, if he’s left his mark by stretching her to her limit. Soap scrubs a hand over his jaw before pushing a lock of Red’s hair out of her eyes. “Too sore for me, bonnie?”

Foxy. Red. Red. Red.

Sometimes all he can see is the color red: sunsets, blood, wine, and cough medicine.

She leans into Soap’s touch. “No,” she returns - all sharp and sturdy. It would take a million sticks of dynamite to unmoor her. “I can take you, Johnny.”

Once, they’d fucked her at the same time. Simon worked his way into her ass as Soap kept her impaled on his cock. It was too much. Even though they’d prepped her, she was digging her nails so deeply into Soap’s shoulders he started bleeding. She didn’t say a word. She wouldn’t admit failure until Simon finally had to stop because he could sense it, smell it off her. It was like his special telepathy: knowing when Red was in pain.

I want to be part of it - part of that.

Soap had had various girlfriends throughout his life. First loves. Temporary affairs.

Not like this. Nothing like this.

She flips her hair over her shoulder as she casts Soap one of those Siren-stares that uproot him, shove him off his axis. He moves behind her, dragging a palm down her spine, catching in the wrinkles of her cotton shirt. Ghost is tucking himself back into his pants before leaning against the wall, massive arms crossing over an enormous chest.

“Be good to her, Johnny,” he warns.

“When is he not?” Red murmurs defensively, and oh, that rides his lungs, fills his chest with warmth and flickering wings. She trusts him.

“I know,” Ghost mutters. “I know that.

Soap likes that too.

“What’s he done to you, lass,” he husks as he crouches, his hands on her ass as he spreads her apart so he can see what Ghost has done to her pussy. It’s dark, all soaked and swollen as milky seed drips down the lips of her sex and the insides of her thighs.

He wants to do something new. Imbibe both of them. He wants a piece of what they have, and they’ve already given him a key. His off-white invitation.

Slowly, he leans forward and glides the flat of his tongue through her folds. She shivers and jerks a little, and Soap knows he’s caught her off guard. He presses harder, and buries his face into her from behind. It practically forces her up the wall, onto her toes, just as Ghost did as he fucked her.

He laps indecently, flicks her clit, and teases her entrance. He savors the salt and the skin, and his face is so embedded into her ass and cunt that he might just meld with her flesh. He feels Ghost trace his hairline with a gloved finger before he fists his short hair. It encourages Soap to lick further and then pump his fingers into her already fucked-out pussy.

The act of it is crude and filthy. It’s nothing he’s ever done before, and it makes him painfully aroused. He can’t imagine what the rest of 141 would see if they crept up the stairs and found them. Soap on his knees, spreading his teammate open as he devours L.T. 's come out of her.

Doesn’t matter.

None of it does.

It’s theirs. Just this. This interlude in a moonlit hallway miles from their next mission.

#simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #simon riley x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x female reader #john soap mactavish #simon ghost riley x John soap mactavish #simon riley #simon ghost riley #cod #cod mw22 #cod mw2 #cod mwii

2K notes · View notes

alwaysonthemend · 5 months

Text

Author’s Note: This one is for all the pirate!Jake lovers out there. I hope I did him justice.

Word Count: 4k

Content Warnings: Fem!reader, strangers to lovers (maybe), oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v sex, cursing, dirty talk. 18+ ONLY. MINORS DNI

:¨·.·¨:☾☆༺ 𓆩⚔︎𓆪 ༻☆☽:¨·.·¨:

You could feel his dark eyes on you from the moment he had walked through the door. They studied you – marking your every move as you wiped down the bar with a rag. They watched you closer still as you took breaks from cleaning to bring jugs of ale and rum to the other patrons.

He hadn’t ordered anything, only sat in the far corner of the bar, and watched. You’d given yourself a long enough glance to see his long hair spilling out across his shoulders and the way he clasped his fingers – almost each of them adorned with rings, in front of him on the table. You had not been able to see his face clearly. Only a glance of a sharp nose and deep, thoughtful eyes.

But you had seen the glint of gold at his side, the cutlass sheath hanging low on his waist. And on his other hip, three ornate revolvers. Between those, the plethora of necklaces hanging against his exposed chest, and the weathered, strong hands… It's clear enough what he is. And based on the way everyone else seems to be steering clear of him, all the other patrons know, too.

Pirate.

The word carried with it a thrill down your spine. Ruthless, bloodthirsty men who take what they want and bow to no one. Dangerous, untrustworthy, and all together men that you should avoid at all costs. But yet here one is, sitting at your bar.

As if summoned by your thoughts, that ringed hand raises in the air – two fingers curling in a ‘come hither’ motion. You place your rag down, wiping your palms on your skirts, and glide over to his corner. Finally, you meet those dark eyes of his, taking in his full features for the first time tonight.

Brown eyes, almost black. Dark lashes that cast shadows along his cheekbones in the candlelight. Plump lips – soft and pink looking in a way that’s completely at odds with the tan, weathered face. Handsome, yes. Very handsome. Perhaps one of the handsomest men you’d ever seen. But that only makes him all the more dangerous.

Chin held high, you stop at last in front of him. Rough fingertips tap a beat on the wood of the bar. Those lips tilt upwards in a barely-there smirk.

“What can I do for ya?”

The smirk widens, revealing a flash of white teeth.

“Oh,” A tilt of the head, hair swishing, “I imagine a great number of things. Or the other way ‘round.”

You narrow your eyes as he grins up at you, eyes glittering. His voice is soft – softer than you’d expect from the mouth of a pirate.

