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prettyboykatsuki · 1 year

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HOW TO BE A DOG. | S. GOJO | PART 2

⊹ general tags ; fem + afab!reader, reader presents femininely and has some specific character traits (i.e. personality traits, nothing physical), reader is shorter / smaller than gojo but nothing specified, reader is a teacher, gojo carries reader at some point (but he is canonly able to do very insane things physically so)

⊹ content warnings ; dead dove. do not eat, yandere gojo satoru, manipulation, stalking, obsessive behavior, delusional behavior, workplace harassment (not from gojo), victim blaming, canon typical violence, graphic depictions of murder, minor character death, excessive religious imagery, coercion, gaslighting, abuse of power, something akin to stockholm syndrome, graphic depiction of noncon / sexual content, forced intimacy, fingering, hickies / bruises, begging, edging, loss of virginity, size kink, 18+.

all sexual content present in this part.

MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING FOR GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF NONCON, COERCION, AND SEXUAL VIOLENCE.

⊹ wc ; 18.4k / 36.1k

link to extended authors note | ao3 | how to be a dog, by andrew kane.

LINK TO PART ONE.

⊹ a/n ; here's part two!! miss ame has read it so im all good to post. i will upload to ao3 as soon as im awake i promise lol. hope you enjoy the fic and please heed the tags. likes and rbs always appreciated. also the last part is, relatively tame. the crazy gets amped up to ten so be careful.

⊹ synopsis ; with six eyes to see it becomes clear, you are being watched.

"You must learn, once you have sampled the freedom of a life without a chain, that it is better to return and be chained again. Or you may learn that it is not—a fugitive is also a kind of dog." - andrew kane, how to be a dog.

⊹ PART TWO : SOMETHING TAKEN IS BORROWED. SOMETHING RUINED IS YOURS.

Snow is falling outside. The world is covered in white.

Gojo Satoru sits on his hands and watches the blizzard outside from his window. His apartment is dark and there’s frost on his window. He can hear the wind from inside, and can feel the cold chill of glass as he stands close to it.

Snow is falling outside. The world is covered in white. Spring feels like an innocent century ago.

Nothing’s changed, but everything is different. It’s starting to feel comedic. It’s so cyclical. He has two states of being. Being with you, and not. It dictates his internal world. He functions the same as usual. Repetition. Working, coming home, and waiting.

Gojo feels like he’s waiting. Perpetually waiting for time to set again so he can see you. There’s something in him only you can fulfill - an itch only you can scratch. Gojo is drawn to irreplaceable people, so perhaps it’s no surprise that he’s latched onto you this way.

There’s nothing to call it other than greed. Sometimes love, but mostly greed. A habit he can’t break free from. Gojo wants to see you. He doesn’t know why either. There’s not any particular reason. Or if there is, he hasn’t examined it too deeply. Gojo has always known in some innate way that he’s lonely. That his loneliness makes him untouchable - but not in the same way it might make a God.

The thought of doing anything without you makes paranoia creep up in his throat like bile. Gojo is that sort of lonely. Is it too much to ask to be next to someone, who never goes anywhere he can’t see? Monopolizing your time and all the ways to do it best take up most of his energy.

When was the last time anyone made him feel warm, in the cold white of winter? He thinks maybe he realized it too late, that he cares about you this much.

The reality is that Jujutsu Sorcerers are better off learning how to cut their losses. You love people and they die. You like people and they die. Gojo doesn’t think he can accept that from you so easily. He doesn’t think he should have too.

Does he need a good reason to want to keep you?

Gojo doesn’t want to make you hate him. He just wants to make sure you’re alive even if it means you might hate him. You might never understand either. Because you are still foolish, naive and human. Is that really asking for so much?

It makes him hesitate from the call to action. That instinct in his bones. He sees having met you as a blessing from the Heavens who’ve banished him. Gojo Satoru is not god. He understands God, but he’s not God.

No matter how much Gojo reaches for omnipotence, his long fingers can’t stretch towards it. Godliness is uninhabitable, an abandoned house. If Gojo casts his eyes on you for more than one second, he can do nothing but long. How can God long? Perhaps if he were more godlike, he could treat your inevitable death like a sacrifice. A martyrdom, or proof of your undying love for him.

Despite that, he understands how God's love can reach. Inciting violence to bring you closer to him is merciful. It’s only then you’ll come to understand it to the highest extent. That Gojo loves you after all, more than anything mortal in his world. He can hold all of you in his hands, keep you safe for the rest of your life. It’s what he wants so badly. If you just give him the chance to protect you - he could do it so easily.

Religion can be so much like a dog and its master. Maybe, you could understand Gojo’s feelings if you saw it as an animal instinct to protect you. Even if it’s a falsity, a fictitious tale, detached from what's true.

He doesn’t want you to hate him. He’s your watch dog, your keeper, your divine love. He needs you all to himself and he needs you to understand that you’re his reprieve. That in a universe decided by fate, the two of you are also red strings knotted together perversely.

He needs you. He needs you. He needs you.

Snow is falling.

Come Saturday, Gojo receives a knock on his door.

He’s usually sleeping in on the weekends, so he’s startled by it. School doesn’t start till later and if it was an emergency relating to sorcery - Yagi would’ve dialed him personally. He answers the door with sleep still in his, rubbing his eyelids as he yawns. He’s dressed in his P.J.’s with his hair messy and mind jumbled.

He’s not unhappy though, when he opens the door up to see you. You’ve got something in your arms, a bag it looks like and a look on your face that Gojo can’t decipher.

“Oh,” He says after registering who he’s talking to you “What’re you doing here so early?”

You sigh, deeply, rubbing your arm. That anxious little habit again, your eyes darting every which way.

“A pipe broke in my apartment. Like, flooded the whole thing. Spent the whole morning scrounging my stuff together a-and I called maintenance but they won’t be here for a while and.” You stutter as you explain yourself and Gojo stares at you in confusion “I need a place to stay but going back to my parents right now is gonna be so hard and plus there’s work,”

Gojo soothes you silently, putting a hand up.

“Hey, calm down,” He says first, smiling up at you. He reaches out to pat your head “I’m here. It’s okay. Slow down and tell me what's wrong?”

You sigh, closing your eyes and bracing yourself.

“Would it be alright if I stayed with you? Just for a few days, until I figure this all out?”

If God exists, maybe this is his way of giving Gojo grace. Gojo takes a minute to pretend, leans against his door frame and watches you fidget anxiously. He blinks at you, the way your teeth are pressing into your lip. You fold underneath the pressure of his gaze easily. He hums and haws.

“Hm,” He says, leaving you uncertain for as long as he can before you try to react. He’s memorized all your tells by heart “Well, there’s no reason not to, right? You’ll have to sleep in my bed though.”

He half-jokes, but not really. He waits on your reaction.

“Oh, uhm, then,”

He interrupts just then, raising his voice. You jump back.

“Just kidding! Of course you can stay with me. I’ll take the couch for a few days so don’t worry your pretty little head about it, okay? Stay as long as you like.”

You look relieved. It makes Gojo smile a bit watching you take a deep breath, leaning on the door frame as he stares.

“What?” You ask when you notice. He shakes his head.

“It’s cute when you get nervous,” He says, inhibitions lowered. You pout at him and Gojo has to stop himself from reaching forward to grab your face in his hands.��

“You’re so mean,” You say with a sigh, arms crossed over your chest “I was really freaking out just now,”

“I know, I know - but it’s kinda fun watching you fuss. Dunno. Maybe it’s cause I’m sleepy,”

“You're wide awake right now!” You point out. He snorts.

“Noo, what? I’m half-asleep right now,”

“Gojo,” You whine, and he has to stop the blood rushing through his body “Let me in? Please?”

“Try Satoru. Sa-to-ru,” He says. You frown at him, sighing as you rub your face.

“Satoru,” You say, hardly getting the syllables out “L-let me in,”

He pats your head one more time as your frown deepens.

“Good girl,” He purrs, before switching his tone to a more lax one as he welcomes you “Come on in!”

Another sigh of relief. Gojo finds it fascinating that you can find relief in his presence. It speaks to how well he’s been doing to make sure he’s acting in accordance to expectations. Despite how easy the opportunity has fallen into him, he doesn’t think it’s time yet. You’re still skittish.

Still, he should get something out of your stay here. And he will, but he should let you settle in first. He gives you a hum as you shuffle inside, standing awkwardly in his living room. He shuts the door behind you and locks it up.

“Don’t be so stiff,” He says, waving a hand in the air before yawning “My home is your home. Be comfortable. Is there anything you need or wanna do?”

“Could I borrow your shower?”

Gojo feels something pressing into his ribs at the idea of you using his things - sharp and sinful.

“I was gonna shower this morning but, y’know.” You gesture vaguely. He’s quick to agree of course, nodding his head as he points in the general direction of the bathroom.

“Pretty sure our places are built the same so you should know where it is. The towels on the rack are all clean. Feel free to use anything in there and uhhh,” He scratches his head unsure of what else he needs to add. Though he’s certain he’s missing something “Oh, and I’ll give you some clothes,”

You flush at the sentiment. So maybe you do know what this seems like, at least on the surface. Gojo peers at you as you turn his words over, interjecting before you have a chance to refuse.

“Don’t say no,” He says, voice sing-songy. watching your expression morph into something nervous again. Maybe you caught it, because you certainly jump in your skin, but he switches into himself with ease. Over and over and over - startling you never gets less fun “Let me play out my domestic fantasies a bit as compensation,”

“That’s a bad joke,” You say, throat thick.

You want to trust him don’t you? He wants to praise you for that.

“Aw, c’mon. It’s lonely. Let me indulge a little,” He begs with enough lightheartedness that you don’t run away.

“Geez. I thought you were popular with the ladies,” You try and joke back, though it’s stilted and awkward. He can tell you’re getting prepared to squeeze to the bathroom before the conversation is too much.

“Old ladies do love me,” He says contemplative. You elbow him lightly.

“Stupid.”

He gives you a soft smile as you pass by him.

“Is there anything else that you need while you’re in there?”

“I don’t think so,” You reply back. Gojo watches you disappear into the hall, trailing after you silently. He waits, listening carefully for the sound of the shower to turn on.

When the water rushes, he follows you.

He almost has a conscious standing in front of the closed door. The water pressure in his apartment is a little higher than it’s supposed to be. The closed walls keep all the noise inside them, making it almost impossible to hear what’s going on outside. Even with heightened senses like him.

For someone like you, it’s probably impossible.

It’s knowing that he follows behind you, lying in wait. He counts up to 5 minutes as he waits, letting you settle into it before he puts his hand on the door knob. He finds it unlocked. He’s pleased with that.

You trust him, or you try too.

When he feels certain you’re relaxed, he opens the door. He could teleport in but it’s noisy. Steam plumes outward as the door opens. He looks around the bathroom. Your clothes are folded neatly, with your pants hanging on the rack next to you.

He stares at the fabric for a long time, contemplating what he has time for.

Ultimately, he suppresses whatever urges come up to do what he came for. Too many to count and even more that are risky to act on. Instead, he checks the tags of each piece, committing it to memory. After, he stares at the shower curtain until he’s sure he overstayed his welcome.

He leaves right after though, shutting the door just as quietly as he opened it.

The less you know the better. Gojo makes his way back into the living room.

He sits on his couch when he’s back. The sun hasn’t come up yet and he’s only turned on a single lamp for light. It’s hard for him to describe how he’s feeling. Things have been different for weeks now, but proceeding normally hasn’t caused him too many issues. Strangely the sense of routine has been grounding.

He’s been dealing with it better than he expected. For all of that restraint to unravel so quickly is funny.

But, Gojo thinks, that everything leading up to now must’ve been a sign. There are so many instances that befall him that feel aligned with fate. He’s naive in thinking you're different. He’s the only heir of the Gojo clan, the only one with the Six Eyes for nearly 400 years. He hears the water rush faintly through the walls of his apartment, picturing you trapped in those four walls. He thinks of how you met. Your proximity to each other.

It’s only now and in such circumstances does he think that you’re the due that the universe is paying back to him. Robbed of everything, of every joy he’s ever had - it’s both righteous and fair to take you. Gojo doesn’t want you to hate him. Not necessarily.

But they always say in sickness and in health. Through the best of times and the worst. If you were made for him like he suspects (like he knows, believes deep down) then he thinks it’ll be fine. As long as it's you. As long as it’s yours. Even if you cry or scream, what matters to Gojo is that it’s yours. That he’s yours.

Holding back is starting to be too much. Gojo’s never been the type to sit on his hands and wait. Being scared is so much like starving. Deprivation like that always threatens to turn Gojo to ruin.

But like anything he does though, he can’t take the easy way out. There’s a method to the madness. An order even among his most disorderly actions, there’s things that need to be done the right way for the best possible outcome. On less of a whim than it seems, Gojo decides that he’ll do his best to make that reality happen.

The thought settles in his body and suddenly he’s present again. He feels a pang of hunger in his stomach, causing him to stand to his feet. He feels lighter as he waltzes into the kitchen, whistling to himself on what he should make. Maybe crepes? He’s not a skilled cook but he’s pretty good at making those.

At the very least, he thinks you’ll like them too. He proceeds into a normal-ish routine. He follows the motions of making breakfast as he hums to himself silently. Grabs a bowl from the cupboard, eggs and milk from the fridge, and flour from the pantry.

He thinks to himself, immersing himself in the practical ritual. His comment from earlier about domestic fantasies was a half-joke at best. Gojo really does want to do this kind of thing with you, and he doesn’t want to miss the opportunity to play the part either. Even if it’s temporary. He’s giddy at the thought of doing this with you everyday, a warm fluttery feeling spreading through his body.

He grabs a whisk off of the wall as he dumps everything into an empty bowl, turning the heat of a non-stick low. He whistles a song he can’t remember the name of, cracking an egg on the metal edge.

Despite living in a nicer part of Tokyo, Gojo has yet to have an induction stove top. It’s not uncommon to have gas for smaller, cheaper apartments. Most of the stovetops in the Jujutsu Tech dorms are gas and Gojo has no issue using them. He doesn’t cook for himself often in the first place, so he’s never thought to complain about it or get it changed.

Maybe he should. Once you live here, it might get inconvenient. The thing about gas stoves is that they never heat evenly. It’s not impossible to work with, and the heat is easier to control - but induction lets every inch of the pan get hot the same way.

( He often thinks of the analogy for boiling a frog. If you put anything living in heat too directly, it’ll jump to save itself. But if you keep the heat tepid, gently raising the heat till it boils - it’ll let itself stay in the treacherous waters until the very end. It’s best to keep the heat even. It’s best to fix it sometime soon. )

The whisk makes a pleasant sound as it hits the bowl, metallic scratch softened by the presence of batter. He picks the whisk up and watches the yellow liquid drip off the edge, a hand over the pan. Still too cool to the touch, he clicks his teeth.

He waits, idly. The shower turns off, he hears, and feels his breath hitch. He has to steel himself, curb his enthusiasm.

Too much heat, and you’ll jump to save yourself.

Once the pan is hot enough, Gojo busies himself with cooking. It helps him distract himself, the monotony of pouring and flipping and waiting. He gets through almost 6 before he hears your feet pad gently across his hardwood floor, slipping into the kitchen with a towel wrapped around your neck.

You’re wearing what seems like the only clothes you managed to bring. Gojo wonders how long it’ll last you. Despite it, he notices the way you smell. How you smell like all of his fancy bath products and soaps. There’s a twitch in his sweats that he barely gets under control. He lowers the heat and turns to you.

“Morning,” He says. You giggle a little.

“Morning. Are you making breakfast?”

“Yes ma'am. The only thing I know how to make but,” He puffs his chest up “Pretty good, I’m told.”

You roll your eyes at him, but smile anyway

“Guess I’ll be the judge of that,”

“The audacity,” He says, full of theatrics “I’ll knock your socks off,”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” You say, flippant and giggly. Gojo decides then, maybe, in its entirety. That he’ll have all of you and soon “Can I help with anything?”

“Get started on some coffee maybe,”

You nod your head and yawn.

“Sounds good to me,”

You decide to stay for a week.

More precisely, Gojo convinces you to stay for a week. That’s how long it will take for your apartment to get fixed completely. Concerned about inconveniencing him, you initially suggested 3 days - insisted you could find somewhere else or pay for a hotel for the rest of the time.

But Gojo insisted too. A week is more than fine (even longer would be better) and there’s no reason for you to go out of your way. Hotels are expensive, your parents live out in the countryside, and it’s not like you can’t board with a friend for a few days right?

But won’t that trouble you? Of course not. Gojo doesn’t mind at all. It’s like having a week-long sleep-over.

I don’t have the stuff I need. That’s fine. Gojo can take care of it. He already bought some clothes for you, an act of kindness. He can get the rest too. You can consider it a favor, if you really want to be sure.

Are you sure? Of course he’s sure. More than sure. You’re doing him a big favor, he assures with nothing but affection. Being alone at home is pretty boring, anyways. What’s sleeping in the same room when we’re neighbors?

Even with your unease, you agree to stay the whole week. You’re weak to being convinced, and hard-pressed on not fighting about things Gojo is adamant on.

(He’d be stupid not to notice how your earnesty makes you easy to exploit. It’s a good thing it’s only Gojo who knows.)

The first day passes quietly. You and Gojo go to your respective jobs and greet each other when you get home. At home, things are simple. Domestic. There’s no other way to view it. You graded papers and looked over lesson plans in the living room while Gojo got in his daily sets - TV playing in the background with neither of you particularly tuned in. Gojo sleeps on the couch.

(He doesn’t make it a day without touching himself. The proximity is too much, too stimulating, and even with all of the restraint in the universe - it’s hard for him to stave it off. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Alone under the moon, he thinks of what you look like when you’re embarrassed and spills into his hand.

Eventually, he’ll graduate to watching over you. You leave the door unlocked because you’re naive and Gojo stands with his cock in his fist, watching intently. You squirm in your sleep but you sleep deeply - because despite all the noise, you don’t stir one even once. He stops it from touching you, so close to your mouth, to your skin. )

On the second day of living together, the clothes Gojo bought you come to his door. You’re not home when it arrives, so he waits until you are home to open it with you. You come home a little later than usual (parent-teacher conferences, apparently).

(“I have a surprise for you!” Gojo says, as finally comes back into the living room. You’ve returned from your shower, on your last pair of PJ’s. You blink at him softly, tilting your head to one side as he hands you a package.

“For me?” You ask. Gojo nods, grinning.

“For you,” He confirms. He walks with you as you set the box onto the coffee table. You stare at it for a minute, glancing up at Gojo. Your eyes search for your keys. Once you find them, you take the sharpest key and rip through the tape on the top of its sides. An unceremonious krrk sounds through the room, echoing in the dimly lit living room.

The clothes are wrapped in white, plastic packaging. You pick them individually, examining them closely. You look at Gojo again, more uncertain than before.

But Gojo shakes his head, nudging you towards opening the packages themselves. A promise to explain afterwards, silent in the air. You nod, confused, but do as he suggests. You rip the top open, dropping the thin plastic onto the table. More bags, this time clear. You repeat the action until the material flounces in your hands. You undo the careful folding for a minute, then stare at it.

“...Clothes?” You repeat.

“Surprise!” He says with his usual silly cadence “For you, free of charge.”

A lot of things pass over your expression. Gojo watches each of them carefully, amused. He wonders what you’ll do. What you’re thinking, it’s a shame Gojo can’t read your mind.

“How’d you know my size?” You say first, inquisitive but not accusatory. Gojo shrugs.

“Guessed. We’ve spent enough time together,” He says noncommittally. Your face changes, like you don’t quite believe him. But there’s not enough there for you to question him either. He can almost hear you narrate it in your head. The heart you wear on your sleeve, tender red and bleeding, thumps anxiously as you try to get a read on him. It’s not a sound he dislikes.

He’s been good to you. He’s just being nice. You shake your head, regretful of your own doubt for a minute. You force a smile, and Gojo doesn’t hate it even though he knows where it comes from.

The power of love, he thinks almost whimsically.

“This is a big box. How much stuff did you even get?” You repeat, noticing the contents are up to the top. He feigns indifference. Pretends not to know that he spent countless hours looking over it.

“Mm, dunno. Just whatever I thought you’d need.”

“I’m only here for a week, Gojo.” You mutter, hands grazing over the cardboard edge.

“So? Maybe you need a lot of stuff. I don’t know what women go through.” He says with a pout, lips together. Joking with you to lighten the mood, which makes you huff through your nose.

“You’re so dumb. It’s too much stuff,”

“I already bought it and I don’t feel like returning it,” He tells you, making it clear he’s not going to negotiate “Just think of it as a gift from Santa Claus.”

You snort.

“You even have the hair,” You reply. Trying to make yourself feel better in the process, Gojo gives you a half smile “Still. I feel like I’m really indebted to you, lately.”

“Yeah? You can count this week as one big favor, if that makes it easier.”

“I don’t remember Santa doing favors for people,” You quip. Gojo laughs.

“Change in management,”

You laugh a real laugh at that, and Gojo watches you turn the situation over again and again.

“Well. Thank you. Might as well look through the rest of it, huh?”

“Take your time,” Gojo says, before checking the digital clock on his wall “I need to go get something from the store. Just leave the empty stuff next to the trash and I’ll take it out tomorrow morning.”

“Oh, okay. Yeah. I’ll start on dinner. See you, Gojo.”