“Presumptuous.” You say flatly, fighting a smirk of your own.

He inclines his head, the chains around his neck clinking where they rest against his exposed chest. You drop your eyes to his hands, noting the way they still tap on the wood. Then to his forearms, his white shirt rolled up to reveal the sturdiness of them, the tan skin only marred by a few thin scars crisscrossing upwards and disappearing beneath the fabric.

He clears his throat and your cheeks warm but he saves you from having to defend your wandering gaze.

“Just some ale. Top shelf.”

“We’ve only got the one.” You tell him, turning away to grab for a bottle from the only shelf that this little tavern has. “Hope it’s to your taste.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

You pour the amber liquid into the glass before sliding it across the bar to him. His fingers wrap around the crystal and bring it up to his lips. He takes one sip, tongue swiping across his bottom lip before putting it down again.

“What’s your name, lady?” He asks, just as you begin to turn away.

“None of your concern, I reckon.” He raises a brow at that.

You meet his gaze with a fiery one of your own, hoping to convey to him that you're in no mood for his attempts at flirtation. But his smile only widens. He clearly hadn't bought the lie.

“And why is that, lass? You’re a beautiful woman. I’d love to have a name that goes with it.”

“If I tell you my name, will you leave me alone?” You give him your best, sweetest smile and bat your eyelashes.

“No promises.”

You scowl at him but that smile of his stays fixed in place. It makes you even angrier that it’s just as beautiful as the rest of him.

“Y/n.” You say at last, turning away. “Now I have other patrons to attend to.”

“You’re not going to ask for mine?” He asks, arching a brow and bringing his glass to his lips again.

“I don’t care.”

This time, you don’t look back as you move away from him to the other end of the bar. You hadn’t been lying – there are other patrons that need serving so you quickly try and shove him from your mind as you continue to work.

But you can feel his eyes on you. You can still see his smirk. And the image of his fingertips drumming on the wood, the muscles in his scarred forearm flexing with each tap, is seared into your brain. You can’t stop thinking about it.

The night wears on, others coming and going but he stays right where he is. You fill his glass two more times, not saying a word to him either time despite the way his eyes rake up your form. But he makes no attempt at speaking again.

At least, not until you take your apron off and hang it up on a hook behind the wall after the girl for the next shift arrives. You see him shift in his seat, pushing his glass away from him before rising.

Heart hammering, you duck outside of the tavern, eyeing the empty streets. It’s late – most are already indoors, preparing for bed. Before you can even think of a way to escape him, the bell over the door rings and out he steps, a long, dark coat tossed over his shoulders, the ends of it just brushing the ground.

“Good lady.” He murmurs, smiling at you as he takes pointed steps until he’s standing just a little bit away from you. “Might I ask where you’re going off to?”

“Home.” You answer blandly, shrugging your shoulders. “It’s late.”

“That it is.” Another step forward. “Too late for me to, in good conscience, allow a young woman such as yourself to walk home alone.”

“It’s not far.” You take a step of your own – this one away from him. “I’m sure I’ll be alright.”

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue.

“There could be all manner of men out there, lurking and waiting for someone like you.” There's an edge to his tone now. He's not used to being told no so adamantly.

“And a man like you is a better alternative?” You ask, smirking a little as you cross your arms over your chest at the chilled wind that blows through.

“Like me?” There’s that smirk again as he places a hand across his heart in mock hurt. “And what type of man am I?”

“You know what kind.”

At your answer, he closes the gap between you once again, pressing in so close you can smell the alcohol on his breath and the salt on his skin from the sea air.

“Yes. But I’d like to hear you say it.”

“Pirate.” You breathe out, the word tasting sharp on your tongue as you once again become acutely aware of the strength his body holds and of the weapons that hang on his belt.

“Aye. A terrible, dirty, awful pirate.” He croons, before offering his arm to you. “Shall we?”

With an eye roll and a sigh, you loop your arm with his, the warmth of him instantly easing some of the chill that had begun to settle in.

The two of you walk side by side through the dark streets, hardly a word spoken between the two of you. He hadn’t been wrong – there’s all manner of evil men that lurk out here in the night and usually you take a long way home in order to avoid all the dark, looming alleys where they like to hide. But with him at your side, you don’t have to. Indeed, any time any of them so much as glance your way, their eyes immediately fall to him instead, and then look away. His aura is powerful – a sense of danger that clings to him as you walk. His steps are casual but his hand remains lazily draped across the handle of one of his revolvers and none of the men are stupid enough to trifle with him.

When at last the two of you arrive at the door of your small apartments, he lets his grip on your arm fall. You instantly feel the loss of warmth.

“Jacob.” He breaks the silence at last and you tilt your head. “My name.” He clarifies.

“Thank you. Jacob.” You unlock your door, turning your back to him completely as you begin to step through the threshold.

“Are you not going to invite me in?” He teases, a boyish smile on his face.

“What for?” You ask, giving him the most innocent face you can. You can’t help but to tease back, that damn aura of his drawing you in like a siren’s song.

A shrug and his grin turns devilish.

“I’m sure we could think of somethin’ to do.”

“You don’t have important piratical matters to attend to?”

“I’m sure my crew can survive without me f’r a night. They’ll have to since I’ve got a beautiful woman standin’ in front of me.” Your cheeks warm. “And I don’t plan on lettin’ her slip through my fingers.”

You widen your door and step aside, beckoning him in to the warmth within.

“Then I suppose I’ll allow it.”

As the door shuts behind him you make your way over to the hearth, kindling up a fire that washes the room in a warm glow. Jacob stands in the middle, watching as you slip off your shoes and place them on the rug.

“Are you just going to stand?” You straighten and face him fully, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.

At last, he moves, shrugging off his coat and hanging it on the hook by the door like it's habit before moving to unfasten the belt that holds his weapons. As he does so, his eyes stay focused on you.

“I was jus’ thinkin’.” He places them on the table with a thud.

“About?”

“You. All the things I’d like to do, if you’ll let me.” He doesn’t hesitate in his answer and heat floods your core. “Will you let me?”

“What’s this?” You tease, stepping towards him and grazing your fingertips against his jawline. “A pirate captain asking for permission?”

“Don’t tell anyone.” He whispers, a knowing, familiar glimmer flashing through his eyes. “And how did you know that I’m a captain?” He's so close to laughter but he somehow manages to pull himself together and steel hie expression.

You shrug, fingers dropping down his chest and beginning to work to untuck his shirt from his black trousers, allowing you to ghost your fingers over the sensitive flesh of his stomach.

“Just a feeling.” You can’t help the smile that tugs on your lips, fighting it the best you can.

Jacob grins, leaning his head forward and softly bumping it with yours, nuzzling into you softly – the action, you can’t help but think, so similar to a cat brushing up against its owner.

“So can I?” He asks into the skin of your neck, the words rumbling deep in his chest.

A single nod from you is all it takes for him to be on you – those plush lips that you’ve been admiring all night finally crashing into yours. His tongue slips through, exploring your mouth as he moans at finally getting to taste you. It’s ravenous, the way you two devour each other, hands wandering anywhere they can to feel each other at last. When your lungs finally begin to burn with your need for air, you pull away, resting your forehead against his.

“God, I missed you.”

Jacob smiles softly, relieved that the act has finally dropped and he can speak his mind at last.

“I have missed you every second that I have been away. Every night spent in an empty bed a reminder of how much I wished I was here instead.”

His lips drop to the column of your throat, nipping and biting as you toss your head back and tangle your fingers in his hair.

This is a game you play often when he returns from one of his long voyages – playing as if the two of you don’t know each other. The banter, the restraint, the teasing… It's all part of the game. It’s yours and his favorite game to play. But the need outweighs it all now – the need to feel him against you once again. To feel all of him after these long months of his absence. Months of worrying for him as you know well the dangers of his profession. Some days, you can barely stand the fear that he could meet his death out there on the seas and you would never know what happened.

But you push that thought away, focusing instead on the fact that he is here, solid and real before you and eyeing you like he might devour you on the spot.

Hooking your fingers around his wrist, you tug him to your bedroom, swiping a candle and lighting it from the hearth on your way. You place it on the bedside, spinning around to Jacob where he stands unbuttoning his shirt. The fabric pools at his feet on the floor and you grip your own blouse in your fingers in order to tug it off.

“Wait.” You freeze, eyes finding him in the dim light. His lips are swollen and slick as he approaches you, his hands replacing yours where they grip the fabric. “Let me.”

You nod, hands falling limply at your sides.

Slowly, methodically, he pulls your blouse over your head and tosses it to the floor. Then nimble fingers reach behind you, loosening the ribbon that had been tying back your hair. Then he’s sliding your skirts down your thighs, his eyes roaming every inch of skin as he slowly reveals it for himself. When at last you’re left in nothing but your undergarments, he slowly removes them as well. Bare before him at last, he drops to his knees in front of you.

“Beautiful.” He whispers, his hands wrapping around your ankles. The cold of his rings makes you gasp a little, wetness flooding between your thighs. Dragging his palms up the length of your legs, he sweeps his eyes up to you. “I missed you, treasure.”

You close your eyes, just enjoying the feeling of his rough hands sweeping up to cup your behind, squeezing the muscle and groaning softly to himself.

His hands fall away and you blink open your eyes at him, taking in the breathtaking view of him on his knees before you. A pirate bows to no one… A captain especially. But Jacob always bows to you. He revels in it. Aches for it. Just as much as you ache for him – maybe even more.

“C’mere.” He murmurs, hands sliding down to grip behind your thighs even tighter to pull you closer.

He leaves hot, wet kisses along your inner thighs as your core begins to pulse and throb with your need. You can still remember that first time he pleasured you like this – with his hot mouth licking through your folds like a man starved. You’d been stunned at the time, having never even considered that such a thing was possible, as you’d only ever known of sex to be for the purpose of child-bearing. But he had shown you that it could be about pleasure. That sex could be an act of love, unselfish and undemanding as he’d brought you to your orgasm over and over again on his tongue until you physically couldn’t anymore. He’d admitted to you that night that he would happily die between your thighs, content to feast on you and you alone for the rest of his days.

And now, as he hooks your leg over his shoulder and finally, finally, laps against your swollen bundle of nerves, you really do believe him. You cry out sharply, head tossing back and Jacob moaning in answer. His fingers dig in harshly to your skin as he pools all his focus on you and your pleasure, alternating between circling the tip of his tongue around your bud and slipping his tongue into your entrance. He moves slowly – unhurried, as if wanting this moment to stretch out forever. Perhaps he does.

“Jacob.” You whine, fingers gripping his shoulders as your legs threaten to give out beneath you thanks to his hard work.