“Yeah. See you” )

If you notice all the clothes come in shades of blue, you’re smart enough not to say anything.

The third day passes in a blur. Nothing notable, but he’s content. You wear the clothes Gojo bought you and he’s careful not to stare while you know. He takes it upon himself only to do it when he knows you’re asleep, his nightly routine staring over the bare inches of your body in a dark room being a reprieve of his other desires.

On the fourth day, he doesn’t have the restraint not to touch you. Too many days in the same room and he wants access to everything already. He hates being patient more than he thought, but there’s a method to this - he has to remind himself.

Like taking out his aggression, he decides he needs more relief. Something to scratch the itch. With his infinity, you can’t feel his fingers ghosting over your legs. He checks if you’re wearing the other stuff he bought, settled at the bottom of the box. Not lingerie, but panties. Plain and cottony - white over your cunt as you sleep with your leg hiked up. Gojo knows you can’t feel him now, but part of him wants you too. He wants to know why you’re wearing them despite yourself. Gojo realizes too late that he’s interested in your misery just as much as he is everything else, and so far - that discovery has made everything all the more difficult.

On the fifth day, things proceed the same. There’s a routine you’ve settled into together despite the time limit on it. That night over dinner, you and Gojo spend time together. There’s not really much to do - it’s a Friday. It’s the first time neither of you are completely occupied with any one task.

You get to talking like that. On the fifth day, Gojo gets as close to opening up as he’s ever gotten in his life. Part of him isn’t sure why he does it. He thinks he’s seeking confirmation for something, but what that could be is lost on him.

(“So, you’re the only person left in your clan?” You ask, half-way through a glass of tea he’s sure has gone cold by now. The T.V. is on but muted. Gojo looks at you in the low lights, fighting his own sleep.

“Mhm. Technically, I’m the sole heir.” He replies.

“...Is it okay to ask what happened?”

Gojo laughs at you. You really can’t help your curiosity, but he still finds it amusing.

“It’s not a pretty story,” Gojo says honestly.

“That’s okay,” You say, voice filled with an air of innocence that Gojo has a hard time wrapping his head around.

“Most of them were wiped out. We had a lot of enemies, me included. A lot of them are dead, the remaining are somewhere far-away and have no combat abilities.”

“You included?” You pick up on, naturally. Gojo nods and smiles a little.

“Once I inherited my technique it was pretty commonplace. I went through a lot of assassination attempts,” He yawns in between, because this is an old, boring story “It took a lot of time for me to get strong enough to where I am now. But I got there eventually.”

“You say that so easily,”

Gojo peers at the frown on your face and laughs quietly to himself.

“It was a long time ago, now. I never really had a lot to mourn, except for when I was a teenager. I’m used to it.”

For a long time, you remain completely silent. Gojo almost thinks you’re going to cry. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. It’s proof of something. Of his ambivalence towards the idea of sympathy. Sure, it’s meaningless now for someone to feel bad for him. It’s a pointless endeavor, because Gojo is a selfish dick and the strongest - and he knows both of those things intimately. He accepts them as part of himself in the same way, he doesn’t know what he’s like without being frivolous. Without being the strongest. The line between misery and character is paper thin and Gojo hasn’t known it since he was born.

It’s especially pointless for you to feel bad for him, because he’s going to ruin that very innocence you hold in your heart before the week is over. He’s going to do it with purpose and conviction. He won’t feel remorseful about it at all.

There’s an irony to it. A dramatic irony that brings him closer to Godliness than he’s ever really been. Because Gojo knows that this conversation is confirmation that he needs you, just as much as he knows he’ll do anything to have you even if it means you can no longer look at him like this.

He wonders how long you’ll hold sympathy for him. He decides for now, there’s no reason to not lean into it. It makes him happy that you care enough to feel sad. Even if it’s pointless. He doesn’t remember the last time someone did.

Maybe when he was 17.

“You look like you’re gonna cry.” He says lightheartedly. Sincere in a way he hasn’t been in very well over 10 years. You sniffle.

“How are you not crying?”

“I never cry.” Gojo says smoothly, not blinking “I’m a heartless bastard.”

“That’s not true.” You say, almost exclaim, turning yourself to look at him so seriously. It’s cute, he must admit, that you’re so sure on his character “You’re not heartless,”

“But I am a bastard,” He clarifies, mischievous. And you pout, less eager to correct him on that

“...You’re not heartless. Clearly.” You say again. Gojo laughs, a real laugh. He can feel it preemptively, how much he’ll cherish every minute of this conversation. He hums.

“Oho, you almost sound like you’re defending me.”

“From yourself, I guess. I know you’re not heartless,” You say, with some kind of clarity that you have him figured out. Maybe you do. It’s a little shocking. It’s not usually how this goes “You’re…weird. But you care”

“That’s true,” Because it is, and Gojo has no reason to lie to you right now. “More than that, I’m hung up on the idea of the future.”

“Isn’t it usually being hung-up on the past?”

“Right? Usually, that’d be the case,” Gojo says, unsure of what to express “But the past is the past. I can’t go back to it. My technique is infinity. It means I can see infinite realities.”

You sound like the winds been knocked out of you “That’s terrifying,”

“It is. But you know, even in those realities, the past is the past. There are places where the past hasn’t happened. But it can’t be changed. It becomes part of infinity, when events occur. The only thing that can be changed is the future,” Gojo explains, though he leaves out so many intricacies “There’s a future I want to see. I’d like if my students could see it too,”

“Because of your friend, right?”

Gojo smiles.

“Because of my friend. And for less selfless reasons.”

“Like?” You ask, curious.

“I like being able to do whatever I want, without consequences. Being strong lets me do that. For now it’s up to me, but eventually, I can raise strong comrades.”

You’re silent for a while, again.

“Seems lonely,” You say, simply. Easily. It’s true, and he knows that. It’s the most obvious thing in the world, and you’ve said it with little regard for anything. Almost mindlessly, a natural response to such a sad story.

Gojo feels it again. Those stifling, pesky emotions that linger in the cavity of his ribs. He can’t bring himself to be honest, because when does he ever? But he does smile again, a little more melancholy than usual. You notice, certainly, but you have the courtesy not to say a word.

“You think so?” Gojo says, passive and wilfully ignorant “Does it make you wanna hug and console me?”

He offers it sarcastically, but you don’t tear your eyes away from him. It’s almost enough to shake him. Almost.

“...A little? You feel like a sad dog in the rain.” You say, too honestly.

“Jeez. Maybe you just miss Pokupan. Thinking about another man right in front of me. I can’t believe I’m the other woman,” He says, with a faux pout.

You laugh, though it’s laced with sympathy. Gojo can tell you want to fuss. That you want to admonish him for being the way he is, and he’s almost willing to let you. That’s just the thing.

You see Gojo as human, still.

Gojo Satoru isn’t God. But he isn’t human either. If you want to know how God lives, asking Gojo is always viable. But you shouldn’t mistake false omnipotence for forgiveness, like you are now. You see Gojo for all of his humanity, but you're blind to his divinely violent tendencies. You will be until it’s too late.

So, Gojo doesn’t think you need to comfort him how you’re thinking you should. Gojo wants you to depend on him. Because coveting you is an affair distinctly inhuman and crueler than even the heavens could be and he believes that you’re owed to him.

Gojo wants to protect this version of you, even at the sake of corrupting it. He doesn’t want to let you go ever, for any reason. And he wont.

He turns the heat up gently. You’re none-the-wiser. The night swallows you both, but Gojo will remain untouched. He’ll hold you when it inevitably spits you back out. When reality washes into you, you should’ve trusted your gut after all.

For now, he smiles at you.

“If it’s any consolation, I’d be very sad if you disappeared.” Which Gojo hopes you can interpret without his interference. It seems like you do, because you smile to yourself.

“Me too,” You reply. Gojo knows he’s going to ruin you. “I’d be really sad if you disappeared, Gojo. So, don’t, okay?”

And if Gojo were an honest person, or a good one - he’d tell you you’re the last person who should worry about missing him. That you’ll be seeing him for a long time.

But he’s neither, just like he’s not god or man. He lightens his tone and holds out his pinky, which you link with his.

“Scouts honor,”

When he’s ready to look away, you pull a bare thread from Gojo’s clothes. Frowning at him, as you dust away the fabric with your hand. He stares at you.

“What was that?”

“You had a thread loose,” You say simply, unconcerned with anything “I just pulled it off.”

Gojo stares.

“Yeah. Thanks.”)

The sixth day passes quickly. Gojo doesn’t think there’s anything worthy of saying. By then the routine is so practiced and so constant. The sixth day passes like a shadow in the night, disappearing through the woods before morning comes. A stepping stone.

Today is the 7th day.

On the 7th day, things are different. The same but different as they so often are. You don’t have work today, so you do what you’ve been doing. You and Gojo work in proximity to each other, share meals, and idly watch T.V.

Night falls on the 7th day.

Gojo wants to take part in the act of creation, as the sun dips below the horizon. He’d set this in motion when the week started and now that it’s here - the anticipation is too much to bear. When Gojo Satoru sets himself out to be conqueror, the universe trembles at the sight of him. There’s no sound at all. The night reeks of death, in Gojo’s presence it trembles. Too fearsome to speak.

Night falls today. Gojo starts his usual routine with less caution than he’s had the previous six. Where he usually bides his time and enters the room carefully - today he merely enters. He places his hand on the silver handle and pushes it open. A breath rushes from his lungs, adrenaline entering his system as he steps inside. His room has felt so unfamiliar to him lately, but like this - a sense of serenity washes over him.

He stares at you. With his Six Eyes, with vision clear as ever, Gojo looks onto you as you are now. You can never reconstruct a flower crushed under steel boots. You’re not mud or earth, not adaptable like the sea. From the moment he’s met you - Gojo has known you to be so much like a flower. Gojo has never wanted to take the petals off of something so much in his life.

And Gojo is in this instance, a natural disaster ready to pluck the root of you up from the ground. He’ll pick you up in a storm but return you to his feet. There’s a method to this. Gojo stares at your silhouette wrapped and tangled in his sheets, body so loosely dressed. Your visible figure rests easy.

The night is glorious and silent. Gojo watches on in some cross of indifference and utter starvation. He blinks, leans on the wall.

Like a call from fate, you start to stir awake.

Gojo moves towards you. He decides it might be easier just to join you in bed, so he gently works himself into the sheets.. He creeps towards you slowly, and re-familiarizes himself with the feeling of his bed. It’d be lost on him for a week, but your presence in it makes it feel especially brand new. The bed dips under his weight, creaking. You shift lethargically, turning your head to look at Gojo.

You look startled once you realize. For the first time in your entire relationship, it seems to dawn on you that something is wrong. Just a minute too late. He gives you a second to wake up. Your breath hitches, a stifled gasp as you greet Gojo’s expression.

The hunger in his stomach is gnawing. Gojo feels like he’s starving. He thinks doing this will only half-way relieve the urge. This part of Gojo is inhuman as the rest of him.

Gojo’s presence suffocates you so much in the moment, you can only barely open your lips to say your next words.

“What are you doing here?” You sound still innocent. Gojo smiles briefly, under the glow of the moon. He can see your expression clearly. Sleep in your vision. A sheerness to your skin that comes with rest. Your bags are packed, and your things are cleared from his bathroom. You’re still wearing the clothes he bought.

He knows he shouldn’t think it, but some part of him is vindicated. You’re leaving him today and Gojo finds abandonment to be the highest betrayal of them all. So, he’s vindicated. He licks his teeth, usual mirth coming back to him.

Then he talks, his voice tender.

“Getting my debts repaid,” And he means it, more than he’s ever meant anything he’s said “You owe me one, remember?”

It dawns on you. Realization flickers in your eyes before it twists into fear. Gojo wants to encourage it. A curse starts to form, like tendrils around you. You’ll leave it here when you’re gone in the morning and Gojo will have a piece of you left with him.

“W-what are you…? What do you mean?”

He’s shrill, almost, leaning close to you. His sudden proximity makes you freeze. You know better, know so clearly it stops you from running. Gojo is tempted to see if you’ll do it. If you’ll run or if you’ll thrash or if you’ll fight. He’s not particularly sadistic, but he likes you - and he’s curious to know what your reaction will be to something like this.

He eases you into it, He brushes his knuckles over your cheek as your heart sky-rockets like you’re being hunted. Gojo thinks he ought to be gentle with you. Regardless of how this is happening, it’s your first time together. Your fingers tremble as you reach up to grab his wrist. It seems like you’re trying hard to pull him off, and wiggle away from his grip. You ready yourself to give him push back and Gojo times it so that it seems like you’ll be able to break free.

But Gojo is strong. Stronger than you by a lot, and you know that by now. When he finds that you’re trying to escape him, he’s quick to grab your wrists with his hands. They both fit perfectly in his palms. He pulls them up over your head and your eyes widen as you feel his grip - near bruising (though he is trying so hard to be gentle) on your body. He stares down at you.

You look so frightened.

“Wh-what are you..?”

“You owe me one for letting you stay here, right?” He asks enthusiastically, licking his teeth. Your eyes widen “I’ll take this as compensation, okay? It’s a good deal for us both I think,”

“I don’t,” You squirm underneath him “I don’t—I,”

“Shh,” He quiets you, humming softly “Don’t overcomplicate it. Just wanna see you,”

Gojo watches you turn it over in your head. He was wondering about this. What’d you do in these circumstances. If you’d act like you always do, pleasant and pliable trying to do what's best. Damage control for what's coming.

Gojo pulls his hands away to undress you and yours fly to his shoulder blades. You heave as you push, mumbling something about how he doesn’t need to do this. Your expression is grief-stricken. Gojo soothes you.

“You can bite, scratch, kick, scream - whatever works,” Gojo says, communicating his affection as best he can. He drives his hands under your shirt, laying his palm flat over the skin of your stomach. He runs his thumbs over your sides, committing every inch of you to memory. Without his infinity, Gojo feels every part of you “It’s not gonna hurt me,”

You look like you’re at a loss for words. He gives you a warm grin.

“Maybe we’re going about this all wrong,” Gojo says after some thought “Is this your first time?”

You whimper, nodding meekly. Gojo groans against your skin. You flinch.

“Fuck, course it is. Shoulda known. Such a sheltered girl like you,” He adds the last part with a hint of condescension, watching your face curl up into a frown.

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing you know,” Gojo is careful as he pulls your shirt higher and higher. Your breath is being held, afraid of what’ll happen if you let g.o “We’re tied together like this. Isn’t that nice?”

“Gojo,” You say, swallowing something. Words that threaten to bubble up that you can’t find the strength to say. You’re not wearing anything underneath and Gojo feels a chill in his spine “Please,”

“Not wearing a thing even though you’ve been sleeping at a man's house all week,” He reprimands. He lets the material sit over the swell of your chest, just under your neck where it stays. He can see the outline of your tits clearly now, just enough light from the open window to illuminate your skin. Your nipples are hard, heaving. Gojo can hear your little heartbeat thump against your ribs “I’m not telling you off you know? I’m glad you trust me. Great job, on that really. But you really should be more careful.”

“Gojo,” You plead again, throaty. The sound goes through his system, sends blood rushing to his cock.

“Satoru,” He insists on, knowing it will take more than that to convince him “I’ll try and listen to your requests if you say Satoru,”

He doesn’t promise to stop, because he doesn’t think he’d be able to follow up on it. Still, with the level of desperation you show - Gojo thinks it’s worth it to gain something out of. You follow up his request almost instantly, lips wrapping around the syllables with a weak breath.

“S-Satoru,”

He gestures to take your shirt off. You’ve become more pliable, if only a little, letting Gojo see all of you completely bare as he tosses his clothes somewhere onto the floor. Shameless in viewing you, your instincts kick in to cover your chest. He clicks his teeth, pushing your wrists together again over your head.

“That won’t do,” He coos at you softly “I wanna see you. All of you,”

You hiccup, sobbing, Gojo reaches his palms towards your breasts, cupping them gently. Your nipples rub against his palms and he groans feeling how soft you are.

“So pretty,” He admires you. Means it. Gojo lets his gaze catch on the edges and curves of you with enthusiasm. Your chest is sensitive to his touch, thumb and forefinger tweaking and teasing your nipples as you remain underneath him obediently. Your eyes look so watery, soft like lilies in freshwater “So cute,”

“Satoru, please, I don’t—don’t want—”

“So ungrateful,” He tsks. He smacks your chest lightly, enough to make you squeal “That’s the only request I can’t listen to,”

You hiccup, looking away. Gojo hums as he hovers over you, seated over your figure. He pulls his mask off from his eyes, material falling into his fingers. Grabbing your wrists with his palms, he wraps the material around them - tight enough to keep you but with enough room so it doesn’t hurt. He places your hands over your head gently, kissing your covered wrists.

“Don’t squirm too much, ‘kay? Stay like that. I’ll make you feel good.”

“I don’t,”

“Hey,” This time he’s stern, and you slink back into yourself. It’s the first time he’s had to use this tone on you and hopefully the last “What’d I say? You owe me this much, don’t you think? After everything I’ve done for you, the least you can do is not turn me away. It’s not like I wanna do anything bad with you, y’know”

A pang of guilt passes through you. You stop squirming. Gojo keens, baring his teeth as he smiles.

“Good girl.” He dips his head to kiss the place under your ear, where your neck meets your jaw. He scrapes his teeth on the skin so you can feel his teeth over your pulse “You learn quick.”

You keep your arms over your head like he’s asked, hesitant and stiff. Gojo can work with that at least. He leans towards you, tipping your jaw so you’re forced to look at him. Tear-eyed and whimpering, a shudder passes through him.

“So pretty,” He mumbles. He leans forward, presses his lips to yours - hand resting on the base of your neck. You make a noise of indignance but Gojo keeps you there. He eases you into obedience, forcing his tongue in your mouth, grazing the inside of your mouth.

He swallows every sound you make. Distress and frustration and reluctance lend themselves to giving in easily. Your body is sensitive to touch, a trail of goosebumps where his hands touch you. On your waist, trying to ease you into it.

He pulls away from you, a string of saliva connecting you.

“First kiss?” He asks. You shy away, clamping your mouth shut. Gojo chuckles, teeth nipping at you “Didn’t say it was a bad thing.”

You remain silent, so Gojo fills the space.

“Mm,” Gojo presses kisses down the curve of your jaw, all the way down your neck where he stops and bites - hard enough for something to be there tomorrow. He undresses the rest of you. You try to resist this time too, but Gojo doesn’t bother putting up a show. It’s easy to overpower you. He tugs your shorts off with your panties and tosses them somewhere. Unceremonious and uncharacteristically impatient.

He takes his time now that you’re all naked. It’s thrilling to watch distress fill your lungs, a ballooned breath and muffled protest. Gojo sucks hickies into your bare skin. It’s only fair to give you something to look at while you’re departed. Your blood rushes, capillaries breaking under the hardness of his incisors - ridges pushed against your delicate skin. He licks the bruises afterwards, kisses them tenderly.

“Gonna be a little sore for a while,” He says warmly. You’ve hit the stage of grief where you’re angry and resilient again but one look from Gojo is enough to make you slink back “Might as well enjoy yourself.”

Despair flashes in your expression.

“I mean it, you know.” He offers, stating it like he’s trying to appease you “You should relax a little, let it roll off your shoulders.”

It seems like you register that Gojo is teasing you. He does mean it, about thinking you should enjoy it. Everything else is deliberate and you know as much. It’s good you’re starting to understand him a little better.

“Why are you doing this to me?” You ask hoarsely. Gojo is surprised by your question.

“Ah, it’s a secret, so you can’t tell,” He starts. He squeezes the fat of your chest in his palms, silver tongued and playful “I like things that I can keep.”

A flash of true horror washes over you and you almost go ragged in realization. Weakened in your resolve once glimmering so brightly, Gojo takes the opportunity to please. He kisses down your sternum, runs his hands across the sides of your chest. He presses this thumb against your hardened nipples, rubbing lightly. Gojo takes them into his mouth. He bites then licks like he licks a wound

It pleases him immensely when you respond. When you gasp in a helpless sort of way and go to cover your mouth in shame. A sense of delight washes over his body and he does it again and again. He teases, changes from sucking harshly to lapping oh-so gently on the skin. Over and over until your voice can longer be contained no matter how hard you try - sharp gasps and cries of desire filling the air.

When he thinks you’re worked up enough, he slots himself against you and nudges your legs apart. He can feel the heat from your bare skin against his body, clothed. How you tremble underneath him. He eases his hand down gently, fingers trailing down to your pussy.

You hiccup. A sob of defiance stifled with obvious arousal, forced from you so easily. Gojo laughs.

“You don’t wanna?” He pricks, intentionally. Gojo lets his middle finger ease along your slit, dragging his digits up and through - catching on your achy clit “Are you sure?”

It’s torture for you. Of course it is. A pretty, sheltered little thing. It’s your first time with something like this and he’s sure all this is too much for you. Even if you tell yourself you don’t want it, your body can’t refuse him. You can’t either, try as you might. That’s why your legs are spread and why you’re practically dripping for him. Gojo thinks of it as admission. Your clit is hard underneath the pad of his middle finger, as he rubs too light and too gently.

You cry out, pitchy and broken. Gojo laughs.

“You need it here,” He punctuates, adding enough pressure that you gasp “Need me to touch you here, hm?”

You shake your head at first. Gojo tucks himself against your chest, sucking the skin gently.

“Be more honest.” He encourages a mockery as he so barely presses his finger inside of you - threatening to touch but never doing it “What do you want?”

“Don’t, I don’t.” You say, or you try.

“Liar,” He snips playfully against your clavicle “Your pretty little pussy is dripping wet and you want me to believe that?”

Gojo smacks your cunt softly. Once, then twice, then three times for good measure as you cry.

“C’mon,” He encourages meanly “Tell me what you really want.”

It’s a sick little mind game that Gojo is having too much fun playing with you.

“P-please,” You stutter, so unbelievably broken with so little done to you at all. Gojo will take all of you at a later time. When you’re thoroughly pliable and broken and so beautiful all for him “Please.”

So dependent like Gojo always thinks you should be.

“Please what, hm? What are you asking for?”

You swallow thickly. All your dread and doubt and disbelief gone as a sense of real and true need ignites within you. Of course this is too much for you. Gojo overwhelmed you like this on purpose. The resentment of wanting despite it all, despite how miserable you are makes for something so tragically Gojo’s. Whatever you have in your heart will always be for him. Good or bad, ugly or beautiful - like this you are all his and so perfectly too. It’s titillating, the sensation of control that wisps around him. It strikes him like a hammer on hot iron.

Gojo wants you to say it. Wants your selfless little heart to beg for his mercy this once. You’ll understand some time later, that this is how Gojo loves. Selfish and twisted. Cruel. Intimate beyond mortal comprehension. All of him just for you, just like this.

Strangely, it's perfect. Gojo teases you some more. Toys with your clit and feels a pool of arousal rush and drip from your sore cunt. He hits it with the palm of his hands as you try to form the words. You tremble in his arms, a vestige of your will to resist.

You want to resist so badly, he can tell. But it hurts now to leave it alone and you want it despite yourself. It makes you so frustrated you cry. Limp, crystal tears down your face that Gojo licks up nearly immediately. Salty and bitter. Gojo kisses the apples of your cheek, nose nudging your skin.

“So cute when you give up.” Gojo praises sincerely. You sob somewhere deep inside of your “Be good and be honest. I’ll reward you, hm? How’s that?”

Gojo can feel the moment you give in completely. When acceptance settles over your hazy and contorted mind. You let the tides take you, curling into yourself. A sound like you’re in pain even though you’re not hurt.

“Please touch me.” You whisper, hoarse and defeated. Gojo laughs airy, peppering your face with kisses. You wince.

“Good girl.” He coos, dipping his fingers down lower and lower. Heel of his palms pressed into your swollen, needy clit “That’s all you had to do. Easy, right?”

You scowl at him (you try too).

“Open your legs, baby,”

You listen this time, opening your legs wide enough for him to touch. Your pussy is so wet for him. Sticky and soft like you’ll fall apart, Gojo thinks it feels divine, wants to squeeze and grope and touch until you’re disintegrated. He likes feeling you like this. Vocal chords strung tight, all the noises throaty and gone. You throb against him like you’re begging. Gojo doesn’t stand to let you acclimate, flipping between three fingers in a gentle rub to a soft and well-practiced spank.

Only when your words start to come out t0gether, like you’re spitting them out because they fill your mouth too quick - does Gojo bless you with any mercy. He lets his hands sink lower, deeper - until his middle finger brushes your twitching hole. Your breath hitches, and the hands once stuck to your side, reach for Gojo’s hard to hold.

He licks his teeth, some unspoken feeling sending an bullet through him as he feels your body resist. Needy thing you are and so untouched that even the point of your middle finger makes your breath slower. You’re wet enough he doesn’t need anything else to aid him. He pushes in slow, slow, slow - painstakingly carefully as your wetness envelops you.

Because he intends to cherish you in his own way, he resists the urge he feels to flip you right over and take you. He’s being kind, and you’ll realize it later - when you’ve adjusted to him a bit more and know when to pick your fights. If he didn’t think it’d ruin the set-up, he’d have flipped you on your back just feeling. Fucked you without any consideration, just to feel your pussy around him in a vice grip.

It’s all he can picture, but he shows restraint. He’ll fuck himself off on you when you’re sleeping maybe, just to scratch the urge. You might pass out before then.

He comes back to you like that, a promise to himself to give the relief he needs with the body he finds oh-so tempting. He pushes his perversion aside to touch you. You let out a little sound every time he fucks himself deeper, gets his middle finger down to the first bend the all the way to the knuckle.

When he thinks you’re adjusted - ready for more, he gives it to you without making you plead. He uses his ring finger this time - his longest ones and feels you stretch around. He groans, deep and appreciative, as he feels how tight you are. You preen, squeeze your thighs together and call his name

“Oh, Satoru, its.”

He shushes you before busying himself with tasting your skin. Closes his mouth around one of your tits as he repeats the process. In, in, in until he’s all the way to his knuckles. Fucks you till it’s easy, till you’re wanting more.

If he were more merciful, a good man or a better one - he’d stop here. He doesn’t though. A third finger has your eyes widening. You gasp. Gojo kisses your face again and again.

“Easy, easy,” He coos, voice coarse but encouraging “It’s a good exercise for the future.”

You don’t register the words and Gojo doesn’t expect you to. Even still, he thinks giving you the heads up is quite nice.

Three fingers proves to be more than enough. It pushes you to an edge he has seen before. He fucks you with three. Your mouth falls open, slack jawed. Gojo curls his fingers. He rubs up like he’s motioning for you to come here, deep enough until he feels it. That spongy spot inside of you, apparent through the sounds you start to make as he touches it.

He hits something of a stride like that, finger fucking you with pressure on your clit and his mouth on your skin. Gojo takes to watching you once he knows he’s getting you to that edge. Your body stiffens underneath him, breathing going noticeably shallow. Mouth wobbly, lower lip trembling. He can tell you’re feeling it, just as much as you’re resisting it. Gojo coaxes you by whispering against your skin.

“C’mon,” He hums, nudging his nose to your neck “You wanna cum don’t you? I can tell you. You too scared? Need me to help you.”

You whimper “Aah, aah,” Gojo can feel you pulse. Can feel your insides tighten. He’s doing it on purpose, tipping you just over the edge. He wants to hear you beg. Wants to know what it sounds like when you beg for him. He fucks into you slowly, until you’re no longer able to put on a show of being composed.

“S-sato—oh, please, oh—please m-make me,”

“Want me to making you cum? Say it. Say, ‘Satoru, please make me cum,’ can you do that?”

A bitter sob leaves your lips and Gojo can’t think straight. It strains you.

“S-satoru, pleasemakemecum—please.”

Gojo grins. “Of course I can,” He quickens his pace enough to make you feel it. Your eyes shoot open before screwing closed again “All you had to do was ask me.”

He watches you intently. How you fall apart under his fingers, delirious whimpers of no, no, no - even though you begged so sweetly a minute ago. He hums as he feels the walls of your pussy start to tremble, a soft squelching sound hastened now. You say something he can’t decipher, words too jumbled for him to make sense. Gojo stares hard. Lets the infinity bleed away so he can feel you just like this, feel you cum on his fingers despite everything.

He feels giddy to the point he’s sick with it, moaning as your hands grip at the roots of his hair. He kisses your breast tenderly, just over the latest lovemark.

“Don’t hate me too much, kay,” Gojo says, whispering, means it so you carry it with you because he can feel the resentment nudged so deep into your heart by now “Come on. Cum for me, sweet girl. Want you to feel so good.”

And so you do. You cry, scream - but the noise amounts to nothing. A cosmic thing, like you’ve been struck by a comet. Gojo fingers you through it, absolutely delighted at the hot rush of liquid that comes pouring out of you. Your first orgasm from him and you’re squirting all over his fucking wrists, soaking his sheets and his arms and his PJ’s with your back curved in a beautiful arch. You break apart in an almost violent way, like the pleasure’s vicious. It tears into you and you succumb with a whimper.

Gojo shushes you as you break down finally into a teeny, tiny sob. You must be exhausted because you don’t pull away when he comforts you, despite the little angry why, why, why that you whisper. You hit his chest softly. He kisses your forehead and listens as your breathing goes still and you fall asleep in a heart-beart, still curled up into his bed and too tired to run away or go anywhere.

He stays with you like that, relishing in the warmth of your body until you’re deep asleep. He flips you onto the side of the bed that isn’t wet, and presses a kiss to your forehead before moving out of the sheets. .

When he stands to his feet, it’s to collect the curse that’s gathered itself on the foot of the bed. It manifests as a white snake with blue-eyes. Gojo finds himself amused. Of course the curse you’ve made is pretty. Gojo grabs it by the neck, watching it as it pries its mouth open and bares his fangs at him. He grins, pricking himself on the teeth to see if it makes him bleed.

It hisses loudly before wrapping itself around Gojo’s arm. It doesn’t take any effort to subjugate it, sensing his power it stills with some effort. Gojo tilts his head as he walks out of the room, glancing at you before turning his head back at the snake.

“Better warm up to me,” He whispers in the dark, a contentment to his words “You won’t be seeing your mama for a while,”

—

Communication stills.

Radio silence, more like - a busy bunch of messages deftly still. Suddenly, a raging storm of grief and anger disappears. The morning after Gojo assaults you, he wakes up to see you off like nothings happened.

He mostly does this because he wants to see what you’ll do.

You spend the morning perplexed and confused. You eat breakfast with him. You sit at the table, contemplative and silent and Gojo chats away at you idly. About the news and the weather and the classes he has today. You chew your food but don’t taste. You listen but your replies are short and stilted - out of touch.

Gojo learns that when something bad happens to you, you respond to it by detaching yourself. Though yesterday you were hot and fiery, the day after you seem to be mourning. Your grieving process starts early, and Gojo thinks rather amused—that you remind him a lot of himself.

He thinks you’re a little closer now that you understand the apathy of losing something that can never come back. And once this whole thing is over, once you find yourself back here - he’ll tell you all about it. You get it now right? It’s painful to feel like you can never be the same.

They say that mankind was fashioned from their Lord. Gojo supposes he’s made you in his image. You look a little empty, and though you’re both so different - you can become close by having the same wound. You can understand him a little more this way, all while retaining your sense of resilience.

What is mankind not known for if not perseverance? Of course he knows, once you recover from your grief, you’ll return to your usual spitfire. He’s counting on it, counting on you to fight and run. Escape from him and never come back.

But that cat and mouse game is more than okay. Gojo isn’t looking for your obedience, really. You’re too defiant of a character. Gojo thinks it’d be pointless if you’d just stayed the same.

You need to have hope to stay the way you are. Thus, Gojo doesn’t plan to rob you of it. He figures it’s best to give you breathing room. After all, he has full confidence in his ability to find you. He could hear the rhythm of your heart a continent away and chase it down without thinking twice. But it’s better if you’re able to show him some resistance. He thinks of it like a compromise. That sort of thing is typical for married folks, he thinks. He gives and you take.

Eventually, you might realize that the endeavor of running away is fruitless. Maybe you’ll be clever enough to recognize that it’s not that you’re succeeding, but that Gojo is letting you. You’re definitely smart enough to do so early, but just stubborn enough to believe that there’s hope in spite of that. If you try hard enough, persevere a little more, etc.

Gojo likes this part of you. Always will. You always put your best in everything and this is his own way of nurturing it.

It’d be a shame to take that from you. Gojo has remained out of your sight for the time being to try and reinstate it. While he raises the curse up in his apartment, he watches you through windows and flitters into your bedroom to peer at you before disappearing again. He makes sure that you can’t sense him or that he’s gone before you can. The more ease you feel, the easier everything else will go.

Feeding the curse you’ve left behind in his house has been taking most of its time. It’s obedient to him since he’s strong, and it’s big now. Longer and wider and more sinister looking (he feels a weird affection for it, maybe just because it’s from you), more hostile. He’s been careful to maintain it. Too much feeding will make it overgrown.

It’s currently on Gojo’s floor, on a dog bed like a disobedient pet - all in a single coil. He has to be careful not to endanger you by making it too strong or giving it too much range. It’s just meant to be a showpiece - a prop at best and a scraped knee at worst.

He’s been building it up for a long time. Then, though, it wasn’t such a clear desire. He figured sewing seeds of fear in you would benefit you in a different way. But that’s fine. The means don’t matter as much as the ends and in doing so - he’s made this all sort of seamless.

It’s not a complicated plan, ultimately. He’ll tell the curse to let loose, freak you out a little, and eventually - you’ll call the only person you know who knows how to handle it. Gojo will save you, and when you’re finally caught in his arms, you’ll have a little reunion amongst yourselves. He’ll reprimand you (but only lightly) and you’ll thrash (but only for a little while) and then he’ll keep you by his side again.

Except this time he won’t be so quick to let go. He’s sure you’ll protest (and be all gung-ho about it). He’ll feign cruelty and push you to the edge. Whatever response you do have, he’s thought of a way to reply.

A way to tend to it.

Like any relationship, things take time. He’s not expecting this to settle right away - but he’s confident eventually it’ll work out how he wants too. Gojo can make that happen as long as you’re within view.

He watches you through the window as you come in from your classes. You’re dressed up today despite the chilly weather - a blouse and nice pants with bangles on your wrist. He wonders what the occasion is given the time of year. Your bag is hanging loosely off of your shoulder - having only just returned.

A sense of warmth spreads through him as he peers at you, a smile on his face. He really does like looking at you quite a bit.

The curse hisses at the sense of your presence and Gojo waves a hand at it to keep it quiet.

“Calm down or I’ll exercise you right away,” Gojo says coldly. It retracts itself. “I’m getting impatient, too, you know? It’s been a long time.” He says wistfully.

He keeps looking until you’ve effectively disappeared from his sight. He listens for you outside of his door. The sound of the building buzzer, soft footsteps, and the slight jiggle and turn of keys before you’ve gone in - sound by a dull thump.

He leans against the wall near his door where he was listening, eyes up at the ceiling as he turns over his options. He should wait it out a little longer. Giving everything enough room to mellow out before it picks up again is an important part of the process.

But he doesn’t know how much longer he can wait. Plus, keeping this curse around is starting to be troublesome. He’d much prefer you back in his arms, in his bed - all back to that kind domestic fantasy that he’d been thinking about again for weeks.

He supposes there’s no right decision, in this case. Just what he wants to do, versus what he should do, and some kind of middle ground he’s been spending too long looking for.

He stands to his feet, no longer leaning on the wall before glancing at the curse from the corner of his eyes.

“Today seems like it’s too soon yet too far,” Gojo pauses between sentences, scratching his head woefully “But it should be okay, right?”

At 7pm, the curse slips underneath the door of his apartment into the hallway. Gojo sits comfortably in his living room, one leg crossed over the other with his phone in hand, a warm mug of tea cooling on his coffee table.

The news is playing. A general and loose sense of anticipation fills him as he pays attention to the newscaster. Another storm is going to hit and the temperatures are dropping to an impossible low. Officials recommend buying bottled water and keeping warm as it continues to blow out.

There’s a soft hiss as the muscled curse squeezes itself underneath the tight crack of his door. It’s unfortunate he can’t monitor it directly. Though the instructions ( and subsequently the consequences of disobedience) were made clear - curses are greedy as they are stupid. This one in particular seems to be self-aware enough not to try to go against Gojo’s word.

So, when the time comes he sits patiently and waits. Watches the news. His ears itch and his skin pricks as he listens for the first whisper of your voice. He wonders if you’ll scream. You didn’t when he thought you should’ve but maybe there's a reason for you to do so now.

The clock ticks away. It’s unceremonious. Gojo thinks to himself that maybe this entire thing is esoteric. Capturing you is a tragedy that he writes to himself and he’ll re-tell it to you all the time in different ways.

The clock ticks. Again and again, the monotony is starting to settle in. Time moves slower than you could imagine. Like trying to pipe honey into straw, thick and impossible.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

At 7:02, a dog barks outside. It sounds cagey, and it’s not Pokupan because Gojo knows what that mutt sounds like. Nor is it cosmic. It does sound desperate, though - like asking someone to be let in. And if Gojo didn’t have such a pressing matter to attend to, he’d go outside and do it himself. After all the wind is frosty and the air is unforgiving and winter devours things so slowly it's painful.

Gojo can’t abandon his task. It’s too important for him to stick his neck out for a being he doesn’t even know. He hopes briefly that it survives. That someone lets it in before it gets anymore violent (or desperate or willing)

At 7:03, he reaches for the tea on his coffee table to drink it. It’s still piping hot, but Gojo can swallow it with his infinity. He does for a reason he can’t name. It’s just a compulsion, inspired by the fact it will probably be too cold when he comes back for it. He thinks, instinctively, that he should cherish the warmth in the glass despite the barrier that prevents him from feeling it. Ultimately it’s still milk tea. It will still fill his stomach and taste vaguely sweet where he permits. He ought to drink it when it’s warm even if it’s just an illusion.

The clock ticks again, this time to 7:04 and Gojo regains a sense of bravado that’s riveting. There’s a commercial airing now for a new type of kitchen gadget, an airfryer with more settings than any one person knows what to do with. The advertiser is enthusiastic and loud. He wonders what happens when it switches to the next one. Do actors on set feel awkward when the cameras turn off? He knows a thing or two about performing, which is why he finds himself so curious.

At 7:05, the first whisper of your pleading filters through the hallways. Though Gojo figures he’s not meant to be able to hear it - because however vague it is, the sense of shame that it holds is hard to ignore. Despite his urge to run to you, Gojo is reminded of the fact he is teaching you a lesson and this is all a show for you and in a way for him too. There’s timings and cues and calls, so Gojo lets your first prayer get passed through the winter winds. He’s sure it gets dropped off somewhere in the snow.

The dog outside bares its teeth and barks louder than before.

At 7:06, the feelings of fear and negativity start to weasel their way into his apartment. Through cracks in the floorboards and the aeration in the spackle - he can feel it come through his door and penetrate his being like waves of wind. With no barrier and no filter, your fear is a familiar presence in his life. It comes to a crescendo as he leans his head back on the couch and blinks up at the ceiling. He’s pleased with it so far. It’s proving to be just right. All the months of delicate orchestration have culminated into such a lovely overture. A symphony of sobs. It enchants him like a bird song, or maybe the whistle of a blizzard.

He waits for it to die down. He waits for it to start back up again. He waits for the sniffling to become sobs and for the sobs to become demands and for the demands to go back to sniffles. He waits for the dog outside to be let in because he can hear the buzz of the gates all the way from his apartment.

When Gojo has had enough of waiting, it’s 7:15 sharp.

He stands to his feet and walks through his door with not so much as a look back. The T.V. is still playing where he fazes out and he leaves it because this will be quick and easy.

You’re right across the hall. The walk is short. The building moans like it’s dead.

He stands in front of your door and presses his ears to it and there’s some semblance of an altercation. Mostly the sounds of shattered glass.

If you were any more familiar with this world, you’d know the thing is stalling. It has harmful intent but Gojo’s presence is too risky. If you knew anything about anything, then you’d know you were never in any real danger and even calling Gojo’s name when you hate it so much now would be pointless.

But Gojo has done his due diligence in keeping you in the fateful dark.

So this part is easy. He reaches for the door but it’s locked, so he teleports.

When he enters, your apartment is in terrible shape. The curse itself notices his presence but does not stop to act. He stops to take a look around. He figures you’re cornered and holed up in your bedroom. A trembling figure in the corner praying for God to save you.

Your house is effectively thrashed like there’s been a robbery. He’ll have to make up something in the report. Officials will come, but they won’t question his word. All the glass is broken and scattered and everything is torn up. Papers ripped and fabric shredded.

(The stuff Gojo demanded not to be touched has remained that way. Even he’s not so much of a monster to ruin your students' keepsakes. He’s sure you’ll look relieved when he returns them to you later. How kind he is.)

He prepares himself like an actor might for a role. He thinks of the lines he’s practiced and the way things will play out. This simple, choreographed tragedy. A manifestation of your fears. Gojo thinks that he is probably good at becoming the thing people love yet resent.

He’s sure you and Suguru would have a lot to talk about in another life.

He checks the time on your digital clock, left unscatched in all the destruction.

At 7:18, Gojo phases himself into your bedroom like he’s only just arrived. He hears you gasp in a sharp fear that quickly breaks into a sob of relief. He glances at you where he stands. He’s never been in your room. Kind of a waste it’s happening like this.

The first thing he does is check if the door is locked. When he finds that it is, he laughs to himself but covers his face before he turns to you. You are exactly how he predicts. Something curled tightly into your fists, fearful and backed into a corner. He coos internally. At what he's done to you. How this has played out.

It wasn’t enough to break you a little. This part is necessary.

Like he starts most interrogations off, he asks you question.

“Are you okay?”

“Oh, Satoru.” Your voice sounds shattered in such a way he finds it almost hard to stomach “Oh, it’s—Oh it’s you.”

“Happy to see me, huh?” He says, tilting his head. You close your eyes instead of replying.

“H-how’d you…?”

“I can feel cursed energy,” He says, and it’s not untrue “I felt something very strange in your apartment. It’s been a while.”

You still can’t find it in yourself to say anything. Maybe desperate, maybe afraid, maybe exhausted by your own paranoia - you relent.

“Yeah.” You say. Gojo can feel the curse grow impatient. It lets out a loud hiss and you gasp in fear.

“Hey, you didn’t answer. Are you okay?”

You stare at Gojo for a long time.