He groans in answer, head beginning to thrash from side to side as he works you closer and closer. The heat inside you builds, overtaking every nerve ending and making you feel as if liquid fire runs through your veins. Hazily, drunk off the pleasure, you try and focus your eyes on him, on the sight of him losing himself in you. But your attention is snagged instead by the movement of his hand dropping from its place on your thigh and coming to palm himself through his trousers. He moans again, tongue working faster, as he begins to rub himself through the fabric – as if he can’t wait a moment longer for some bit of relief.

And it's that thought – the thought that bringing you pleasure makes him ache with his own desire, that brings you to your release. The wave inside you crests before finally breaking, washing you in pleasure as your body begins to convulse and shake. Your grip on Jacob’s shoulders tighten and the hand still on your thigh slides up to your hip to steady you as you fight to stay on your feet under the onslaught of the intense pleasure.

It feels like it goes on forever before Jacob finally pulls away, chin and lips glistening with your release. He licks his lips, wipes his chin with the back of his hand, and then licks that up too.

“You taste even better than I remember.” His voice is gruff, wrecked with lust. He rises, hands finding your cheeks and caressing them softly.

You are struck once again with the true paradox that Jacob is. A pirate – rough and sea-weathered, who holds you with such gentle reverence.

“I need you inside me.” You whisper, breaths still uneven. “Now.”

“So demanding, treasure.” He smirks at you, dirty and full of wicked promises. “On the bed.”

On shaky legs, you climb onto the mattress. You settle onto your knees, arms extended out and palms on the bed. You arch, presenting yourself for him. Behind you, you hear a hiss and the sound of fabric rustling as he takes off his trousers. The bed dips and then he’s hovering above you, the cold of his medallions touching your heated skin making you jump a little bit. He laughs, low in his chest, and swipes a hand down your spine. His fingertips are so rough but the touch is gentle, just barely there, as he makes his way down to your hips.

“I dream of this.” He murmurs, his other hand fisting his hard length and pumping himself a few times. “Of seeing you like this, of the way you feel. Of the little noises you make that slowly grow into screams and cries when you’re close.” A stuttered moan. “I dream of getting to fuck you again.”

You squirm and whine, slick dripping down your thighs in anticipation as he speaks such dirty words.

“Jacob, please. I want to feel you.”

He chuckles, running the velvety tip of his cock through your folds.

“Ask nicely, my love.”

“Captain,” You whine, not all embarrassed of how desperate you sound. “Please. Please fuck me.”

“Shit.” He hisses. “I love hearing such filthy words from such a pretty mouth.”

Finally, he spears himself into you. Your eyes water at the familiar stretch of him, at the feeling of him sliding against your walls, at the way his tip buries itself so deeply inside of you. Moans punch out of both of you and Jacob’s palms settle heavily upon your hips, rings clinking together.

He draws back, until he’s just barely inside of you, and then slams back into you again. You arch, jaw dropping open as he sets a brutal pace. His hips slap against your backside coupled with the sound of your wetness and the sounds of yours and his moans create a beautiful symphony of sin – one that never fails to set your entire body ablaze with lust. He pulls your hips back to meet him with each thrust, groaning each time that your walls clench helplessly around him.

“Fuckin’ Christ.” He bites out, gritting his teeth. “That’s it. So good for me. Tell me how it feels, treasure.”

All you can do is moan louder, babbling nonsense that’s a mix of his name and ‘oh god’s. You can’t get your brain to focus on anything other than the pleasure, of the way he hits that special spot inside of you that makes you see stars. It’s too much, it’s not enough. You can feel him everywhere – every sense completely overtaken by him.

A sharp crack to your behind makes you gasp and whimper, the sting of his rings a delicious and welcomed sensation.

"Tell me." He demands, driving into you even harder.

It takes every bit of focus you have left to form the words. You have no control over them, the pleasure and lust fogging your brain speaking for you.

"So good, my love. So. Fucking. Good." He growls, eyes fixed on where he's slipping in and out of you. "You feel perfect, Jacob. Don't stop. Please."

"I wouldn't dream of it."

Just as the burn of pleasure becomes almost unbearable, as the tears begin to fall in earnest down your cheeks, Jacob stops. You whine in protest but he shushes you.

“On your back, my love. I want to see your face when you fall apart on my cock.”

You do as he says and as you settle and look up, you finally get to see him in all his glory above you. His chest and cheeks are flushed red, a sheen of sweat over his entire body that glistens in the candle light. His hair, sweaty and stuck to his face and neck, and the tremble to his shoulders. And his cock – red and leaking, where it rests against his belly.

He guides himself into you again, driving his hips into you and once again setting a bruising pace. He presses his arms into the mattress on either side of your head, his necklaces brushing against your breasts. He attaches his mouth to your nipple, biting the flesh and making you arch your back at the sting.

Your legs begin to tremble, toes curling and fingernails raking down his back .

“Jacob- fuck, I’m-”

“I know. I know. Me too.”

He brings a hand up to your mouth, fingers slipping past your lips. You swirl your tongue around the digits and he whines before pulling his fingers from your mouth and dropping it between the heated spaces between your bodies. His finger makes contact with your clit, rubbing harsh circles in time with his thrusts that grow more frantic and feverish by the second.

“Cum for me, my love. Please.”

It’s the ‘please’ that ends it. The band in your belly snaps and your vision goes white. Your whole body shakes, thighs clamping down on his sides as you scream his name. Just a moment later he frantically pulls himself out of you, stroking himself only twice more before he’s painting his hand and your belly in white. He cries out, guttural and sounding almost in pain as he strokes himself through his orgasm.