“I’m not hurt but,” You swallow thickly. Upon looking at you closely, you look exhausted. He feels a little sorry for you. He’ll let you rest for a while when you’re home “I’m s-scared.”

“You’re right to be scared,” Gojo says, and he means it a little. Not about the curse, but in general “It’s a pretty powerful class. A special grade, probably. You share cursed energy.”

You look agape as he relays this to you.

“Share…?”

Gojo gives you a look. He can feel the creature coming towards you door down, slinking across the wood slowly. A coy, soft smile appears on his expression as he reaches down for you. You flinch from his hands but Gojo doesn’t falter. He strokes his thumb across your cheeks, peering at your eyes and how they reflect light from the outside.

“It was made with your cursed energy,” Gojo explains very gently to you. You look at him in disbelief “Curses are negative emotions. So something like this isn’t uncommon. No idea how it got so strong, though. But that’s all your.”

He watches you closely as a wave of horror settles over you. A nauseous feeling that has you cupping your hand over your mouth like you’re ready to throw-up. He masks a smile, but he doesn’t condescend you. Not openly, at least. Not to the extent he would like too. He reprimands you like a teacher - a sensei and his beloved mentee.

“I told you didn’t I,” Gojo says nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders as you quell your own disgust at the thought “You have to be careful. And you can’t fight all by yourself, so you’re kind of helpless. What were you gonna do if I wasn’t around?”

You look like you’re going to cry. Gojo keeps going.

“You can’t call the police, you know. They can’t help you at all. Good for nothing bunch, really.” Gojo states, gesturing vaguely. He tugs his masks off of his eyes so you can get a better look at him “But you can rely on me if you need to. I’ll always protect you. Next time just give me a call, okay?”

It must dawn on you, just then, what exactly Gojo is doing. Or some extent of this is hitting you for the very first time. The look on your face is picture perfect. It’s exactly what he wanted. An understanding he’d be hoping for for so long it’s unbelievable.

“I’m the only one who can keep you safe, understand?” But he’s not really asking. You know that too “Can you nod your head and agree?” He pricks. You don’t hold back your tears but you don’t cry them either. You break down silently nd you nod.

Gojo reaches down and wipes them off for you.

“Don’t be so sad,” He says to you, and he means it because what a shame it would be to wallow too much on such a nice day. Winter is for warming up next to your loved ones, isn’t it? “I’ll protect you now.”

Left with no choice, you nod again slowly and clutch your pillow. Gojo kisses the crown of your head and leaves you to untangle your feelings.

Then, almost on cue, the curse itself bursts through the door. The wood breaks off with the hinges.

It’s really a weak thing. If Gojo was trying to keep his powers contained, he might’ve put up more of a fight as it lunges at him in your bedroom. It knocks over your things left and right but he’s mostly busy trying to muffle the noises so he doesn’t disturb the neighbors.

It’s as fast as a gust of wind as he strikes out, neck elongated and jaw as unhinged as far as it can go. This time, Gojo can feel the weight of its desire to kill. A rampant sense of bloodlust in it’s every action, Gojo dodges each attempt and swipe at him. He leaves a barrier over you temporarily so that it can do you no harm.

It doesn’t go for you either. He figures maybe it has some understanding of its own predicament. Desperate animals can be clever too. Perhaps those things have always been linked together.

But he figures a fair-ish fight is as much as Gojo can do to stave the thing off before he sends it off officially. Plus, he can feel you watching his back - like you’re trying to measure how strong he is. It’s a smart thing to do. You’re learning. It’s probably better to show you now, since there’s not much left to hide.

So this time, when the snake comes flying towards him - Gojo reaches his hands out. He uses his infinity to stop it in its place. A noise of anger leaves its mouth, a low hiss as it hits the wall in front of him. Wide blue eyes stare at Gojo, a predator with its fangs bared.

Gojo stares back, a predator with its fangs bared.

He uses a reversal of his Limitless, the infinite blue. The creature is pulled into him closely, crashing first into the space he’s created before disappearing into nothing but smoke and ash. It’s gone just as quickly as it happened. A curse so inferior, it can’t have been more than ten minutes to fight even with all the purposeful delays Gojo set in place to finish it off.

It’s gone now, the product of you and him. A weird part of him is sad. But now he has you, so he cuts his losses. Now there is only you and Gojo, and a ruined bedroom and broken apartment.

Gojo, who has no intention of enlightening you, turns his back to look at you.

“Don’t know how long it’ll be gone but,” He shrugs, rolling his shoulder and cracking his spine “But it’s gone for now. Some officials will be here in the morning but with the way this place is, you might wanna come back to stay with me for a while.”

This is all a formality. He’s sure you know too, but instead of turning away - you’re shivering figure wavers in the dark. You’re terrified enough to reach for his hand and hold it. You know what’s coming, but that knowing does nothing to save you. You were a victim to fate from the moment you met. Yet, you still look to him for comfort in safety because even knowing better, there isn’t anything you can do.

And it’s just like you, to want to trust and forgive him. To reach your hand out hesitantly and try. Everything is tangled up and you are terrified and Gojo Satoru loves you.

“Come on,” He says, encouraging you to get closer. He reaches over your bed to scoop you into his arms and you don’t do so much as protest “Let’s go home.”

Gojo brings you home quietly.

When he enters, the T.V. is still on. You are curled up in his arms. He has no idea how long you’ve been crying and about what in particular - but that’s okay. Tonight, to him, is something like an anniversary. Like any time before, he has no intentions to treat you roughly.

It’s a good night, he thinks. Even in the state you’re in, Gojo can only think of making it even more memorable. You’re an injured thing in his arms. A delicate bird with clipped wings, or a butterfly with a missing antenna. Without Gojo there to pick you up in all your broken pieces, you might’ve really fallen apart.

It’s reasonable enough. For someone like you, he’s sure tonight has been so scary. It makes him feel a little sorry for you. It makes him want to make it all worse before he makes it all better.

He can’t describe it, but there is something so right about seeing you like this.

All angry and resentful and volatile. All lonely and scared and saddened and somber. All Gojo’s forever, permanently through everything. He’s made you so completely in his image, something he’s always wanted to do. Maybe you’re a trial run, in its own right, of all the things Gojo will be able to do in the future. What he’s capable of creating with enough effort.

Gojo is gentle to you. Tender, as he carries you into the apartment. You help him turn off the T.V. and put the mug into the sink. He carries you too afterwards, rewarding you with a kiss to your temple, before pulling through the threshold of his bedroom.

Just like that, you find yourself again in Gojo’s bedroom like you were so many weeks prior. You’re weakened and exhausted, so willing that he is endeared. Like this, he hovers over you. Looks at your tearstained face and smiles so lovingly.

Regardless of everything that’s transpired, above all - this is a reunion of two lovers to Gojo Satoru. So in the midst of it, he wipes your tears and kisses your cheek and you don’t pull away. Now you’re so ruined you relish his comfort if only a little, and this time it’s perfect. It’s everything he’s always imagined.

He’ll give you hope and freedom and let you be. Eventually, you’ll come to realize you’ll always need him a little. And it doesn’t matter, does it? That he’s made it that way on his own. Because it’s true. It’s righteous and religious and godly. Gojo Satoru is not god, but he does understand the urge to make something that listens.

He kisses your soft cheeks and hums at you, nose nudging your skin.

“Still feel like crying?” He asks you. You blink up at him like you’re only just now realizing where you are. Some emotion overwhelms you, but ultimately you shake your head no. Gojo grins impishly.

“That’s good,” He says tenderly. He kisses your lips this time, and you kiss back. It catches him off guard but he doesn’t dislike it “You didn’t get hurt did you? And now we’re together again.”

This does seem to incite waterworks in you but you don’t look like you have the energy to cry. He doesn’t push you too much. Though it is fun seeing you like this, Gojo is grateful he has some time to cherish you.

“Scary world out there, y’know?” Gojo says between kisses. He adjusts you, your arms around his shoulders loosely “Hold onto me okay? I’ll make it all better.”

You whimper under your voice but don’t go to thrash. There’s something about you that feels limp. A spirit softened and dampened, like wet soil. Gojo is okay with anything as long as it’s you, and there is some part of this he likes too. How pliant you become under the weight of your fear, so tantalizing to Gojo he can’t help himself but kiss you. Riper than the fruit of Eden. Just as sweet.

He kisses you for longer than necessary. It’s intimate and hopeful. All tangled hands and pulling different parts of you up to his lips.The occasional press of his teeth in your skin, with his senses so high he can practically feel the blood rush through them. Your mouth is soft and warm, the breadth of mint on your tongue. He pushes his tongue past your lips but this time around, you don’t do anything to refuse it.

So accepting like this. Gojo thinks life with you will prove to be exciting.

He rests his hands on your waist and you don’t pull away from him. Such soft skin covered in a sheer layer of sweat. It’s making him dizzy to have you like this, to kiss you in his bed. Again, again, again. You belong here with him and nothing has ever been so true. The euphoria of everything is overwhelming. He can’t get enough of you. Even if in the moment he carved a spot into you forever and buried himself there, he cannot help but want to be spoiled by your lenience and affection. He can’t help himself but to possess all of you so even time cannot spoil iit.

Despite yourself, you touch Gojo back gently. Knowing you, it is a way to deal with the pain. You want to forgive him as much as you want him to save you. You hate him as much as you love him.

From the beginning, everything has been exactly like this. This was the end of all ends.

This is a lesson in divine truth.

You’ve made Gojo this way as much as he’s made you. If Gojo Satoru is to play as God, then he supposes you are much like an owner. Some part of you has made him love you unconditionally. A dog and his master. An animal with a love so violent it shakes windows. Gojo Satoru makes you love him through violent means, and like a dog left abandoned in the snow - your own empathy for his unconditional but broken love makes you protect him. It’s cyclical. It can never change because the universe has ordained it. Because everything Gojo touches is a divination from the heavens.

Where Suguru proves to be a lesson, you are the dues he is owed.

This is a lesson in divine truth.

More simply, Gojo Satoru loves you in his own way. Any loyal dog will chase its owner no matter how far they run. He lives for you, after all. He’s made you in his image. The difference between god and dog is nothing more than a matter of positioning.

You love him back in your own way. Because his character and his tragedy makes it so difficult to abandon him and your disposition will never allow you. You’ll hate and resent him. You’ll grieve and you’ll cry. You will want to turn your back but he will always come to save you. And who can love you so loyally as a dog undisciplined? Who can keep your sheltered being protected like a wild hound?

Spring was an innocent century ago. Winter is here. Gojo loves you.

“My birthday passed recently,” He tells you. You blink at him.

“Oh?”

“Can you guess what I want?”

You don’t do much more than nod. It’s not permissive. You just know better by now, and that too is not something Gojo finds himself pleased with.

“You don’t have to do any work,” He offers you as a reprieve, busying himself once again with undressing you. You’re still wearing the clothes he bought you all those weeks ago “Just don’t run away from me.”

If you notice how heavy the words are, you’re smart enough not to do anything. Even still, Gojo can’t tell if there's a purpose behind it. Perhaps you just know it instinctively not to.

He takes you apart carefully. Careful, thick fingers unbuttoning the front of your shirt. You’re wearing nothing underneath, and the sight of your bare skin is almost too much for him. The hickies have yet to heal, though now they’re yellow and softened by time. Gojo will have to leave more to bring back all the color to you.

He starts at your jaw this time, teeth against your earlobe. Heart in your hands, he knows your body a little better now.

And he takes his time with it this time too. Even slower than before. Even more consuming, even more adoring.

He laps his tongue against your soft skin and eats. Your skin is salty and sweet and Gojo can’t contain himself. He gropes you lightly, planing his palms over your shoulders and squeezing your breasts tight. He’s missed touching you more than he knows what to do with.

Even in being gentle, there’s little he can stop himself from trying to devour. You lay about him squirming as he undoes each and every part of you. He can’t pick which place to go and what thing to do first because he wants so wholly. It’s making his head spin to listen to your sweet and short whimpers. You spread yourself as you lay under him, hands pinned to your sides - demure and needy.

How different it is but the same. Something about how you’re clinging to him so desperately is making him feel sick with lust.

Instead of going any further, he pulls away from you momentarily. He puts his arms on your sides and flips you over till you’re on top of him

The sudden change in position leaves you gasping for air. Gojo gives you an amused grin as you fall forward - as he props himself up on pillows while you try and steady himself. He holds you close to him once you’re all set, face to face like this.

“Don’t run away from me,” He says, more seriously. You swallow. Gojo lets you up until you’re half-way over him. You’re so much weaker than him, moved and manhandled so easily. There’s a target on your back so often and Gojo loves being an arrow.

He kisses the side of your body as you stand on your knees beside him. His fingers hook into your shorts and panties, sliding them off of your body all in a fell swoop. He squeezes your ass slightly, spreading you apart.

“Look at you all bent over for me,” He coos, hands reaching underneath you to toy with your pussy. You whine, shuddering, clinging to his shoulders. “So pretty, baby. Prettiest girl.”

A hiccup bobs in your throat. Gojo moves his fingers lower and lower, familiar now with the feel of you. Your cunt is just as welcoming as he remembers. The idea of making love sends a shiver through his whole body. Blood rushes to his cock like a bolt of lightning in his veins. He pushes his middle finger into your twitching, needy hole.

Another sound, cut off by a garbled word of surprise, falls out of your mouth. You’re soaking. Ripe for taking. Gojo wants to fuck you more than anything.

He takes a deep breath, whispering to your skin.

“Fuck,” He laughs, giggling at the thought of it “I’m gonna break you, huh? Gotta be—shit, need to be extra careful with you, right my love?”

“Please be gentle.” You say at his request.

“Of course, of course but—” He squeezes your hip as he feels his middle finger go into you down to the knuckle. You roll your hips against him involuntarily “You just—you’d look so good so full of my cock, y’know? Been thinkin’ about it for weeks.”

And he has, means every word. You shudder at the confession. He quirks his lips as he fucks into you, relishing in those pretty little sounds that fall out of your lips.

“You like that?” He grunts, another finger to stretch you out a little more for him “You like when I tell you about all the dirty things you make me think about?”

Shame fills you, like Gojo’s lit a match under you. He can feel your heartbeat pick up. Is it the being so wanted or is it the crassness and humiliation? Maybe both. Sometime later he’ll pick it apart more closely. He lets himself talk you through it, so close to your skin as he whispers all the filth to you that he can. Confesses it to you.

“Weeks and weeks, baby. Couldn’t stop thinking about how perfect and wet you would feel when I finally took you like this. Gonna make it so good for you, you won’t have to think about anything else again.”

The promise sends you limp. When Gojo finally feels both of his fingers slide in and out of you with no resistance at all, he sighs lightly and pulls away. The loss of contact makes you whine, but he brings you back to his lap now, sitting with your legs on either side of his.

His cock, clothed and restrained in his sweats, swells against your wet cunt. He watches your eyes widen as you stare at it, lucid enough this time to realize what it looks like. He looks up at you, kissing the corner of your mouth.

“C’mon. You can look.”

He guides you to the waistband of his sweatpants. You pull his pants down slowly, looking up for permission (which Gojo gives in a loving nod) before taking his boxers off too. His cock is so hard it’s almost painful. The tip is a flush red, white hairs trimmed neat at the base and feeling so fucking heavy Gojo can’t stand it. He hisses as your hands reach for him instinctively, and you try to pull away before he stops you.

“Touch it, sweetheart” He encourages, wrapping your hand around it for you “Feel it? That’s all you.”

A flush graces your features. For a minute, it’s all love and nothing more. Nothing less. Too briefly for it to mean anything, but enough for Gojo to know it. You wrap your hands around his shaft and stroke tentatively and Gojo groans shamelessly into you, rutting his hips into the round part of your palms.

“Fuck that’s it,”

He looks at your expression, examining the concentration before chuckling. Your lip is poked out, eyes dazed. He pulls away from you, securing you close to him.

With the new proximity, he holds his cock close to you. Measure it up against your skin, against your tummy. He feels you against him, Around him, folds nudging apart for him, The skin on skin alone has him so breathless. A dizzy sort of feeling as he presses the tip of his cock hard against your clit. You feel like silk around him.

Looking at you like this, all helpless and needy, he can’t help but think about how easily he can overpower you. He’s stronger and bigger. His cock would be enough to split you in half. How he’s gonna make himself fit inside of you spins in his mind over and over. Maybe like always, your pretty little pussy will yield just for him. You’ll open and endure and take him so deep.

He can’t help appreciating it. Can’t keep his thoughts quiet from telling you.

“See that? How deep I’m gonna go?” He measures up to you. A hand on the bottom of your stomach, stroking his thumb “Gonna feel me right in here. You ready?”

You close your eyes and look away. Gojo grabs your chin and tuts at you.

“Nuh-uh. Want you to see. Don’t close your eyes.”

It’s not a question or a request.

So, you watch. Gojo lifts you up just enough to line up with your entrance and sinks you down so, so slowly on his cock. It’s agonizing how slow. It’s incredible how fucking good you feel. How perfect one sensation could possibly fucking be - Gojo could die here in complete bliss. He can feel the stretch of your pussy trying to accommodate. That sensation of resistance that sends him reeling, spine tingling and skin prickling with a heat so intense he feels like he’s going to pass out just sitting there.

And then there’s looking at you, which proves to be an entirely new animal. You have this pinched expression, a shocked little gasp as Gojo pushes through. A whimper leaves your lips. Gojo rubs his thumb on your lower lip as he eases you down.

“Hurt too much?”

“N-no. Just… feels weird.”

He laughs a little at your honesty, before fucking himself into you even deeper. Another inch and he really starts to feel you. Your walls feel like they’re sucking him and Gojo wouldn’t leave if it killed him. He groans, deep in his chest as you shake. Your grip on his shoulders gets tighter and tighter.

With one more smooth thrust, Gojo sits you down on his cock completely. He feels so complete like this. Everything in him is at ease feeling your insides spasm and melt around him. He sighs contentedly.

“Still okay?”

You nod weakly.

“Can I move?”

Your reply is nothing more than a whimper.

So he does, but he does so slowly. Just to get into the rhythm. He thrusts up slowly.

‘O-oh. Oh, oh it’s,”

He chuckles against the crook of your neck, hugging you close to him. He loves the way you feel against his body, the way your frame fits so perfectly into him. He rolls his hips up into you so there’s no effort on you to move. You whine that time, and he does again and again until your voice is a mess.

“Starting to feel good?”

“S-satoru.”

He swears.

“Fuck, stop that,” He swears “Gonna—shit, gonna cum right away. Moving so hold onto me tight, baby.”

You take his words for it. Gojo feels your soft tits pressed into his chest as he pulls your hips up and starts fucking up into you. Each time he does, he feels like he can feel all the way to the back of you. None of his fantasies could compare to the feeling of being this deep inside, cock nudging against that sweet spot that keeps making you fucking mewl into his ear. He can hardly take it as it is now, focusing hard on not cumming until you do.

Making it good for you is his priority. Always has been, but you make it hard for him like you do most things.

“Touch yourself for me, okay?”

You look at him surprised but listen to his request regardless. Gojo takes to fucking you steadily. He builds an even rhythm as he keeps you up, hands firm on your hips as he pistons you from underneath. The pleasure comes in waves, undulates as blood continues to rush to his cock. He’s so hard he can’t think straight but he keeps each of his thrusts consistent, lines them with the pace you play with your clit so he can encourage you to cum for him.

He can tell you’re starting to feel good when your mouth falls agape. He drags on your walls with each punctuated movement and your thighs shake and tense. Everything comes together so slowly but the pleasure comes at once. It’s a force that’s nearly earth shattering. All the planets aligned, everything in the same plane. Everything for him and for you. For the togetherness he’s created and chased after so long.

Now this part of you is all his too.

“Sa—Satoru,” You warn, your hands trembling and fingers cramped up with need. He grunts as he stares up at you through thrusts “G-gonna…”

“Gonna cum for me? Gonna cum on my cock? Go on. Know you can do it, baby. So good for me. Perfect for me.”

It’s all babbling for him now, the sensation hitting him in waves. Your mouth falls agape and you cum so hard Gojo can feel every fucking pulse. Squeezing his cock hard enough he wants to grit his teeth. He presses his mouth to yours instead as you moan out, unable to hold it in. He swallows every noise like he’s trying to embed them into himself.

You cum hard and fast and Gojo is so quick to follow you. Only seconds after you fall limp into his arms does he feel it - no longer able to stave off the urge to cum so deep in you it stays forever. To mark you deeply you never think of anything. It’s almost animalistic for him. Every nerve on his body is on fire as he shoots his cum deep into you, sitting you on his dick with nowhere for you to go.

Panting, he pulls back to gaze on you. He’s still hard as he’s twitching. He can’t hold off tonight, he doesn’t think. But he’ll give you a minute to collect yourself. He presses a kiss to your hairline.

He whispers softly as the night comes to a quiet, quiet still.

“I’m yours and you’re mine baby. Forever and always.”

You shake. And Gojo knows you well enough to know that it’s the resentment coming back in waves. But that’s okay, because Gojo loves you.

And with this, he’s taken everything.

EPILOGUE / OVERTURE :

Your senses are accustomed to Gojo by now.

You never thought such a day would come. You spent the first year of this relationship (if you can call it that, to begin with) in trenches so deep you couldn’t really tell left from right. So many things persisted as normal, but nothing was ever the same.

In that, though, Gojo stayed by your side till the bitter end. He nursed you back into health and sometimes treated you so kindly that you could almost forget who you were dealing with. Sometimes the weight of everything became too heavy. You think you love Gojo almost as much as you hate him.

But it doesn’t particularly matter what your feelings are. Has it ever, in any of this? You always knew that something was strange but you didn’t think you were so clueless. Blindly following wherever his voice took you.

The first time you try to escape Gojo feels like so long ago. That time, he let you go quite far. You made it out of the house and even went out of the country during summer. But you were sloppy and inexperienced. When he found you and brought you back home, you figured it had been a fluke. You’d learn from it. You’d do it again and that time you would succeed.

That’s what you told yourself anyway. It’s how this all started. Where you would run, and Gojo would let you before he started to miss you. He’d come and he’d discipline but it was never too cruel.

(You wished it were. You wished it were sickly and sadistic and tortuous. You think it’s so much worse to beg for mercy when you are sobbing from pleasure. For Gojo to coddle and sedate you and never yield. You think you’d prefer if he were just out of it. Just cruel instead of what he is. Which is knowing but certain. Justified.)

This has been the farthest you’ve ever gotten. You don’t think you’ve ever been this far away from home. A cabin in the woods where you lived peacefully for days. You don’t know how Gojo found you.

You had been so sure. This was it. It had to be it.

Your heart shatters as you hear him. Feel him in your bones so much it frightens you. The world is covered in a sheet of white, and your ankles are bruised and bleeding from where you’ve fallen. You’re cold and your heart is beating so loud - but no matter how much you run you can’t find any heartbeat to motivate you.

Gojo pulls through the thickets with a frown on his face. Blue eyes and black coat, his feet crunch the snow as he comes towards you. You crawl away. You try too, anyways.

Gojo leans down to your level, looking at you closely. He reaches out to brush snow away from your skin.

“My birthdays soon, you know?” He hums, not angry today. Not even wanting to discipline you “It’s not a bad place, y’know? The cabin. We can spend some time there before we go home. Might be nice. But we should get going so we can check on your foot.”

He reaches his hand out to you this time. Too injured to run, you take it and he smiles before offering to carry you on his back. You hop on, arms around his neck and don’t even cry. A numbness settles.

It is not the cold.

“Oh, look,” Gojo says, reaching his hands out “Snow’s falling.”

You suppose it is. Another Winter will pass just like this.

A dog howls somewhere far off in the distance.

#writing tag #gojo x reader #jjk x reader #gojo smut #jjk smut #noncon cw #yandere cw #manipulation cw #coercion cw

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jwhoozi · 2 months

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤman reimaginedㅤ౨ৎㅤ3.9k

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ2024 ©jwhoozi

synopsis. regardless of how zayne is worshipped in akso hospital— idolised as a man of unimaginable feats— he's no god; he's nothing but a man running on twisted desires. one, perhaps the only one, of those being you.

warning(s). nsfw, afab! reader, kinda violent imagery, oral (m! recieving), vague temperature play (not my fault, blame zayne), religious imagery, 1/4 proof read (as always :3), pet names: dear & darling, lmk if i shld add anything (oneshot so beastly, i think i dissociated as i wrote this)

from vyon. i can and will!! fight everyone on this characterisation of zayne!! idec, i don't wanna hear it!! look at his field of jasmine flowers and tell me that he's all alpha sigma in the bedroom without feeling shame and i'll still fight you actually... he actually came to me in a dream last night and told me that i needed to correct how he was written; made him into a little bit of a yapper but i can see him becoming a yapper during intimacy in my mind's eye so vividly that idc 🤗 took me a gruelling two weeks to finish this... i need to reconnect with my family now

do not repost / copy / translate.

Zayne has always been stern on the fact that the essence of his being was far removed from the basis of heaven; everything that he was made from stood against everything that heaven was known to be. He's long known that every life unwanted is breathed into him to prolong his punishment, if not to torture him like so, he'd be long dead to keep the world in balance. His bones were made by blacksmiths whose hammers have seen more blood than metal; his flesh stitched by the butchers who keep their carcasses hanging by the head; his organs arranged by surgeons who keep an ear close to the open chest on their table to hear the heart splutter dead; blood drawn from the disease riddled; cells made from the children that never made it into the world.

Still, he thinks if heaven had the capacity to ever come close to him, it'd never compare to this moment— never come close to the settling of your calloused hands over his slacks, your teary eyes looking up at his expression in search of validation. It surely wouldn't, he has no doubt about it. Zayne's hands settled on your cheek, a low grunt shudders from him through your body as he traced his fingers up, wiping your tears away with an elegance removed from the moment.

Zayne is no more than a man ruled by simple desires, every want in him fluctuated beneath a single layer of skin that erupts through his pores whenever you're close, it's why he managed to get himself cursed in the first place. Zayne knows that, he makes no effort to feign ignorance to himself. In another life, perhaps he'd be less man and anything else more and never allow you to your knees to serve him. In this life? He was chalked up of nothing but pure grieving desires; anything you offer to him, he'll take no questions asked. He would've followed the wisps of you back down to hell at Hades' feet and made a home beside you after light graced his face and gave him enough temporary assurance to turn back to see your shadowed features. It's wrong, it's unjustly cruel to have you on your knees for his mundane pleasure but his head swims with the warmth of your lips wrapped around him so he disregards the guilt that tells him no.

Days where he didn't have a shift at the hospital, either of his or others' he'd graciously offered to cover, used to come unsettling. His bare hands itched where ever he lay them, some gentle reprieve came from when he reached into his fridge and felt the cool air kiss upon his fingers like the cold metal of a scalpel; the towel draped over his shoulders after a needed shower came without the threat of twisting around his neck to strangle unlike his stethoscope— an unnerving flight of fight response kicked in whenever he tried to relax.

He'd made his peace with the gnawing discomfort when he was at home, flicking through patient reports and eyes always steady with his phone in view in case anything had happened to his patients, in case they needed his capabilities. Zayne would feel this way even in sleep. It's why he always finds himself in the hospital, picking up stray shifts for co–workers that he doesn't truly know; even then, he's a man of rational practices so he knows that even through the discomfort, the promise of null action is just as important for his body and mind.

Somewhere along the line of his stationary life, you entangled yourself into those lacklustre days. Creating a ragged incision down his chest and clawing your way to his beating heart, squeezing it in time with your deafening breaths and forcing him into your tempo; you've corrected his timid heart to beat in time with your soft steps across the wooden flood of his apartment and stitched him up so messily that it'll leave an inevitable scar. You uprooted all that he knew, made a home of.

The pillow underneath your knees will never truly recover from your weight, the feathers will always know how it felt to give you little measly comfort as you gagged around him. Zayne's head falls to the back of the couch, his scrunched up expression turned up to the ceiling as a pleasured sigh leaves him. His curt words of affirmation burning through your skin despite how far away they felt, your head heavy as your nose met the neatly clipped tuft of hair peeking out through his boxers. You feel your breath escaping you through your nose, face scrunched up as you forced a gag to settle back down.

You're unaware of Zayne's eyes on you until his hands are on your cheek, alleviating the burning heat of your cheeks and grounding you back into the moment, and guiding you back. "Breath."

Dizzying images of Zayne settled in your eyes, mirages of the concern in his otherwise blissed face collecting in the tears sat in your waterline as he pulled you to your feet. You stumbled, your legs feeling weak from kneeling. "You haven't cum yet," the clear oxygen runs heavy through your system.

"I'd rather you not pass out," he informed, an unamused look on his face as he guides you onto his lap. "Plus, this night is about you as much as it is about me."

There's a softness to the moment, one of his hands on your back and the other on your waist, that allows you to slump into his arms. "Give me a second then." The few seconds you take to catch your breath in an attempt to steady your mind feels impossibly tedious. Still, Zayne is meticulous in his ministrations, tying down all the nasty thoughts that cloud his head with refined touches.

Zayne— plastered in the heat of the world, stubborn frigid in all that he wants— offers you an out. "We can stop here if it's too much." His voice is gentle, a husky promise that denies the desirous part of him that beats loudly against his ribs, the him you've created with your fingertips makes an attempt to rip through his skin.

He isn't aware of his heavy, irregular breath on your shoulder until you shake your head against his chest. His otherwise ironed shirt crumpled in your fist as you say, "no, it's okay, I can keep going for you."

The next breath he takes feels as though he's squeezing out all the oxygen that's ever been available to him, it shudders through his entire being as your words ring in his head. This moment, you've stated, was for his pleasure. Zayne wants to confirm that you're sure, you've no doubts about it despite having slept with him so many times over the course of your relationship but he hears 'for you' again distantly and it feels as though you're not close enough even though every part of you that could stick to him undoubtedly is.

The world turns on its head, screeching to a halt as the clock continues ticking on the wall of Zayne's bedroom; he hovers over you in the new position, a hand stabilising himself by your head as he ducked his head down. It's nothing to be questioned as his lips met yours in a fervour that you've never imagined possible to come from the man but you respond anyways merely because it's Zayne. In its desperate need, improbable heat— as he manages to pry open your mouth and ease in his loving intrusion— it's Zayne at its brutal core. You've barely had a chance to reciprocate even a quarter of the searing vehemence of his tongue licking over the plaque of your teeth before he's moving down, kissing and sucking on your skin of your neck.

His teeth scrape over your skin as you gasped, licking over your teeth to chase after his taste, pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth so it doesn't feel so empty without Zayne. Nimble and methodical fingers have already managed to work through the buttons of your shirt and despite the moment, you find yourself embarrassed when he brings his head back to study you.

You see a blurry image of yourself reflected in the field of green of his irises, each unclear feature swarmed with the fluttering of adoration. "You're staring," you pointed out, bringing up your hand to cover his face, his eyes so you couldn't see yourself in them anymore.

Zayne's face is foreign to you as his lips crack up into something resembling an amused smile, a crackling of chuckle lights your palm on fire as he hold his hand over yours. You give him an aggrieved look as he keeps your hand against his cheek, "aren't I allowed to stare?" His eyes are invasive, flickering from the slope of your collarbones, hooking onto your wet lips, clawing into your every ministration, features and softness laid bare. "Aren't I?" He asks again, his eyebrows raising slightly.

You don't answer but you must have given something away— you know you have because his amusement smooths out into unadulterated affection as he turns his head to press a kiss onto your palm. An itch settles beneath your skin where his lips meet, one you know you'll never be able to soothe even if you hammered through the spot with a nail. You struggle to know how Zayne will move as the moment softens throughout the room, turning into something malleable. He's nothing but slow, full of pliable details ebbing silky as he lowers his head back down.

His hair tickles as he ducks his head into the fold of your shoulder and neck, each otherwise perfectly laid strand creasing as they dust over the skin of your jaw. Squirming a little, you find your hands on his shoulders, the usual attentiveness in his actions running a little deeper than they always do. Zayne sucks at the skin of your neck, his teeth scraping along the expanse of unmarked flesh as he brings a knee between your leg. A sturdy arm comes over your front, a hand settling on your shoulder, arm running down the stretch of skin between your chest, and elbow down on your rib. "Don't move," a mere whisper that etches deep to your bones, "you're running from me."

"Running?" Your eyebrows crease and you squirm again, the heels of your feet digging into the mattress as you feel yourself move up the bed, weight shifting as your head hits the bottom of a pillow. "Oh," falls out your mouth dumbly as you realise you have been inching away from him. "Sorry." You allow your hands to fall from Zayne's shoulders, fisting the bed cover into your hands.

"Don't apologise," his soothing voice calls. When you turn your head back to look at him, his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips pressed thin, "you don't have to apologise." Zayne takes one of your hands and moves them back to their place on his shoulders. "Just let me care for you, keep still, hm?" You're more astutely aware of the aether core pounding in your heart now, its vibrant light pouring through your skin and how often Zayne has had the chest piece against your bare skin, how his eyes narrowed from behind rectangular frames as you shuddered from the cool metal.

You think that your heart has managed to resonate with his evol without your knowledge— with how often he's got his hands on you, professionally or otherwise, it wouldn't be too surprising. After a moment, you realise that Zayne is still waiting for an answer so you nod your head, opening your hand to press your palm against his shoulder blade. "Staying still."

Zayne gives you something close enough to a smile and lowers his head back down.

It's haunting how you recognise his moves enough to predict what he'll do and respond in kind, your head inches off the bed as you meet his lips again, legs parting under him as he slides a hand over the inside of your thigh. Intimacy with Zayne is staggering purely due to how cold he runs— you think it's all natural how his fingers run like ice over quivering flesh despite how warm his chest is when he's got you pinned underneath him. He's burnt where you've touched him, charred into muscle and cartilage are your fingerprints, your teeth, every mark of your nails that flame impossibly red. You're nothing short of heaven.

The fabrics of Zayne's adoration for you exists around him as a second skeleton, as your hips raise slightly for him to catch the waistband of your joggers and your hand falls next to his in an attempt to push them down without moving your lips from his. Pants and moans are transcribed into his tongue, he remembers the taste of every one, he'll think of them when he misses you, when he's forced away from his short instance of heaven as he wishes his hands ran a little warmer. The lingering salt of previous whines echo in his head, all from weeks and months ago flowing back to the cusp of his mind as your bare thighs finally grace his fingers. He wraps a hand around the meaty flesh, groaning into your mouth at the simple touch.

A shivering inhale from you makes Zayne's mouth turn cold as the oxygen is sucked all up, he takes the chance to move back down. He's got a hand sneaking up the half unbuttoned pyjama top you're wearing, another hand impossibly far away from your heat; you can't tell if it's too much or not enough. A gasp sounds in time with Zayne's hand over your chest, you feel a hardening nipple press up against his palm; the rest of the buttons trip over the loosening wear of the fabric and slide off your stomach. Your skin turns cold where he takes in a stuttering deep breath, his face hidden from you as he mouths at your other breast. "So," he murmurs, lips closing around your nipple. A lilting whine only acts to spurn him on, his hand dragging down your side and his nails light over the path that his palms works onto your skin, his teeth catch onto your nipple. "So— you drive me crazy." He confesses after cutting his own thought off prematurely, his saliva pooling around a stiff nub.

"You must know that right, dear?" Zayne continues talking, offering curt words in his impassive tone, slightly out of breath with his hair dishevelled. His cold hands are blistering upon your skin, lighting up nerves scathingly. Adding a little pressure between his teeth has you impossibly light–headed, one hand on your hip and the other close to your cunt. Zayne is nothing more than a drunken mouthpiece of his loving whenever he has you under him, all the words he's forced frozen in his throat over the course of years spilling out as your heat melted away the labyrinth he's had them locked in. "Do you do it all on purpose, knowing I'll never rid myself of it?"

You're moaning a 'please' before you know it when you feel a deft finger pushing against your slit through wet fabric. "If you're asking like that," he glances up at you, head tilting, "there's nothing else for me to do but oblige." The intrusion comes unpleasant first, walls tightening around a sole finger and quivering at the rigid temperature. Zayne lowers his torso closer to you, allowing you to wrap both arms around his shoulders; his eyes are still on you, studying each scrunched up wrinkle on your face with an almost apologetic look on his face. He leans down to press a kiss at the end of your eyebrow as his middle finger tactfully stills inside you.

"Keep going," you pant out, burrowing your face into the crook of his neck. "S'fine, you don't have to keep worrying."

Zayne wants to doubt your words, he'd never want any memorable pain tied back to his name when it comes to you, but he knows you've stubbornly pushed through worse. You're a shedding of God, one he doesn't really care for, a child of man that managed to cheat death nearly daily. "Don't keep quiet if you can't take it." He urges one final time.

You manage a breathless chuckle, "we both know I'd never take anything that hurts quietly, Zayne."

The response you're given makes you shatter, icicles spreading throughout your skin as Zayne shakes his head, a small smile on his face. Taken away from you are the next few moments to appreciate it as Zayne continues thrusting his finger inside you, managing to get in his ring finger, his palm kisses your wet folds with every decisive thrust. He bends his thumb upwards to work circles on your clit— that alone has you quivering, a hand going to grasp at his wrist but your arms are weak with his relentless work into making pleasure burst in your system.

The fables of heaven has never been described in any physical manner, nothing of soft clouds under foot, feasts that melt sweet on the tongue, wine that runs smooth down the throat; it exists only as the promise of eternal pleasure, therefore, is it a lie or an exaggerated truth if Zayne calls you his heaven? When he finally manages to pull that blissful cusp of orgasm over you, the response is delightful; your legs shake idly by your sides and you're clawing for something for to hold onto though you both know nothing will be solid enough in your grasp to keep you grounded to the moment.

His first thought is to offer you an apology, when he pulls three fingers out and watches you cry, shaking your head as your hips move back down in a search for him. The brief moment where he's away from you doesn't last too long as he aligns his aggrieved tip against your wet entrance, bringing his head down to press a chaste kiss on your lips. "I'm here," he comforts. "Right here, darling, relax for me."

You take in a breath from the heated room and keep it locked in your throat as the stretch burns through your body; nails digging into Zayne's shoulders. A broken whine eases through clenched teeth as Zayne pushes in slowly, miniscule inch by inch and keeps a hand on your face, brushing sweaty hair from your forehead and muttering idle love confessions. When a sigh smooths over your eyebrows, you know he's finally sunken all the way in. "Do you need another reminder to breath?" You hear his deep voice distantly, coloured in layers of amusement.

You huff, blowing away the trapped bit of oxygen in your throat.

"There you go," his words are nearly shy off being a sweet coo as his hand travels over your stomach, pressing down on the heated skin. "Feel me?"

His words causes a ricochet of mindless nods, "yeah, yeah— please Zayne." Your legs wrapped around his hips, feet filling into the dimples on his lower back. Zayne, with no other choice, gives you what you want. There's nothing that feels wrong about the moment, he's more certain of the fact than he'd ever been about anything that came previous to him. The pressure of the balls of your feet pressing into his skin, nails digging scars where he'd never allow anything else to draw blood, the weight of you brokenly calling his name like you were the one to have met your God. Each thrust back into you creates the stern foundation of Zayne's cruel and selfish humanity, it's like he's never known anything else— he's not sure he even wants to.

Nothing of his will ever want to know anything that's not you later on; rejection will the inevitable end of any attempt of a rebound that he'll try to introduce to his home. Zayne understands this notion, how would you expect him to go back to his previous norm when he's learnt how it feels to love at your feet? You could maybe remove yourself of him but Zayne is a stubbornly, almost idiotic, lover; he'll give chase after your scent in the wind and after the whisper of your laughter in the trees.

The moment your legs shake, trembling back down onto the mattress as you squeeze around him so delightfully, Zayne finally knows the sinful taste of heaven. He knows what how it feels to be weightless, as his feet met with the opaque clouds that gave away to his unassuming strides, as light followed his every move, how angels would echo his every devious thought in their hymns until God catches on. How much would He resent Zayne? Nothing but mere man, of flesh and bones; no more and no less, singing the praises of another one of His creations and stripping the holy title from God to plaster onto a husk of bones and absolute divinity. Whatever heaven is, Zayne knows he'll never care for it.

There's no basis in its existence. You, on the other hand. You writing underneath him, you with your blunt nails that'll be stained in his blood, you as you found your high in his timely thrust, you calling his name, you turning boneless as you came with a moan. You, you, you. Pants stained his name, a hand dusts over his cheekbones, brushing hair back from his forehead. Zayne meets the gates of heaven with his last shaky thrust, sloppy in aim as his weight expels through his bones and he falls down onto your sweaty chest.

A laugh passes through your lips before you're aware of it, wiping away salty sweat caught on the bridge of his nose with your sleeve pulled over your palm. "You got so into it," you pointed out with a smile on your face. Zayne drags his face to look up at you, his chin hovering over your collarbone. "I didn't even think you heard me when I said I was going to cum."

Zayne gives you a thoughtful hum and you give him an exaggerated frown. "Were you thinking about work again—?"

"I was thinking of how much I adore you," he cuts you off with a pointed look, "but it seems as though I'll have to rethink how much exactly."

"Nooo," you reached out for his face. "I was kidding! Please tell me how much you adore me."

He gives you an unimpressed look but says nothing more as he straightened up, pulling himself away from you. Your face turns an unruly colour of red when his eyes linger on where he was previously so intimately joined to you, snapping your legs closed. Zayne raises an eyebrow at you, if he has anything verbal thoughts on it then he doesn't express it as he gets to his feet. "Shall I go over every feature I adore in detail in the shower?"

You think he's joking as his arm hooked under your legs and the other spanned across your back. It's why you pressed your lips into a straight line, giving a thoughtful nod, "yes, in excruciating detail too."

He manages to wash your body thrice, help you shave, exfoliate, and keeps you stewing in the hot water long enough for you to feel light–headed as he shared a detailed, Shakespearian bible passage for each of your features that had managed to catch his eye over the years you've known each other.

#౨ৎ zayne single!#౨ৎ l&ds single!#love and deepspace oneshot #love and deepspace #love and deepspace zayne #zayne #li shen #zayne love and deepspace #l&ds #l&ds smut #l&ds zayne #l&ds x reader #zayne x reader #zayne x you #zayne smut #zayne oneshot #li shen smut #li shen x reader

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femalethink · 4 months

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Pornography is regularly used in ways that have nothing to do with sexual explicitness. Rather, pornography is commonly understood as a form of propaganda, a representational style linked with defamation and desensitization, if not destruction. Patricia J. Williams, who thinks legally, critically, and gracefully about race, sex, and injustice, calls pornography a "habit of thinking," and one that informs all manner of abusive and exploitative attitudes and relationships. Pornography, as I am using the term, is just that, a worldview, a way of thinking and acting that sexualizes and genders domination and submission, from the bedroom to the war room, making domination masculine (even when a woman plays that role) and submission feminine (even when a man plays that role), and making both the essence of sex. By wedding sexuality to inequality, pornography conditions women and men to have a substantial investment in maintaining the oppressive status quo—again, from interpersonal relationships to international politics.