When the haze of lust finally begins to dissipate, Jacob rises, finding his discarded shirt on the floor to delicately wipe you clean. When he’s finished, he tosses it back to the floor and presses a kiss to your lips. It’s soft – no haste behind it as all the others had been.

“I’m glad you’re home.” You murmur.

His hands settle themselves on your cheeks again – an action, you’re starting to realize, is his favorite.

“Me too.”

“You were gone for a long time. Longer than usual.”

He frowns, noting the sadness in your eyes.

“I know. We ran into some trouble with a French frigate. We had to stop for repairs before coming here.”

Silences lapses, and you shift to climb under the blankets. Jacob does the same, immediately pulling your back against him and nuzzling into your hair.

Your mind wanders, back to the days when you first met him. When you really did think he was just like all the rest of the cruel, bloodthirsty pirates out there. But he proved himself better. Proved himself to be one of the most loving men you'd ever met, always returning to you no matter how far he went, no matter how much wealth and spoils he finds. Always back to you. But you worry now, laying here, that perhaps one day he won't return. Maybe the wealth of his piratical career will be enough for him and he'll slowly stop coming back.

As if somehow sensing your spiralling thoughts, Jacob pulls you tighter against him, his arm looping over your waist and remaining there.

“Y/n.” A kiss to your neck, then another. “I will always come home to you. You’re the only treasure I care about. Gold, silver, indigo, silk, sugar," his voice is a comforting rumble that threatens to soothe you to sleep, "none of it could ever compare. And one day, when I've got enough of it that you will never have to work another day in that awful tavern... Never have to worry about food on the table, I promise to never leave you again."

You believe him.

~fin

:¨·.·¨:☾☆༺ 𓆩⚔︎𓆪 ༻☆☽:¨·.·¨:

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#dee's writing #jake kiskza x reader #jake kiszka fanfiction #pirate jake kiszka #jake kiszka

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l0vegl0wsinthedark · 11 months

Text

Zoom In.

Muggle AU, professor of 18C literature and poetry Draco, celebrity Harry ✨️

Violet was the first to log in - again. In the minutes before class began - in the "waiting room" - while she stared at her blank screen, it felt like the only real few moments she truly had to herself.

She spent all those moments, like so many others, thinking about Professor Malfoy.

To every single straight girl, and the singular gay guy, in class, Professor Malfoy was prime wank material. Violet hadn't known her classmates to be as desperate for a good word on their assignments from any other professor. To think homework would feature so high on the to-do lists of some of the biggest lunkheads she knew...there was definitely something about him, that Professor Malfoy.

She could see the appeal. The eerily pale eyes, hair, and skin made to appear warmer by the fluffy jumpers - all in elegant shades of scarlet, burgundy, emerald, wine, golden yellow - he wore over crisply ironed button-downs and tailored trousers; the way he used his hands when he talked, long fingers like a pianist's; the slim golden spectacles he was constantly misplacing on his own head, the rich precision with which he pronounced the olde names and subjects that he spoke of - it was very difficult not to admire Professor Malfoy.

All of that, but nobody really knew much about him outside of uni.

They'd switched to virtual classes a week ago; hurrah for the new pandemic. The idea that she didn't have to sit in class with her tittering classmates, a stray cough sounding now and again, made Violet automatically sit up straighter and smile, just as the little boxes on her screen began popping into life.

"Aaaayyyy!"

"Tell me we don't need to have our faces on display."

"So, yes, before anyone asks: this is a real lip ring. An actual piercing. Yeah, I'm not blowing you, Greg, sod off."

"Is Professor Malfoy on?"

"No, I don't see him here yet. Did he grade your essay?"

"Yo, can someone please tell me how to turn this camera off, I am smashed out my--"

"Click on the camera icon, Bryan--"

"It's not even noon, what d'you mean "smashed"?

"No, you've turned off your mic. No, we cannot hear you screaming."

"First icon on the bottom left," Violet said, rolling her eyes.

And then Professor Malfoy was in class.

There was a beat of silence before everyone called out greetings, a chaotic round of cheerful hello's that nobody could quite make sense of. Least of all Professor Malfoy.

He was peering into his screen, his slim nose scrunched.

"All right, so I can see me. Can you?"

Cacophonic confirmations.

"Okay, so nobody can see or hear me. Right."

More shrill reassurances. One loud beer-belch.

"Damn it all to hell, I knew this would happen, I told him that I'll need--"

"We can see you!" shrieked Preiti.

"We can hear you!" Nora bellowed.

But Professor Malfoy was already twisting around in his chair, scowling heavily, and screaming, "OY! COME IN HERE, YOU MISERABLE WANKER!"

Violet, along with her classmates, just stared in mystified silence. The professor never spoke like that. He ticked them off if they did.

A tall figure in a too big hoodie appeared suddenly, hissing back at Professor Malfoy. There was a golden lion printed on the maroon jacket. The hood was drawn in close, and Violet could just barely make out the light from the computer screen glinting off a pair of round glasses, on which a shaggy fringe of dark hair fell.

"You need to turn the volume up. Git," said the stranger. "Your camera's already on."

"I hate technology," Professor Malfoy seethed.

"You hate so much else. I'm getting fish and chips." The man was already walking off.

"I want mushy peas too, with mine."

"What kind of sick bastard." The room door was shut with a thud.

"Sorry about all that. We are now officially in session," Professor Malfoy said, smiling and restoring his glasses upon his nose. "Do you all have--?"

There was a muffled shout from somewhere behind the professor. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Professor Malfoy called back, "No. No, I don't want a curry dipping sauce."

There was more muffled yelling.

"Harry, get out right now!" shrieked Professor Malfoy, and Violet, along with the others, just ogled.

Malfoy sighed. "Sorry 'bout that. Just my idiot husband."

"You're married?!" Violet had asked before she could stop herself.

Professor Malfoy sighed, flipping open a thick, spiral bound folder. "Yes. You've heard of Harry Potter, I'm sure. He's the poor idiot I married."

#my writing #drarry #professor malfoy

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hisui-dreamer · 1 year

Text

rewrite the stars

Characters: Leona, Azul, Jade, Idia

Synopsis: if the stars say we're not meant to be, then why don't we just rewrite the stars?

Tags: horoscopes, reader is insecure, crack(?), fluff, comfort, not proofread

Word count: 1.4k+

Notes: rewrite the stars got stuck in my head then this idea popped up hehe

Disclaimer: i don't really know a lot about astrology, so most of the things i say are from google searches. in general, take astrology with a grain of salt yeah.

but also my sign and jade's sign are compatible hehehe

Masterlist

it's not easy being confident in love, and sometimes when you get so lost in your fears, you let anyone and anything tell you what you fear to admit, without a care for how truthful those words may be.

truthfully, if you were dead serious and broke up with him, he'd just grumble out a "whatever" and put up the façade that he doesn't care

but he'd actually be so mad at himself for pushing you away and how nothing in his life could ever go smoothly

but your eyes are swollen and tears are threatening to spill as you whisper those words

he silently approaches you, and instinctively reaches to brush your tears away, but his warm, calloused hand only makes you cry harder at how much you love the man before your eyes

he pulls you into his arms and holds you close as you sob into his chest

he doesn't say anything and waits for you to elaborate, there's a part of him that's afraid if he asked you why you wanted to break up with him, he couldn't bear how his own self-hatred

once you've calmed down, you start explaining how you two are incompatible in astrology, that he's a leo so it's easy for miscommunication to happen and other issues that have plagued you since you read about them

he's heard all this make believe astrology personality stuff before, but never before has he been glad of how ridiculous the idea is

you hear leona let out a big sigh, and the tension in his shoulders immediately lessens

pulls away from you to stare deep into your eyes, his face completely serious and solemn

"Herbivore, are you happy with me?" he asks. At you confused face, he repeats the question, his expression unchanging. When you nod firmly, he smiles slightly and asks again. "Then what else matters? As if I would let the souls of the past kings or some random star talk decide who I'm gonna love," he scowls at the idea. He leans forward and rests his forehead against yours. "You're stuck with me now, I'm not lettin' ya go that easily," he whispers.

He pulls you with him as he falls back onto the mattress, cradling you in his arms. "Sleep. You're not a baby anymore so don't go crying yourself to sleep," he teases, but he gently kisses the remainder of your tears away.

azul.exe has stopped functioning

blubbering like a fish out of water (wait...) he's lost and hurt and confused and panicking all at the same time

"w-w-what have i done to upset you angelfish????"

the tweels walk into azuls office just to see the two of you crying and confused, azul trying to ask you why and he's sad and crying, you're stumbling over your words and sniffing and crying

ok after a glass of warm water (thank you jade) the two of you calm down to actually have a proper conversation, though azul is still very obviously tense

you explain that he's a Pisces and that means you two not compatible with how sensitive he is and he's a water sign and so on

azul is very confused about how stars can determine people's personalities, but he does fit the description of a Pisces, and if his beloved Angelfish is stressed over astrology, then it must be a reliable tell (azul no)

he asks for you to give him some time, to actually understand your reasonings and of course, to give him a chance and prove to you how willing he is to work out a relationship with you

the next day, azul visits you with very deep dark eye circles, but the glint in his eyes shows full determination and confidence

azul businessman mode on!

sits you down and pulls up a slideshow

azul ashengrotto is now an astrology expert!

he's determined to show you that you two have maximum compatibility and whatever issues you have? he'll always work them out with you

"Darling, you mentioned our Sun signs yesterday, but I think it's crucial to also discuss our rising, moon, and star signs." He declares as he points to a star chart. "Now, following the calculations of our birth dates and locations..."

An hour later, you sit completely convinced that astrology all but supports your relationship with Azul, and you can't help smile and jump into his arms. Azul, sleep deprived and running on anxiety, somehow manages to not fall over, but soon leans his weight on you. "See? We're perfectly compatible with each other," he murmurs against your ear. His arms wrap around you, squeezing you gently, "so please don't leave me, I wouldn't know what to do without you..."

eyes wide slowly blinking like "... I beg your pardon?"

honestly jade doesn't look that surprised/hurt

but really he's suppressing the turmoil of emotions inside him

ever the logical thinker, he'd ask a calm "May I ask why, my dear?"

and you surprise him again with flowing tears and a trembling voice

though he's listening very patiently as he's diligently wiping away your tears with his handkerchief, soft careful movements to avoid causing discomfort

asks questions when he doesn't understand what in astrology is going on, genuinely making an effort to understand this field of academics

in a sense, he's distracting you from being upset with academic discussion

okay, he's a Scorpio, which makes him good at manipulating people??? and he's very bold??

now while he finds all this very interesting and slightly accurate, it still feels pretty whimsical that the time you're born in determines your personality

particularly as he's so different to Floyd! and they were born at the same time!

whichever the case, the more pressing issue is his dearest lover sniffing and whining that you could never be happy together with how incompatible you are

he pulls you into his chest for a bit, rubbing soothing circles into your back and leaving gentle kisses you until your sniffing quiets down

"Dearest, won't you look at me?" he murmurs against your ear. You look up to see the most tender expression you had ever seen on him, his mismatched eyes filled with warmth and affection.