Pornography kills off, and then substitutes itself for, the erotic—the life force, the earthy and ethereal force of growth, fruitfulness, exuberance, ecstasy, connectedness, and integrity. Pornography severs eroticism from intimacy and empathy and bonds it to voyeurism and objectification (of the self and of another). It incarnates pleasure in acts of hatred. It would have all of us believe, even those of us getting the "fuzzy end of the lollypop" (Sugar/Marilyn Monroe's lament in Some Like It Hot, Billy Wilder, 1959), that without a certain measure of power and powerlessness, danger, fear, pain, possession, shame, distance, and violence there wouldn't be any "sex" at all. Of course, the simultaneously pornographic, monotonous, and erotophobic culture tends to make that true. Variously damaged, alienated, and desensitized, pornography can become what we need in order to feel at all.

Some applaud pornography because it allows access to sexual imagery and language and easily offends offensive religious morality. Yet pornography is no real alternative to systemic sex-negative morality; rather it is an intrinsic part of it. Pornography and mainstream morality both stem from and continually reinforce a worldview that first makes a complex of body/low/sex/dirty/deviant/female/devil and then severs these from mind/high/spirit/pure/normal/male/god. For both, sex itself is the core taboo. Moralism systematically upholds the taboo and pornography systematically violates it. In the complex that evolves from this absurdity, taboo violation itself becomes erotically charged. Evil becomes seductive and the good mostly boring. Without patriarchal moralism's misogyny, homophobia, demand for sexual ignorance, and sin-sex-shame equation, pornography as we know it would not exist. And, together, the two work to maintain the sex and gender status quo.

—Jane Caputi, "Goddesses and Monsters: Women, Myth, Power, and Popular Culture."

#jane caputi #feminism #radical feminism #radblr #radfem #women against pornography #anti-porn #feminist film theory

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hwaightme · 11 months

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This world

THIS IS 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI FOR BIKER!HWA'S SAKE (nsfw tags under the cut) (masterlist) (join taglist)

🏍️ pairing: biker!seonghwa x f!reader 🏍️ genre: romance, fluff, action, smut, strangers to lovers, slight enemies to lovers, smidgen of angst, sprinkles of comedy 🏍️ summary: caught between the past and present, you search for a new beginning in night city as a mechanic at outlaw customs. how will a fateful encounter with seonghwa, the leader of the blue birds, help you feel alive? 🏍️ wordcount: 16.2k 🏍️ warnings/tags: biker!hwa, quick edit, likely inaccuracies in mechanics and motorcycles, mechanic!yunho, businessman!jongho, biker!yeosang, mechanic!reader, tattooed!reader, gang life/activity, misuse of lore terminology, language, food, wounds/injuries, pain, bike chases and dangerous tricks, talk of death/rebirth, identity searching, imagery and setting inspired by outlaw trailers, lmk if anything else 🏍️ a/n: i gave myself a one day break, listened to a dream i had... and this happened. totally was not spooked today and rushed to edit in a feverish state... always, any notes, reblogs and comments are appreciated, much love~

🏍️ a/n pt2: biker!hwa supremacy also spreads to the exchange event hosted by @kflixnet for @qqtxt (and thank you @alohajun for organising!) - hope you enjoy!!

🏍️ perma-taglist: @doom-fics @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @byuntrash101 @shakalakaboomboo @starillusion13 @hongthoven @cqndiedcherries @uwuheeseungie @cheollipop @frankenstein852 @charreddonuts @miriamxsworld @mingigoo @michel-angelhoe @innsomniacshinestar @foxinnie8 @preciouswoozi @wooyoungjpg @nebulousbookshelf @wowie-hockey @hongjoongs-patience @ssaboala @jaehunnyy @kitten4sannie @maddkitt @yunbug

🏍️ cannot be tagged: @mystar1024

🏍️ nsfw tags: condom used, slow, a dom!leaning reader with a soft!hwa, handjob, slight edging, praise, save a bike - ride a biker, focus on intimacy and emotional experience, some mutual masturbation, f!masturbation, literally just two people in love with each other, cuddling and implied aftercare

The artificial suns of Night City shone bright in a palette of neon hues, so vivid and vibrant that one could almost forget that there had ever been a real star in the first place. Kids wished on blinking lightbulbs and travellers followed endless expanses of darkness, more accustomed to uncertainty than the belief that there was a veritable ally in the form of a celestial sign or a constellation. Everyone wore the same perfume: an acrid concoction of smog, grease and disgust that lingered whenever a visitor from another district came by, blending to form a hatred for all things that existed outside of the palace of neon. This was the palace that you had willingly made your home, and found that if you were to shut your eyes and then dare to peek through your lashes at the kaleidoscopic landscape, it took on the shape of an eloquent illusion of divinity. A rudimentary vision, a utopia carved out in impermanence, commanded by wishful thinking and a desire for anything except what you had known. This was your new home, and you were going to try as you might to cling to it, and find peace amidst the suffocating starless expanse.

You had arrived without a particular plan in mind, with only a rucksack and the tattoos decorating your skin to keep you company on your journey. The only persistent parasite that gnawed at your flesh and jolted you awake like a scalding whip when the roads seemed to be endless, was a burning desire to erase anything, everything that served as a reminder. While you were a believer in growing from the past, and reflecting on it, treating each memory and learned skill as a stepping stone towards a better future, the weight of each step was overwhelming, the gaps between them unbearable, and soon enough, you found yourself to be stretched too thin over your own existence, to the point where you had gained an alarming transparency, one tiny step away from disappearing into the lack of self that you had wholly succumbed to until your sudden evaporation and accidental escape to Night City.

At the same time, you were not entirely ungrateful for the ‘you’ you had become. The miscellaneous arsenal of know-how and street smarts landed you a job, had you settled into a group of people who did not seem too bad and most importantly did not ask too many questions, gave you a roof over your head and had you working long hours in the garage from the get-go. That, from your experience, was the best way to forget and to start anew. So long as you did not speak to your clients more than necessary, instead focusing on their priceless metal steeds that you had the pleasure of tinkering with for hours on end. In this way, you got to see your clients at their most vulnerable, scrutinising you but so helpless that it nearly made you laugh, comparing the scene to a child watching their mother patch up a toy that they had torn after playing a little too roughly.

This approach turned out to be the one that won the big bucks in the city. Less talk, more trust. And resulted in the previously sceptical owners of the mechanic shop you had strolled into on your first day in town, passively protecting the shell of the self that you carried, uncaring for what fate had in store, to finally begin to warm up to you and treat you less like a pest, and more like a colleague. Only took them a couple of months. Though it would be foolish to hope for anything else, so you had simply settled into the rhythm of waking up, heading downstairs from the crammed studio that they had offered you - a stuffy dark corner, definitely the humblest abode but more than enough to crash in and more than generous for a person who had been a total stranger, and going to a different open cave in the garage and workshop, this time one dedicated to all things motorcycle. Since Outlaw Customs, a name which you had found incredibly comedic and ironic considering a high percentage of the clientele fit the shop description, was primarily for automobiles, there was not much dedicated to the untameable beauties that you loved so much. The head of the shop, a young man by the name of Jeong Yunho who you swore spent more time under cars than under those neon lights outside, did motorcycle repairs mainly out of necessity, following the recipes for replacement, so to speak. The locals knew that to see his craftsmanship, mastery and artistry at work, they needed to let him get his hands on a car. Of course, it did not mean that he could not fix bikes, far from that, in fact, over the years and especially after another mechanic shop was busted by the forces and forced to close for something or other - no one could ever guess what new crime was added to the list on any given day, Yunho was proud to say that he did not need to consult his hefty stack of manuals for when the most regular clients came by. But it did still mean that when he found out that he could pass off the task to a new hire, he did it in a split second, without sparing it a single thought.

As such, it was you, your beloved corner in the workshop, and a tranquillity under those buzzing fluorescent bulbs lined up on the ceiling. Not talking much, mainly business, occasionally sharing a laugh with your coworkers. They were easy to like, that much you had gathered over the months of being paid in shelter, food, water, and whatever else you needed so long as you kept on working to keep the brutes of Night City happy and the engines roaring. While the other guy in charge, Choi Jongho, an initially unreadable, unpredictable man who appeared in the store at random and mainly handled the ‘financials’, whatever it meant and you sure as all things bad were not about to get your nose in that side of the business, was somewhat less cordial with you, your nonchalance when it came to social interaction had put him at ease, along with, how he had it, your hands that told your story. Interesting what he could spot under the machine grease and fading ink.

It was another timeless day where Jongho was out for what he called ‘negotiations’ - again you did not need to know what it meant so long as the parts kept coming, Yunho was messing about with an old mustang that the customer said could be changed according to the mechanic’s own tastes, and you were idle, having just completed a re-flash of an engine control unit for a rider who apparently had nothing to lose and let you fully reconfigure his precious in the hopes of improving rideability. Same old for you, but nevertheless exciting when a new person gets so vulnerable so as to give their bike up with only faith in their hands, and in yours.

Wheeling the bike away from the main platform, you parked it right at the empty section by the brick wall lining the inner part of the garage, the aftermath of a miniature spring clean you had carried out to prep the workspace for a higher volume of bikes coming through. After patting the seat, as if lulling the machine into a slumber, you covered it with a tarp to protect it from any other dust or sparks - and subconsciously, from curious eyes if there were any that would peek into the shop. You stood up straight, taking the towel from your shoulder and attempting to wipe off the remains of your work, though much like your boss, who was now humming some random tune that he probably heard at one of the underground clubs, took pride in each stain, each streak of dirt. It was a reminder that you were here, you were present and alive, and that you were doing what others could never do exactly like you could. If anything, it was a breath of fresh air, the only one that could be ever taken in any Sector, in any City that existed in this nation, and you were almost convinced that this spread to the whole world.

Finding the stool on wheels that apparently used to belong to a nearby barbershop until that closed down, you sat down and sighed, rocking side to side by repeatedly pushing yourself with your feet before getting tired of the motion and rolling across to a workbench that you and Yunho had managed to craft out of a multi-shelved storage unit abandoned on the street, clearly another Sector’s kind donation to the local community, and you were not too proud nor picky. Picking up a brake pedal - a part off a ruined Kawasaki Ninja 2H/R that the universe threw into your arms after the wreck and helped you salvage, somewhat out of respect for the beast that it had been in its heyday, somewhat because you wondered if you could make it work on a horrific Frankenstein’s monster hybrid someday, or another bike of the same make, you twisted it, metal glinting white. The weight of memories, the feeling of it pressing against the foot despite the thick layers of rubber on the boot. Everything about that bike was as hypnotising as a dancing open flame, stunning, an engineering masterpiece, and one that you were praying to revisit, re-experience even if it was the last thing you were to ever do. Perhaps in a distant dream. Replacing the component in a top drawer of the bench, you got to work on signing off on the work completed, not that anyone even had a legal signature anymore, it was more of a quick doodle to hint at the work completed, just in case if the rider were to find themselves too far away, and had no method of fixing faults and could not recall the mods made. As if that would ever happen; you exhaled sharply, finishing the swift sketch and folding the paper in half, then into quarters and dropping the pen to let it hit the back wall. It was suspiciously peaceful at the OC, you concluded, unsettling. Only Yunho going about his business, the artificial cylindrical suns, and the neon climbing from the outside and coating the front entrance to the garage in shades of blue, purple and magenta.

You waited in suspense, having caught the echoes of an engine in the far distance - still a few too many blocks away from you to determine what the source of it was exactly, but nevertheless, your instincts and the obvious approach of the sound was telling you that you were soon going to find out. Shutting your eyes, you made out an odd stuttering, reminiscent of a coughing fit in a human, as if the air system was out of tune, totally whack on the poor vehicle. The heart ached. Who could possibly mistreat a bike in such a way? Clutching onto the fabric of your black cargo trousers that you had decided would be something of a uniform for you, you listened on, confused. The rumble was familiar, albeit torn up and in need of a fix. Nonetheless, this was a powerful steed, a respectable monster that you could not wait to dissect and reassemble. Hands beginning to burn with excitement, heart starting to race, you stared off into the wall, waiting for the customer to arrive and made your guesses as to what the motorcycle could be like any mechanic in need of a fun pastime would. If you guessed correctly, you were in for an exhilarating time.

Soon enough, you heard the bike grind to a halt outside of the shop, and the thump of feet hitting the concrete. Not yet looking up, you waited for the figure to approach and cross the line that marked the end of the driveway and the beginning of the garage. Hearing Yunho make a move to roll out from under the car, evidently after having seen the boots form below and recognising them, you began your own sign of common courtesy and moved to turn and stand from the stool.

“Good time of day, welcome to Outlaw Customs how may I-”

“Rear wheel is busted and the mudguard’s wrecked on the right edge, and the spark plugs need replacing - totally fouling. Can you do that in two hours? I’m on a tight schedule.

You froze, the politeness caught in your throat and fizzling out to be replaced with an astonishment at the crudeness. Raising your head to let yourself inspect the man before you fully, you found that he looked every bit like the arrogance that had oozed from the first words he spoke to you. The flashy black and orange outfit, the glimmering belt buckle, the damn chains… the usual lowlife from a gang who had nothing better to do than to be the pretty boy. Slowly, your hope for the particular bike you had placed mental bets on dissipated, to be replaced by a wish that this hoodlum had a standard no-name, beat up and totally not worth the money ride that you could half-ass and let him disappear.

With a sigh, you heaved yourself forward, approaching the biker with a cold resolve and purposefully taking your time with every movement, seeing as the less you had to speak, the higher were the chances that you were not going to cuss this man out and focus on the work you had set out for you. Knowing the bikers from these parts, either they were too knowledgeable and could diagnose correctly enough, or they were so utterly wrong that you wanted to bash their head in. Time would tell which one of the two this guy was. Before you could get a word in, much to your fortune, Yunho was by your side and wiping his hands to give the black-haired man a firm handshake. You noted that the visitor was shorter than your boss, giving you a slight inner satisfaction for an unknown reason, but you bit any remarks back and remained stone faced, seeing as you were not sure just how hostile this man was going to be towards you.

“Seonghwa, long time no see!” your boss greeted the man who now had a name, very animated, amiable. You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head in a silent question.

“I see you have a new hire. Business doing well?” being addressed in third person was unsettling, but it was better than attempting to hold eye contact with the biker who gave you the urge to forget professionalism and throw a punch at lightning speed. It was hilarious how quickly your instincts returned to you in such circumstances.

“Guess you could say that, thanks to her, mainly.” with a playful smugness Yunho responded, placing a hand on your shoulder. If you did not know better, you would think that he was showing off, but his glance at you, a quick check, and his gestures made you think of your brother. Bittersweet, but still a fond series of chapters.

“Oh?” it was impossible to tell whether Seonghwa was mocking you or just taking the piss of the tenseness that he brought with him, but the bugger dared to pretend to be pleased with your presence, nearly making you scowl. But you were too good at treating people with an unnerving neutrality, so an unperturbed mechanic ready to inspect the ride you remained, much to the biker’s dissatisfaction.

You could tell that he put up a front of sorts, an attention-seeking, egoistic and merciless front, the presentation of the mentality of a murderer on the road, the man who would not hesitate to lead you into a ruin just for laughs. It was always fun to dismantle the nerve cells of such bastards; all you needed was his bike. His eyes found yours quickly enough, confident, unwavering, and your lips curled into a close-mouthed smile as if you were not just pondering the destruction of his ego. A flash of what could only be described as curiosity passed over his irises, and you swore you saw his pupils adjust as if they were a camera lens ready to capture you. His gaze travelled down your body and back up again, studying you, taking you in, settling on the tattoos that adorned your forearms and were revealed by you having pushed up the sleeves of the black turtleneck you were wearing. What was he searching for, you asked yourself before you noticed the solitary, dangling earring on his left ear discovering a single silver feather on its end. Of course he had to be a Blue Bird. Of course he had to be a so-called peace keeper of the city. No wonder he was so full of himself, at least upon first meeting. Now you really wanted to see his bike.

“Motor master, I tell you. Can sort out your beauty in no time.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” Seonghwa squinted, earning an eye roll from your boss.

“Got you, yeah. Anyways, meet Y/N,” the man turned to you once again, seeing how your expression remained unchanged, “she’ll be finding common ground with your bike from now on. “Noticing how neither of you spoke nor made a move to greet, Yunho raised his hands and continued while ambling back to the car, “Now, now, don’t talk over one another, you will have plenty of time to chat.”

“So,” you began, not wishing to remain unproductive any longer and wanting to rid yourself of this client as soon as possible, “Seongh-”

“Mars.”

“Mars?”

“You address me as Mars.” he commanded, crossing his arms, the corner of his lip curling up as you searched for the right response, but quickly falling as you suppressed the desire to sneer and merely adjusted yourself to the pesky, petty demands. You had met worse, much worse than the urban chic version of hierarchy and names. Mars was something you could deal with easily enough, and gave you a lot more insight than Seonghwa could imagine.

“Mars, care to show me your bike?”

“Mm. Follow me, Y/N.” he emphasised your name, as if the fact that you did not have a title nor a nickname gave him some odd power trip - to be frank, it would not be surprising if this actually was the case.

As you followed him out to the front, you noticed his gait was ever so slightly out of balance, a miniscule limp, likely following an injury. Again, something so common with your customers, but made you soften up the tiniest bit - in some senses Seonghwa reminded you of a wild animal that was pretending to be strong. Frustrating, yes, but he was out there trying his best to survive in the way that he knew and could. Much like everybody else, including yourself. You kept your gaze trained on the man’s back as you walked on until you very quickly found yourself right in front of the beast whose roar you had heard from all that distance away. You broke into a full grin, making Seonghwa’s brows knit together as he became perplexed. As it turned out, your prediction was more than right, and before you was a gorgeous, sleek, though having seen some battles, Suzuki Hayabusa. Customised, adored and kept pristine from what you could see. The damage that the motorised excellence had sustained looked to be new, perhaps even acquired a mere couple of hours ago, but other than that the steed was the closest you had seen to true love in Night City. It was clear that despite Seonghwa offering not the best impression, the bike told a different story, and as you crouched down to briefly inspect it at proximity, you nearly gasped. Each valve, each tiny detail was treated with kindness and affection, as if this man spent every spare moment only caring for it. The paint did made you want to giggle, however. Aside from the signature hanja for peregrine falcon, purposefully highlighted with neat strokes of paint to highlight the engineering finesse and power contained in the supreme machine, the motorcycle was completed in a dual tone, with the majority of the body done in a midnight black, and the detailing and smaller body components being done in a copper orange - stunning complement to the outfit of the rider, a full unit of owner and two-wheeler. One body, one mind. If you could start your first impression here, your thoughts of Seonghwa would be a lot more friendly, you determined. But that was the beauty of being a mechanic, you got to know people a lot closer, in secret, unknown to them. This man had a soul on fire. A soul he was attempting to hide, a soul that manifested itself in one of the fastest production motorcycles. And a soul that most certainly knew what was wrong with its metal body - the diagnoses were pleasantly accurate.

“What are you smiling for?”

“Hm, let’s get this beauty in the garage, yeah?”

He obliged, but still did not let you touch the vehicle as he pushed it along until you told him where to leave it. Occupying an old armchair right by the platform where you fixed the bike in place, Seonghwa watched your every move, scrutinised you as you started your work on the Busa, impatient. It was customary for the bikers that came to OC to remain here like a spouse waiting for their loved one to come out of surgery, but his predator-like focus was beginning to get unsettling and ruined your concentration. You could not speak to the bike in front of you, you could not gain its trust while its owner was staring you down like you were about to tear everything apart and turn the motorcycle into scraps. Letting a tool fall onto the mat that you had rolled down on the floor, you raised your head an deadpanned to the man, catching him off-guard:

“It’ll be three hours since I expect you want the guard done up all pretty. Get me jjajangmyeon from the place down the street and I might speed it up to your optimistic two.”

Yunho’s guffaw resonated across the shop as he heard your statement and imagined the shocked look on Seonghwa’s face upon receiving the daring request. Indeed, the man was more than taken aback, curious as to how important you deemed yourself to talk to him in such style. But at the same time, it was beyond amusing. The cheek, the attitude behind a cold and monotone sentence was alluring. There was something more to you than what Yunho had proposed, and that was reassuring. Perhaps you did have the right energy to find common ground with his priceless Suzuki. Still, the first word to escape him as he recoiled from the jab was an airy question of:

“What?” quickly countered with:

“They do late night deals. Half price. If you get there within the next half hour that is. Get Yunho and yourself a bowl while you’re at it and I’ll get the job done to fit your busy schedule and be enviable.”

“Boss, are you hungry?” you called out to Yunho, who was still giggling from under the vehicle, making it appear as if the car itself was caught in a comedy.

“Aye.”