"While it is indeed extremely unfortunate that our star signs are incompatible, I don't believe there's a single person out there who could love me better than you do," he says as he kisses your hand. "I promise that your happiness will always be my utmost priority, so won't you continue to love this silly eel?"

"Now, while I will always find you enchantingly beautiful, I do believe a smile shines the brightest on my lovely pearl," he smiles while brushing the remaining wetness away from your eyes.

simply put, idia panics immediately

every day he thinks the fates have been far too kind to him for you to even reciprocate his feelings

he's always mentally preparing himself if you want to break up or you need to leave him

so he puts up a brave face when you say you can't be together

but wait... you actually look really upset and on the verge of tears???

"Hold up, why are you the one crying?"

please don't tell him those are tears of joy i think he'd die on the spot

through sobs and sniffs, you tell him that you were curious about your compatibility based on astrology

and okay...? he's a fire sign??? explains the hair

okay so you're telling him, you're breaking up with him solely because you think this thing might be right and not because you hate him, right?

brb gotta blow up some stars

starts mumbling about some plans to build space missiles and blow up some stars that make up his sign or something

he can't be an asparagus(??? idia no it's sagittarius doesn't matter) if the constellation no longer exists, right?

you stop him (thank god) by cupping both of his cheeks to make him stare straight at you

he's flushing up instantly and every fiber of his being yearned to turn away but your teary gaze makes him stop squirming

"You know," he begins, his voice earnest and steady, "everyday, I can't believe how lucky I am to have you in my life. If you're unworthy of me, then I'm unworthy of you."

He lets out a chuckle, that rumble echoing right into your ear. "I suppose I can put those star destroyer blueprints on hold, at least for the time being. But if the stars ever mess with us again, it's game over for them."

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

#twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst imagines #twst wonderland #leona kingscholar #leona kingscholar x reader #twisted wonderland leona #jade leech #jade leech x reader #twisted wonderland jade #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #twisted wonderland azul #idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #twisted wonderland idia

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normal-person-i-promise · 5 months

Text

overcoat

inspired by!!

"...Arataka. What are you doing."

Your tone is flat; unimpressed, as he slides one arm out of his coat, leaving the other in.

"...Making sure my beloved employee doesn't freeze her little fingers off, that's what."

He grins at you, a mischievous glint in his eye as he lays the side of the coat he isn't wearing onto your shoulder, shoving your arm in.

i havent written anything for a while so this. might not be up to par with my usual stuff

edited to change reigen to arataka because reigen is his surname i. think

★ ★ ★

Snow pelts against the window as you gaze out the glass, watching the white snowflakes fall to the ground and add to the growing white blanket. The tree's frostbitten branches adorn the sky, their black branches a stark contrast to the almost pure white of the freshly fallen snow.

You can't really focus on the view, though.

Arataka sits at his desk, his legs propped up on the wood. the fading light of the setting sun backlights him, casting a golden rim of light that traces the outline of his body. One leg crossed over the other as he takes slow drags of his cigarette, and his eyes, half-lidded, aren't fixed on you — though yours is fixed on him — as he reads a newspaper, the grey paper crinkling each and every time he adjusts his grip.

You can barely keep yourself from stealing glances at him, trailing your eyes from his shiny leather dress shoes up to where his fingers delicately grasp the cigarette, held close to his mouth.

Thank god he doesn't notice; you're practically drooling over him like some dog.

Arataka calls your name, and the way it flows off his tongue makes your heart skip a beat.

"You can go home now," he says plainly, not looking up at you. He rolls up his newspaper with a hand, setting it on the desk as he brings his legs down.

Not so much as a "how do you do"...

You bring your gaze up to meet his, smiling politely despite your disappointment.

"Thank you," you say to him, beginning to pack what little things you brought.

"Ah... It's snowing quite heavily outside, though..." He mutters to himself, cradling his chin in a hand.

You hum in response as Arataka brings his gaze to look at you, watching as you slip on your jacket.

"Mmm, I suppose I wouldn't mind...

Shall I walk you home?"

It's nothing more than an act of politeness, but it makes your heart flutter. He's usually so... Indifferent to you.

Sure, he's brought you out to eat with him — alone, a few times, but you doubt that really matters to him. Maybe he has heartfelt conversations with you occasionally, his laughs twisting your stomach into knots, but that's just a way of paying his employees.

He's not interested you or anything. He clearly doesn't care, what with how he behaves around you.

Though you can't see it — too preoccupied in wearing your jacket, which is definitely not going to be enough to shield you from the cold — Arataka's scanning your face, analyzing every little feature for some kind of reaction.

Please react in some way, he's screaming to himself. Please tell me that you love me, too.

People are so easy to read! Why are you so hard?!

You finish off buttoning your jacket just as Arataka's done securing his scarf around his neck.

You step out the door, Arataka opening it for you like a gentleman. Your cheeks flush, and it seems like his do, too — but that's just the change in temperature! There's no way he's blushing, right...?

...The walk is relatively quiet. Neither of you really initiate conversation, the both of you more than content to be together in a comfortable silence.