“Done then, Mars, would you be a dear and do an orbit there and back?” you could not stop yourself from bringing his chosen, given or acquired through a brutal climb name into the mix. The opportunity was just too much of a low hanging fruit to not take it.

You were playing with fire, that much was certain. You could tell that he was contemplating putting you on a hitlist; not something that you were not used to, seeing as you were still in a client-facing role even if a lot of your time was spent with silent steely beauties. But you took a risk with Seonghwa, you ceased to be careful, spurred on by the euphoric prospect of treating the customised, souped up and customised Hayabusa, and took a shot in the dark with your forwardness. As the blood that was pumping in your ears got louder with every passing moment, and you began to doubt whether this was the right call to make to get some along time with the steed, Seonghwa stirred after his ponderings. Rising from the armchair, the chains that adorned his neck glinting under the lights, he stretched more for show than for comfort and exhaled through his nose, suppressing a chuckle.

“Ask for jjamppong on top of that and I will snap your arms in half.”

“You are too kind.” catching him mid turn, you responded, making him look back, and give you a playful, mischievous glance over his shoulder, almost boyish, as if the two of you were good friends that were used to the banter.

Releasing a breath that you did not realise you had been holding after the man disappeared from view, you returned to the Suzuki that was gracing your vision. Yunho’s laughter had subsided, and once again the buzz of the lights was the only thing that was between you and total silence. Diving into your work, you read the story etched into the curves, the miniscule dents, the scratches that were invisible to the naked eye but still there, hinting at just how much the bike and, evidently, the rider went through. The fixes were going to be complicated, but nothing that you could not do with what you had in the shop. You rested a hand on the engine, thinking of your next move, and of the dark glimmering orbs of the biker whose soul was still right here with you, watching, inspecting, but attempting, bit by bit, to trust that you would do the mechanical masterpiece justice. Of course you would, you were getting a late dinner for it after all. Besides, it was easy to love such a stunning bike, especially when you could see that it was truly loved by its owner. A soft smile on your face, you leaned forward and got back to dismantling a broken detail from the main body, already excited for the inner workings you would see behind it; the closest thing to true light that one could get in the sadistic, somnolent city of neon and night.

After the first appointment came another, and another, and more after that. The Busa almost became your personal project as what had previously been menial tasks carried out by an amateur mechanic and devilish rider, now fell to you. You knew this motorcycle better than you knew all of your tattoos, that much you were sure of. From the piping to the seating to the turbocharger you had installed, it was clear enough that Seonghwa was more than willing to let you tinker with the bike as much as he wanted you too, which with every unscheduled drop in became longer and longer. At times, Yunho would be there to participate in some idle chatter, other times, it was merely you and him on your own, either in a perfect stillness, with only the bike making the music and talking for you both, or with the occasional question thrown in either direction.

You had found out bit by bit that Seonghwa was, as you had assumed, a member of the Blue Birds - the local crew of vigilantes, from what your boss and your ghost of a boss had told you. Brutal and unforgiving, they had taken it upon themselves to maintain something of an order in the district, though you never asked for the details on how exactly they did it. You had learned over your lifetime to ask less, unless it was about mechanics; that was always a safe bet, and a point that you would always return to if you felt the conversation going into a direction that you did not wish to explore. All other inquiries normally answered themselves from what you noticed - for instance, the limp was now gone, to be replaced by rather grim looking knuckles. But again, no comment from you. It was above your pay grade. Seonghwa, at some point, had also caught onto your avoidance and tendency to cling onto bikes for conversation, but had taken it upon himself to probe further and further through what you considered to be a strong enough barrier, to figure out why exactly was one of your tattoos on the right forearm a mark that he had avoided at all costs when he was still a youngster back in the place he used to go home, many kilometres away, now reachable through highways to hell. He could not ask directly, not when you could clog up his air filters or ruin the braking system right then and there, but curiosity was getting the better of him as the weeks turned into months, and you were doing your regular check up on the Busa.

“What’s your favourite bike, Y/N?”

“Why the sudden question?”

“Why answer a question with a question?”

“Hm… yours is pretty good.” you tried to brush his inquiry away, even though your mind instantly went to the answer, and remained stuck. You could hear the engine resonate in your chest, and could feel the handles in your palms, as you gripped onto them, tighter, tighter and turned. The feeling of a machine coming to life right beneath you, ready to race into the darkness and obey your every instruction. Turn after turn after turn. Somewhere along that race, you lost your soul, and longed for it. Blinking slowly, you hoped that Seonghwa would leave the conversation where it was, but knew that he was going to do everything except that.

“No but really. Every mechanic, every biker has their favourites. Hell, even Yunho has one and he doesn’t really work on them anymore.” leaning forward to rest his head in the palm of his hand as his elbow positioned itself on his right thigh, he focused on your response, down to the body language and each one of your cells could feel it.

“Hard to pick.” Again, vague, but you wanted to get away, hide yourself. The sensation of the brakes, how the loyal companion to your every conquest could glide across the streets and halt just when you wanted it to, make impossible turns and let you caress the ground through thick gloves that have seen the wildest tricks and fastest getaways… it was all far too vivid. Too much for you to bring up while you were trying to work. Swallowing your spit, you shook your head slightly as Seonghwa commented that you were not responding to him.

“What do you want me to say?”

“What you are thinking about.”

“And what am I thinking about?” abandoning the Busa, you gave the body a wipe with towel and dropped it to the floor, raising yourself up you fell onto the spinny stool, and eyed Seonghwa right back, despising the smirk that was threatening to break out on his lips that were far to soft and lush for a damn outlaw.

“The bike. Your bike. You used to ride, didn’t you?”

“...Hm.”

“I can feel it. No need to pretend.” he had already formed his suspicions. In fact, he had put two and two together a long enough time ago. All he needed was a confirmation, a mention of that same bike that he had heard of, a name to a face that had haunted him for as long as he was leading the Blue Birds.

“Yeah. I did. Not anymore though.” your voice grew colder, dismissive as you turned to look out at the neon lights. A flicker caught your attention - the sign for the Japanese restaurant that opened and closed only when the owner wanted to was caught in a starlike sparkling, the fluctuating light making it seem as though the luminescence was alive. Alive. Curious choice of words.

“What was it?”

“It?”

“Let’s start with the bike.”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Just curious, no biggie.”

Afraid of what you could say if you were to dive into elaborating your memories and sentimentality, you stood up and walked to the work bench, retrieving the component that you had brought with you to the city, and kept it with you at all times. Giving it one last look, you strode over to an expectant and enthusiastic Seonghwa, motioning for him to stretch out his hands. As you watched him inspect the item, turning it and checking each nook and cranny, your heart felt heavy. Was it really that long since the brake pedal was attached to the swift stunner? A glorious ink black, with piping of the skeleton completed in a vibrant poisonous green. A nightmare. Your love, your priceless dream.

“A Kawasaki?” he whispered half to himself. So it was how he had indeed attempted to predict.

“Kawasaki Ninja H2R.”

“Two hundred and twenty-eight kilowatts without ram-air?”

“I played around with that.”

“Sure you did. Wow. Really that’s pretty.”

“Mhm.” you took the brake pedal from Seonghwa’s hands, returning it back to the drawer.

Suddenly, it all felt too real. The last moments raw, the feeling that the motorcycle was still with you, still outside, parked and patiently waiting for you, was too clear in your head that you had attempted to train to believe that that stage in your life was over. Done. Finished. You had crossed the metaphorical finish line and that was all there was to it. But Seonghwa was not letting up, instead choosing to dig into the wound and watch as blood began to trickle.

“Now that explains it.”

“What?�� you knew you were going to regret asking, but did so still.

“The tattoo.”

“What tattoo?” your eyes narrowed as you propped yourself against the bench and crossed your arms.

“The one on your arm. The right one.” he pointed as if he just won a game of spot the difference, leaving you irritated.

“What of it? I have many.”

“Not one that belongs to the Black Pirates. I am no fool, Y/N. I’ve seen the mark before and truthfully, I am surprised you are still alive.”

“I am too.” you huffed, finding your boots to be awfully interesting.

“Sacrificed the bike?”

You did not answer. You did not want to answer because it was clear that Seonghwa could answer the question for you. And for that, you loathed him in that given moment, despite overall finding his company to be almost comforting in recent weeks. In reality, the Kawasaki saved you from utter demise. Sliding on its side across the highway at record speed, sparks flying in the air and the screeching penetrating through your helmet to embed itself into your bones, the bike made it seem as though you were truly done for when, as luck would have it, you had gotten away with only a few scratches and a lot of foliage clinging to the torn up leather you had worn. As you had made your leap off the out of control beauty, the hero fighting its last battle it collided with cement to split and crumble into smithereens, the fuel tank pierced and beginning to seep out the fluid. A couple of gunshots later, and the bike was caught aflame, and all you could see from the group below where you had fallen, was the occasional licks, smoke and more sparks, your soul departing the metal body. The brake pedal, by some odd circumstance, had flown off and landed in your direction, nearly crashing into your visor. You had cradled it in your hands, sliding down on your back further and further to the moist earth beneath the highway until you were totally concealed from all viewpoints, hidden by pillars and rusted armature. When you were sure that those who you had called family, called friends, called comrades sped away, confident that you were there splattered on the cement and roasting, thanks to the bag that had been left on the seats serving practically as a dummy, you had begun to weep, never knowing for what, but certain that you were not yourself anymore. You had died.

Unbeknownst to you, as your vision blurred and mist settled to accompany the rising melancholia, Seonghwa had risen from the armchair and cautiously stepped closer and closer to you, until he was barely an arm’s reach away. Gaze drifting, you only took notice of the change when the knuckles came into view. Those bruised, bloodied knuckles, obviously treated by a person who knew nothing about caring for themselves. Silly man. A silly, silly man who wanted to put up a front; a front that might just have been yours, and your family’s ruin.

“Hey, are you-”

“No.” you retorted before he could accentuate what you deemed to be your weakness. Pushing yourself off the bench you were about to make a beeline for somewhere, anywhere, make up and excuse, but felt a gentle hand wrap around your wrist. Shocked, you stilled yourself and attempted to tug, only feeling the grip getting stronger until Seonghwa pulled you towards him, so that you would be face to face.

“I-... I’m sorry. I know how much this hurts and-”

“Do you?” cold, you hissed.

“...I can see it. I am sorry for your loss. And I am sorry for making you relive it.”

A smile, ones that graced those who had little to lose and little to wish for except perhaps a restart as another person, in another body, in another time and life, melted over you as you tested the strength of Seonghwa’s hold another time. Not budging. You did not dare to check his expression, for you knew that it would make you crack.

“Do you need any-”

“One more word and I will snap your arms in half.” recalling your first meeting, you muttered the empty threat.

“You are too kind.” he echoed, deliberating whether to give himself up to the urge and pull you closer.

So it was you who he had heard about after all. The demon on the roads, Icarus who had gotten too close to the sun of power, and was violently shoved from the pedestal of grace and familial leadership into the torment, into the abyss, stripped of all you knew and had. He had learned about you through fable-like gossip that his childhood friend, who caught up with the wrong crowd and became a member of the Black Pirates had shared over a couple of drinks when Seonghwa had visited. Same night he had shared that he wanted to leave, but as it had turned out, he was someone not quite lucky to make an escape and someone who Seonghwa was meant to forget. But besides the passing of another, someone who he could not save even though he tried, never did he think that the beast on the Kawasaki would be you. The you that he had come to know. The sensitive, albeit snarky and strong-headed you. The you who was a gifted mechanic, a woman who breathed the craft, the art, the science, the life that was that of a biker. Never before did he see anyone treat the Busa with such respect, nor make such accurate guesses about the fights and chases that it had participated in. Looking back, it should have been obvious that you had a history. You knew more than you ever let on. Perhaps you knew Seonghwa like he knew the streets of Night City, and now, your true past.

“The… yeah the Hayabusa’s done. By the way.” you tried to veer the conversation away, and fortunately this time, Seonghwa agreed.

“Thank you.”

“Standard rate.”

“Yep.”

“Everything is sort-”

“May I-”

You shot him an aggressive, piercing gaze, threatened by the change in tone. Far from his usual upbeat lilt, it was deeper, slower, sticky and sweet like molasses and you did not want to get pulled in. You clambered for air, for any relief away from his man, the man who had so openly shared his soul with you. He stammered and cleared his throat, finally letting go of your wrist. The sharp change in temperature was nearly unwelcome as the ghost of his soft fingers remained, caressing your flesh.

“Would you want to join a patrol now?” the inquiry, hanging in the air, dangling like a treat as the adrenaline rushed across your body. You had to feel guilty, surely, after having mourned the loss of your beloved Kawasaki and just revisited its final minutes, you had no right to be looking forward to another rush. You did not need it. You should not need it nor want it. And yet, you found yourself nodding almost immediately, much to Seonghwa’s delight. A reassuring warm hand on your upper arm, a lean forward letting Seonghwa catch your glossy eyes, him asking when you can close up shop and you mumbling that you were done for the day, or night. It was alway nighttime. The soothing blanket of navy blue, sleepy over the streets that you were about to explore under Seonghwa’s guidance.

As the dark haired man settle on the bike and appeared to adjust his wristwatch, holding his helmet while you found a spare displayed on one of the shelves - showed marks of wear and tear but good enough for a couple rides more, he felt his heartbeat turn erratic, and what was normally a bearable thrum turn into an erratic, unbelievable pace that only amplified in his skull and quickened once your arms were wrapped around his torso, holding onto him, your body pressed against his. If there was ever a hazard on the road for him, it was this. Your intoxicating closeness that made him want to ride forever more, never stopping if that meant that you could stay exactly where you were. How you were. It was surreal that the rider, the legend that he had grown to respect from the tales, was the woman that he had now grown to love.

As he sped down the streets, the neon had shone down on you in different colours, a bolder, more optimistic palette that made you beam right back. You clutched onto Seonghwa’s leather jacket, seeking more support as the exhilaration began to overwhelm you. It had been far too long since the last time you felt the wind hit you in this way, you felt the engine rushing you on between the trees of the concrete jungle, the windows and doors, the stray passers-by zooming right past you as the bike accelerated. It was not the same, of course, nothing could ever be, but the feeling, that distant feeling and warm memory was enough to remind you that you indeed were alive and you had the future to look to. A future that Seonghwa wanted to help you find. Hugging him tighter, you let yourself be carried away from the shop you closed up, away from the pleasant routine you had aimed to settle into all the way towards a moment of freedom and that familiar rush.

When you arrived at the destination, which turned out to be an abandoned parking lot under an equally barren road, illuminated only by a single streetlight with two bulbs, you noticed that there were a few people already gathered, including some familiar faces who were chatting away while wheeling their rides out of what you would describe as some concealed warehouse into better starting positions. Feeling a wave of shyness, you did not move as Seonghwa stopped the bike and stretched his legs out to balance it. Only after you sense more movement, and approaching footsteps did your arms snake away on their own accord and tug at your helmet. The man seemed to sense this since, as soon as his own helmet was off, he turned to you to whisper a quick “you okay?”. You feebly nodded, and found the ground with your military-style boots.

Quickly enough, a man approached Seonghwa, and the two exchanged a handshake and a couple of words. You recognised him fast enough - while he had not come to the shop nearly enough to be considered a regular, and judging from how heavily modded his MV Agusta Rush was it was clear that he preferred to do most, if not all repairs himself, Yeosang was a memorable figure. His hair, approaching shoulder length, and the long black and red leather jacket with cutouts that flowed behind him as he hit top speed made him stand out to you, and his endearing disposition and innate warmth as he discussed all matters within your comfort made him something of a friend. He waved to you, excited that you had decided to join the patrol, agreeing with Seonghwa that it was an honour to see you on the urban tracks. You bit your lower lip, wondering just how far word about you had travelled after your supposed passing, and whether this word would travel right back down to the south again after your impulsive appearance right here, among the Blue Birds.

“So you riding with us? Right?” Yeosang finally addressed you, his voice jolting you out of your musings.

“I suppose so,” after giving Seonghwa one final look and receiving a reassuring smile, you responded.

“Great, then, follow me.” As Yeosang spun on his heel and led you towards the warehouse, you let yourself wonder out loud.

“Were you all waiting for me or something?”

“Well, yes and no. We’ve heard stories, then Mars has really taken to you and well, that comes with a lot of getting to know you, and then Yunho shared a couple things-”

“What in the-”

“Don’t be too surprised. We keep our tabs on everyone. Just in case.” he chuckled and elaborated on the miniature dossier that had accumulated - he was not going to rat out the fact that it was mainly his leader not realising that he was discussing you at longer time periods than was customary for a standard biker and mechanic relationship.

“Guess I’m a bit rusty in that department.” you pondered the networks, the informers that had existed back in your town, and how sometimes you even had to ‘do some less than appealing kinds of convincing’ to get updates, but shook the image away as you entered the dimly lit warehouse.

“Let’s hope you aren’t when it comes to riding.” You stood back, letting Yeosang turn on another lamp, something probably found in a trash pile but still functional enough to be a source of illumination, only to reveal a breath-taking beauty.

“Now, of course it isn’t the Kawasaki,” Yeosang paused, patting the seat of the black and red motorcycle that you could sense was studying you, checking if you were strong enough to handle it, “but it is still quite impressive. Aprilia RSV4-”

“1100 Factory. Grunty engine, sweet chassis. Good engineering.”

“You can say that again. Here, give it a try.”

You stepped towards the breathing machine. The beast in slumber, awaiting a boost, a nudge awake and it was ready to roar and leave all those in this lot behind. It was a captivating system of mechanisms, all working in unison to create what was going to be a revival for you. A revival on the road. As you sat down on the bike, feeling its energy ooze through you and appreciating its almost youthful vigour, your mind traversed its maze-like avenues back to the Kawasaki. This was far from your precious. Far from who you had been. Far from the soul that you had lost back then. Gorgeous, without a doubt, an astounding piece of work that the streets would be grateful for gracing them, but that was how you had to treat it. As much as a part of you desired a renaissance, that same thrill, it was obviously unachievable. Nothing was the same, nor could be, including you. The place where the tattoo of the Black Pirates still decorated your skin ached with dull throbs as you leaned forward and tested your movements, your fluidity with the motorcycle. This was going to do; this had to do for that one last thrill before you could say goodbye to the dream of re-experience - the final nail in the coffin of a phantom that had you delusionally hoping for that sense of belonging and sense of being undefeatable to return to you. The Aprilia was the Aprilia, and you were you. The need for speed, the desire to rule the roads and exist in discord and chaos had died with the Kawasaki Ninja H2R, and the you now was searching for peace. The peace that you could read in Seonghwa’s eyes. The peace that he was offering in the form of unconditional support, in the form of pieces of his own soul to ignite the one you were patiently cultivating in your hollow chest. To let the blaze warm you, nurture the affection you yearned for, and let you breathe again. You gripped the handles of the bike, and turned on the ignition, casting a permission-seeking side glance to Yeosang, who merely nodded. As it rolled out of position and you flipped the foot that anchored it in balance, and let yourself be regarded by Seonghwa and his fellow bikers, the revelation finally came, that this was the new life that you had hoped for. The life that you had wanted to experience, not a reworking, but a clean slate. A new home that you hoped to discover in Night City.

Once everyone was in position, and Yeosang gave you a helmet that was fitted with a communication system that let the Blue Birds converse while on patrol, you followed Seonghwa out, having been given a designated position and role in the formation. It felt like the old times, but in reverse. Instead of organising havoc, the group was organising peace. Instead of planning heists, the group was hoping to stop crime that happened under the noses of those who purposefully disregarded it, focusing on new age delinquency that manifested itself as banal expression and creativity. The city was different now, it had to be. Suddenly, you were astounded and amazed by it, by the intricacies of every corner, the affection with which the citizens of the sector had decorated their storefronts and windows, even though if a government-arranged bust was to be organised, and the forces, nicknamed the Guardians were to march down these streets, these homes would be the first to be annihilated. Risking their own lives these marvellous people decided to spread joy and share colour. There was hope in Night City, there was hope in this district where the desire to live and thrive could not be put out.

Blue, purple, magenta, pink, orange, yellow, red, green, purest white and inkiest black, every shade and every saturation was jumping out at you even through the visor. You felt at ease, one with your surroundings as Seonghwa’s soothing voice issued the final command before the group were to split, leaving you, Seonghwa and Yeosang alone and zooming down the central street, empty from the lack of business after a particularly nasty raid. You noted remnants of shattered glass and a charcoal black storefront, one of the downsides of living in an area where law was more questionable than local dealings. But even then, you felt more alive than before.

“How are you feeling, Red?” a nickname thought of on the spot for ease of callouts thanks to the accents on the Aprilia.

“Good, Mars.”

“Good?” Yeosang echoed, and you could swear you heard an amused giggle from his mic.

“Very good, Greece,” you would never not be amused with the choice of name for your friend, the word ‘sculpture’, to highlight his heavenly visuals, had apparently been deemed too long to work.

Seonghwa could hear the joy in your voice, stronger than he had ever experienced it before, even when you joked around with him or revealed to him a particularly high quality part that Jongho had produced by some unmentionable connections. Previously, there had been barriers that you had accumulated with each season of your new existence, hardened by your trials and tribulations as a person who technically was not supposed to exist. Less talk, more business. Less emotion, more control over your behaviour, your being in the effort of maintaining an image of strength, much like he had done when he had first met you.