You can't help but steal glances at your employer every now and then. His blonde hair is a wonderful contrast to the pure white of the snow that coats the ground; his eyes, not really taking much in (you're not surprised; he hasn't really expressed much interest in anything) seem to almost... Sparkle, when those dark irises reflect the shimmering white of the snow; his cheeks are flushed from the cold, a lovely colour against the cooler tones of the pathway you both walk on.

You only realize that you've been staring for a few moments too long when his eyes meet yours. Your face heats, and you cast your gaze to the pavement in front of you, trying to ignore the loud beating of your heart in your ears, focusing on the way your boots crunch the snow.

...Out of the corner of your eye, you can still see Arataka. His cheeks seem to... Redden, slightly, before he quickly shifts his eyes to the buildings to his side.

...That must be your imagination, right? There's no way he just... Blushed, right?

You hug yourself slightly, the cold getting a bit much. You really wish you hadn't brought just a thin jacket to keep yourself warm.

Rapidly clenching and unclenching your fists, you can feel your fingers almost fall off regardless of the mittens you wear.

You risk a glance at Arataka.

He seems to be doing fine, based on how he's acting: his hands in his pockets, his gait even... You gaze longingly at the thick coat he wears, and he notices this, grinning smugly.

"Finally regretting your choice of winter clothes, huh?"

You blush, huffing in annoyance as you shove your hands in your jacket's pockets.

"Oh, come on. I'm fine."

He hums uncertainly at your words, fixing you with a worried look for a moment before it's wiped off his face, replaced with indifference, maybe even annoyance.

"You should plan for the future more often. You need to think of all the ways things could go wrong, so that you can prepare for them before they happen and take you by surprise."

You roll your eyes at his words. Of course he'd use this as an opportunity to lecture you. He's always doing that.

"...I'm fine, Arataka," you repeat, flashing him what you think is a reassuring smile. Arataka just frowns slightly, his eyes searching yours for some reassurance.

...He doesn't fine any.

He's quick to hide it, though. What if he's overstepping his boundaries? What if he's being too concerned about you? What if you don't like him back?

He sighs in feigned exasperation, beginning to undo his coat.

"...Arataka. What are you doing."

Your tone is flat; unimpressed, as he slides one arm out of his coat, leaving the other in.

"...Making sure my beloved employee doesn't freeze her little fingers off, that's what."

He grins at you, a mischievous glint in his eye as he lays the side of the coat he isn't wearing onto your shoulder, shoving your arm in.

You scowl, but find your cheeks flushing. The warmth of his body pressed up against yours comforting, serving as a means to hinder the frigid cold that bites at your extremities. This is definitely a step up from just now.

It's not like he's deliberately pressing himself against you, he's just trying to share the coat, thats all. It's not like he's deliberately snaking his arm around your waist, he's just trying to keep you warm, making sure you're comfortable.

...It's silent again, the two of you walking together as one.

Your gaze is trained on the snow, the ice turning gold with the light of the setting sun as you crunch the snowflakes under your feet.

When you steal glances back to Arataka, you see his face disinterested. His eyes are empty, his expression neutral as he walks alongside you on the empty sidewalk, not meeting your gaze.

It's a little... Disheartening to see this, especially when he looks so attractive — the golden light of the sun reflecting in his dark brown eyes, half lidded; the dirty blonde of his tousled hair settling nicely above his eyebrows; his skin, almost glowing in the setting sun's golden rays.

He brings his eyes to meet yours as you stare at him, and you quickly avert your gaze, blushing.

You keep your eyes off Arataka once he notices you staring at him for the upteenth time, though it's hard to not cast brief glances back to him every once in a while.

You're getting a little more used to feeling his body pressed up against yours under the thick coat, your expression neutral, the blush gone from your cheeks — now only there because of the cold. You can sort of say you've calmed down now, your heart beat normal, your breathing even.

Arataka, though he appears to be calm, is freaking out.

He struggles to keep his breathing even, fighting to ignore the rapid beating of his heart, trying to ignore the butterflies he feels in his stomach.

You played along when he teased you, you didn't argue when he started to share his coat, you didn't say anything when he put his hand around your waist—

...Should he try... It, now?

You reach your little flat, and you thank Arataka for walking you back as you slip his coat off your arm. You're more than a little disappointed to leave his side, missing the body heat already as you begin to climb up the stairs.

...Before you can get too far, though, Arataka is following you up.

"...Arataka?"

You arch a brow at him when you reach your floor.

"Oh, come on," he says, a grin in his voice as he leans in close, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath ghosting on your face.

"You're definitely still cold."

He tilts his head slightly, and as his half-lidded eyes fall to your lips, he speaks in a voice smoother than a heated knife through butter.

"...I could help you with that."

Your cheeks flush. He's not... Asking to kiss you, is he?

You nod in response.

Arataka's grin widens, and he leans in...

Before abruptly pulling away, quickly undoing the scarf around his neck and throwing it in your face. It falls into your hands just as he's sprinting to the stairs.

"You should plan for the future more!" He calls from the stairwell, his voice echoing as his heels click with each step he takes.

"You'll catch a cold!"

You stare at the green scarf in your hands, the fabric soft as it tumbles between your fingers.

Arataka's scarf.

#Spotify #id just like to say. id just like to say i dont know how snow works i live in a country where it is hot all year round #theres the whole of two seasons: hot snd dry #and wet and cold #i love to make men absolute simps its. ones of my favourite pass times #female reader #fem reader #anyway. anywho. when did i write this. like what??? why is this so good (in my opinion #)#reigen x reader #reigen arataka x reader #words on a page

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