When Seonghwa had first laid eyes on you, you seemed to be the closest thing there was to a human version of ice. You appeared to be dismissive and disinterested in him, in what he could bring, and that was vexing. He, as Mars of the Blue Bird gang, had gotten used to have the room freeze as he walked in, only to combust into hot flames an instant after, but definitely not come face to face with someone who was sombre, and with their lack of a reaction made Seonghwa feel as though, in reality, he was not that important. He had made a promise to himself after finding out about the Kawasaki rider of the Black Pirates, that if there was anyone he would listen to and learn from, it would be them. From the technique to the daredevil spirit, that was the kind of rider he had always wanted to be. At the same time, as days turned to weeks turned to months, and the image of you and the rider became one in his mind, Seonghwa came to understand that truly, the rider was an illusion. A fantasy that he had built in his mind that could not compare to the wise woman that had transformed his Hayabusa, and his own heart. He wanted to learn you, and learn anything else with you. And to hear the spark within you, to feel your passion for finding yourself begin to return to you was the final sign that he needed to fully comprehend what he had been searching for. For that smile to never leave your face, for him to bring you food just because, for you to be side by side in this race against harsh reality, fighting the odds and making it through to a land where there was true light, away from the land of neon farce.

As you sped down the neverending roads, checking each turn and alleyway for activity, an odd trepidation crept into your chest, and fluttered like a moth fighting for its spot on a bulb. The same feeling as when you had been out with your so-called crew, checking the outskirts of your hometown that fateful night. Your inner alarm rolled out of a restless sleep, and began to clang against your brain, once, twice more and more until it became unbearable and you cried out for the group to stop. The unexpected call startled the duo, and they barely had time to process the action as the three of you instinctively skid to a halt, leaving hot trailmarks on the road. A hum. An unsettling hum that came before a certain ruin spread across your surroundings, and you took off your helmet to tune into it in an attempt to decipher anything at all. Seonghwa and Yeosang followed suit, perplexed, contemplating you as you darted from one side to the other turning your head and getting a grasp of what could be the source of the thrum. A revving. A sickening revving in the far distance, picked up by you as you whispered to your team.

“You hear that?”

“Hear what?” Yeosang asked back, running a hand through his hair.

“The hum.”

“Hum?”

“Where are we right now?”

“Southernmost district, kind of outside of Night City, but still our area.” Seonghwa responded promptly, alerted by your concern.

“We need to leave.”

“But the patrol-” Yeosang tried to argue, but you cut him off.

“Now. We need to leave now.”

“Why?”

The engines became even louder, and if you were not going to move now, you would never move again.

“Surveillance Point South, Guardians Helmets on, MOVE!” you commanded, disregarding any hint of formality as you shoved the helmet back onto your head and twisted the bike to go back. The men followed suit, and in good time, as in one of your mirrors, you saw the first flash of white appear from around the corner.

“GO!”

Bless technology, bless the engineers who crafted these magnificent motorcycles; you were praying and praising every person who had ever contributed to the creation of these beauties, these roaring urban animals as you accelerated to top speed in seconds and swerved down a random street, one that you had no clue where it led to. Calming yourself to the level where you were able to ask a question, you hurriedly shouted into the mic:

“Mars!”

“Turn right at the end, Greece flanks on the left.”

“Gotcha chief.”

“Update on tail?” You continued as the initial wave of automatic movements subsided, and in came the need for fast, adaptive strategy. You were not about to make the same mistakes again. This could not happen. You had to trust yourself, trust Seonghwa and Yeosang. They should not suffer the same way you had done. Ever.

“Five Guardians. Gear - standard. They were not expecting us.” Yeosang communicated back, pressing himself into the motorcycle as the three of you sped down the street only to burst into another and swerve to the appointed direction.

“Well that’s a plus,” you huffed and accelerated more after completing the dangerously sharp turn. The Guardians were quick to repeat the motion, and were aggressively catching up to your trio.

“There’s a highway under construction, we can lose them there.” Seonghwa offered, clearly disturbed by the closeness of the forces, practically breathing down his neck.

“How far?”

“How fast can you go?”

“Lead.” a quick ‘yes’ in agreement, and Seonghwa issued an order:

“Greece, split on the fork and find Crow. If you get a tail then spiral the shit out of them.”

“Aye.”

“Good luck.” With one last wish, serving as a hopefully temporary farewell, Yeosang rolled away his own response blending into static as the connection grew weaker, only to fully break:

“Good lu-”

And just like that, it was you, Seonghwa, and four remaining Guardians, who evidently had decided that Yeosang was not their main target, leaving only one to tail him. You cursed under your breath, and clearly the mic was a lot more sensitive than you had initially expected, because as soon as the utterance left your mouth Seonghwa’s voice reverberated against your eardrums.

“Just a bit more, okay? Trust me we’ll get there-”

A gunshot stops the man mid-sentence, and you blindly followed him as he countersteered to make another sharp turn into a much more narrow street, forcing the group of four to slow down considerably and giving you an extra few valuable seconds.

“Are guns part of standard gear?” Shocked by the similarity between the gang you had been part of and your present followers, you managed to ask.

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Well isn’t this a fun time.”

“Glad you are enjoying it. Turn in five then turn left.”

Before you knew it, you were entering the meandering manoeuvre from street to alley to a series of pedestrian passageways, fully expecting Seonghwa to still be by your side, but as you entered another road, zooming ahead, you took note that your partner was nowhere to be seen, along with another two Guardians. The ones behind you, thanks to the maze of stairs and tight spots down the path he had directed you through, the Guardians were trailing behind, the distance having grown to a more secure one, at least until you felt the bike, which you were not totally used to, hit a pothole on the road and start to wobble, forcing you to overreact - counterintuitive to any professional behaviour. Your yelps finally made Seonghwa return through the speakers asking as to what exactly happened. To the best of your ability you choked out the cause of your surprise, while loosening your grip and regaining at least some control by slowly rolling off the throttle.

“I leave you for one second and that happens?”

“Last time I was alone and being chased I-”

“Did not have me, to your left-” As you had balanced yourself out and returned to breaking any speed limit imaginable, you noted the familiar black and orange Hayabusa merge into the lane to your left, followed by one Guardian.

“Where is their friend?”

“Took an arrow to the knee,” out of the corner of your visor’s allowable view, you saw Seonghwa accelerate until he was a little in the front and he waved what could only be a particularly menacing pistol.

“That is one hell of a bow.” You pondered when and where he could have produced a gun from, and finally realised why most of the time he kept his jacket zipped up unless he was off vigilante duty.

As you approached the winding highways-to-be, you swore you were barely breathing. With only three Guardians remaining on your tail it should be easier, an escape should feel closer, but you could not settle into any form of focus, instead only speeding towards an oblivion. Another one, your final one. The fear that you had been living with, the repetition that you had wrongfully longed for, was it about to happen? You fell quiet as you saw the road curve higher and higher to another level, and followed its flow. Seonghwa let you flow forwards, turning back to return the gunfire that the white-clad spawns of the so-called law restarted, missing one by a few centimetres, but in this way forcing them to enter the same state from which you recovered. Luckily, they did not have as reflexive of a control over the vehicle, and toppled to veer and hit one of the borders, denting it and giving up the chase. Two to go.

Entranced by the openness of the location, you raised your head to find a night sky, clearer than the one you were used to back in Night City. It was similar to the countryside around your hometown, how the stars came around to glint and help you recollect your thoughts by emphasising that everything on this earth, compared to the infinite expanse of the universe, was small enough to brush off. It had always made you feel briefly light, relieved, free. How you wished you could fly-

“Ready to fly?”

“Literally?” you cried out, returning back to the matter at hand.

“I sure hope you remember how to recover from a high jump on a bike because that is our only chance.”

“What the-”

“Three.”

“Two.

“One.”

“May the suspension system be ever in our favour,” you muttered, embracing the oncoming drop as you avoided the cones that marked the end of the construction zone and led into a drop onto the highway below.

Your mind cleared, and you focused on the head level balance point in front of you, which just so happened to be the straight line of the horizon. Your body moved back to ease the weight on the front end, and as you saw the drop come into view, raised yourself up on the foot pegs and pushed with all your might, bending your legs into the motion as you felt the suspension respond to you and compress before rising again. Instantaneously, you blipped the throttle, giving the Aprilia that final burst, propelling you and lifting you right when the front wheel hit the jumping point you had marked out. Keeping your head up, you let yourself feel the arc that you made together with the bike, eagerly watched your surroundings blur as you continued your calculated fall, and giggled as you heard Seonghwa let out a loud proclamation of “awesome!” as you landed the jump and remained fully in control of the temperamental steed.

The Guardians had stopped themselves before the leap, clearly not having the borderline death-seeking move programmed into their ridiculous training schemes, nor into their own obedient, law-abiding cells. With the southernmost district, and as such, the Guardian patrol point long behind you, it was now a matter of finding a place to slow down and figure out a safe way home. You laughed airily as the adrenaline egged you on, making you feel like you could take on the entire world, your gang of traitors and snakes, and the masked tyrants that had been chasing you and all that you considered valuable in your new chapter. You survived. Finally, you survived.

When the empty highway hinted at an exit on the other side, in unspoken agreement the two of you hopped the inexistent border between lanes and swerved into the turn, re-entering the city from a different angle, fully avoiding the southern district. As neon began to occupy your vision once more, the lines of blue, purple, magenta starting to line the streets of your home, you let out a sigh of relief, coming down from the rush of a good chase. As soon as the two of you ensured that there was no hint of Guardians in your vicinity, Seonghwa signalled for you to slow down and stop in a secluded square that was located between the outstretched segments of an abandoned residential block, the doors taped shut with signs proclaiming ‘demolition’ plastered over fading graffiti.

Hopping off his bike and leaving the helmet and gloves on the seat, he rushed to help you out, the exhaustion from diving headfirst into something that had not been in your active arsenal for a while. Wobbly legs, dizziness and an urge to listen to gravity for once nearly had you stumbling off the bike and onto the cracked pavement, if not for the strong arms, stabilising you by positioning themselves at your waist, and bringing you flush against Seonghwa’s toned body. Through the haze of a numbing fatigue, you could finally make out the slightest tang of gun smoke, blending with an aroma of a sweet perfume, pronounced as he had burned up from the prolonged pressure and thrill. Smoke and vanilla. And you were alive to take it all in. You raised your arms, searching for him, trying to feel out an anchor in the renaissance, clamber out of the ashes that were still coating you in a weight of a past that you had now shed. Fingers flittering across the black tank top, left exposed as he had unzipped the jacket, travelled around his sides to find his lower back and hook themselves together. You let yourself be consumed by the feeling of safety, the feeling of having overcome yourself and finding someone, the one person who was ready to pick you up again. Your body shook as a sob that you were unknowingly holding back flew from your now light heart and into the omniscient night, but all you could feel was warmth. A reliable embrace that was going nowhere, a man who knew who you were, who you had been, and let you decide for yourself who you wanted to become-

“Mars-” you mumbled, pressing your face into Seonghwa in an attempt to let the fabric swallow your emotion.

“-Seonghwa.”

“Huh?” you wanted to look at him, at his dark eyes that held the sky, the universe within them, but the soothing circles that he was drawing on your back as he began to rock gently while keeping you in his arms made you remain in the same position, right against him. With him.

“Seonghwa. Hwa. Whatever nickname you think of but… just. Seonghwa, Y/N. Call me Seonghwa.” you chuckled through the tears that started to decorate your cheeks, earning a confused hum from the biker.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Cheeky.”

“At least we are not threatening each other with grievous bodily harm anymore.” you tried to squeeze him in a way to emphasise your joke, but earned a surprised pained yelp from the man, followed by a pursing of the lips as you darted to face him.

“Seonghwa?” it was obvious that the new address made him soften considerably, but your worry did not subside. “Are you hurt?”

“It’s nothing really, regular st-”

“Where, Seonghwa, where?” you used his own name against him, forgetting your own overwhelmed state and turning your attention to him.

He was entranced by the way your eyes glistened in the darkness, how the tears that stained your cheeks were only adding to your image. Nothing would make him look differently at you. Nothing ever. And if he had to race against time itself to be able to hold onto you like this, he would do it. He would fight all of the Guardians and Black Pirates combined if it meant that you could smile. You needed to smile. He tried to ease the concern, but the wound that he had acquired during the chase was becoming nearly unbearable. Instead of fighting you, he tilted his head to his left and lifted his arm while keeping the other on your waist. Getting the hint, you flipped the bottom of the cropped jacket and gasped as you saw torn material, reddened, irritated skin, and a mixture of coagulated and still-trickling blood concentrated around where what could only be a bullet grazed Seonghwa’s stunning, tanned skin.

“What the- and you are just here? Standing? You need treatment, stat!” admonishing his self-disregard, you leaned to inspect the wound more closely, only to have Seonghwa attempt to flip the jacket back and dig his fingers into your side.

“I am fine, I swear-”

“Do you know anyone who can fix this?” not quite in the know of any medical terms, you resorted to treating the wound as though it was a damaged component, except a lot more distressing, and obviously causing a lot more lateral harm than any scratch or even piercing tear could to cold metal.

“...Not really, no,” after a long pause, he responded. Lowering his arm, Seonghwa returned to his previous hold, except this time, moving until his face was only centimetres away from yours.

“Well then, you know me, I have a first aid kit at my cave.” your voice quivered as you at the man before you. You could tell, he was new too, also reborn from the chaos. Neither of you could predict, but it was obvious that now, that light that you had been chasing was within reach.

“So you can fix bikes and people?”

“Bikes, yes. People? Not really. But I would like for you to see another day please.

“It really isn’t that bad.”

“Then why are you in pain?”

“Because I have been staring at your lips for the past minute and still have not kissed you.”

You blinked once, twice as whatever words were in your throat remained there and fell right back down to be set on fire by what you could only describe as the blowing of multiple fuses. You were not quite sure when the two of you managed to lean so impossibly close to one another, but your arms were fully relaxed, having succumbed to the sensation of his hands dancing across your hips testing the waters, and your vision was occupied by Seonghwa, and Seonghwa alone. His gaze, once again, trailed down from your eyes down to your lips, slow, confident alluring. Ignoring whatever pain he was experiencing, dulling it with a different, more tantalising ache. With your breathing growing more shallow by the second, you were not sure what to expect of Seonghwa in this instant; perhaps more accurately, you were terrified of how this would change your new life. He was taking his time as though he was reading a book, trying to decipher what you were feeling, and while he was more than ready to lean in an destroy what was left of the gap between you, your swift hands that wiped what remained of the moisture on your cheeks and a playful smirk on your lips forced him into a childish pout.

“And you won’t, unless you let me patch you up.”

“And I can kiss you after?”

“...Deal.” to hell with it all, you continued soundlessly.

As rapidly as the moment had developed, it ceased to persist, with Seonghwa detangling himself from you and telling you to grab your helmet while pressing a couple of buttons that were concealed on his wristwatch.

“What about the bike?”

“Yeo will sort out the bike. I just pinged him with the coordinates.”

“You have a spy watch?” amazed, you exclaimed.

“Nifty, huh? Blue Bird exclusive.”

“I need to speak to the engineers in your circle, I need to absorb some skills from them.”

“I can see you’ll be speaking to Yeo more and more soon, then. He is quite the techy guy.”

As you were about to hop onto the bike, you thought once more about the injury, and tapped the already seated Seonghwa on the shoulder. Flipping open his visor, the man moved his chin forward, prompting you to go on.

“Scooch back.”

“But I can-”

“No buts. You are injured, and this is a hazard,” receiving a groan in response, you refused to pause, “besides, I can’t exactly hold on to you now, can I?”

That seemed to do the trick as the previously proud, arrogant man obeyed your command and slid away from the handlebar, but as soon as you were in position, revealed that potentially, it was not you winning here as he relished in the opportunity to embrace you for the entire trip back to OC, occasionally distracting you by letting his hands roam your torso, leaving you dangerously close to pulling over. But you had enough experience of being stoic, and Seonghwa still had much to learn about you, so you kept a steady speed, and greeted the luminescence of your neighbourhood with a relaxed rumble of the Hayabusa.

As you turned on the lights to your studio apartment and the two of you took off your shoes, you sped away to find the green case of health and all things that you were technically not supposed to have in your possession but did anyways. Funnily enough, Seonghwa’s comment had not been too far from the truth; back when you had been in the Black Pirates, a mechanic was fully expected to patch the customers up, as well as the bike, considering that both were normally against the law and had to remain undercover. Even when in certain districts the gang did bribe their way up to have a hand in decision-making, thus making it possible for the members to receive regular treatment, many had gotten used to the quick and easy drive-by healings, and would always choose to trust the person who gave life to their motorcycles over even the most qualified, certified doctor. Such was the rhythm that you had fallen into, the one that transitioned into the you in Night City through a library of skills and odd habits - like keeping the first aid kit right below the sink, the logic being that one could grab the kit, wash their hands and be ready for war, equipped with antiseptic and a plethora of improvisation techniques made up on the spot.

With Seonghwa settled on one of the foldable chairs that you kept to the side for when you wanted to sit while eating instead of leaning over the kitchen counter, you took the other, placed it right in front of the tired man and got to work. Carefully guiding his arms out of the leather jacket, you were left with a far too attractive biker, clad in only a black tank top and the ridiculously expensive chains, and the leather trousers that tightened around his legs as he wriggled a little and took a more comfortable position to sit. The earring with the feather right at the end still dangled in his ear, and his hair, ruffled but retaining some shape thanks to what you thought to be humble use of a styling gel. You needed to avoid his eyes at all costs, the burning eyes that were trained on you, and only you. It did not take an expert to guess what Seonghwa was replaying in his mind the entire time that you were around him. As you lifted the tank top and inspected what was now a dried up mass over a graze, you sighed with relief.

“Good news.”

“Good?” Seonghwa asked back, suspiciously out of breath.

“Yeah. Now, I can’t check for internal bleeding, but outwardly, this is easy enough. Seems that you got really lucky. Very. Over the top kind of lucky actually. Can’t say the same for the jacket though, but at least you are not a wine barrel.”

“Charming.”

“I’ll just clean the thing and put a big bandage on it so that it won’t get infected. I fear that most of the pain is from these old injuries though…” you absent-mindedly traced some of the hematomas, which, judging by their colouration, were well on their way to dissolving into a smoothness, with your fingertips, making the man tense up. He turned his head towards you, glancing back and forth as you inspected the collage of injuries that he had collected on his body.

“We’re fighters though, aren’t we.”

“Fighters need holidays too.”

“Right.”

“You need to park yourself in a garage and give your engine a nice break…” you joked, more to yourself as you turned to bring the green case to your lap for easier searching, keeping one hand in place to hold the cotton top up, until the finger grew tired, “hey could you be a darling and hold your own shirt for me? Cheers.”

Seonghwa jumped into action, enjoying the soft speech, and replaced your hand with his, the digits ever so slightly brushing against one another as he moved to hold onto the material.

“You are in luck.”

“Is that so? Even more than over the top?” ignoring his interjection, you continued:

“Uh-huh. I have hydrocolloid bandages left. This one’s actually barely noticeable, but works like a charm with weeping wounds so, get your flesh over here and you’ll be patched up in no time.” turning, he repositioned himself to allow you to clean the cut, removing some of the attached fabric that had dried with the first droplets, and leaving the redness exposed to the disinfectants, and to the patch. In no time at all, your work was done. Satisfied, you grabbed a tissue out of the packet that was sitting in the kit and cleaned the ointment and adhesive that stuck to you.

“I’m afraid I can’t help with the clothes though. Not my area of expertise.”

“You did more than enough, Y/N. And all this after racing through and out of Night City from five Guardians on a totally new bike.”

“I am a woman of many talents.”

“That’s true…” that honey-sweet, deep voice, slowing into a sultry beckoning as Seonghwa’s hand moved to rest on your knee. A man on a mission after all. You chuckled and snapped the first aid kit shut, easily sauntering from his approaches and enjoying every minute.

“You want hot chocolate?” you asked over your shoulder as you stashed the case back under the sink and shut the cupboard. Nothing was stopping you from being a good host to a very good person. Even though it was rather apparent that Seonghwa was eyeing something else on the menu, the sound of a sweet treat was rather appealing. You were right about him faking drinking coffee after all.

“Yes please.”

As you moved about the kitchen, fetching the cylindrical jar of chocolate powder and getting the coffee machine started for your own beverage of choice, Seonghwa moved to reposition the chairs closer to a table that bore the appearance of an ironing board squashed against the wall until he pulled it down and pushed the two legs at the free end out. Patiently, he admired your studio apartment, your corner of the city that was situated right above the shop. The walls were bare, only decorated with old holes from nails and with the odd scratch here and there. Minimal furniture, with the large dresser probably being donated to you by Yunho. The neatly made bed which judging by the headboard and armrests was also a small sofa, located right beside the window that was covered by wooden blinds roughly painted an off-white, was probably the newest addition to the metres of this room. Undoubtedly, the piece of furniture was acquired after you had moved here, after you had made your bosses certain that you were here to stay. And Seonghwa was going to make sure of it. Night City was now to be your new home, and when you tapped the table to alert him of the hot beverage that you had prepared, now ready and billowing steam out of the mug right in front of him, he revered how beautiful you looked, surrounded by the mechanic shop, by the streets of the district, by the city that he had despised for so long but the one that had helped him find you through mysterious serendipity.

"Thank you." he took a cautious sip, sighing in elation.

"No problem. I'll pretend that chocolate helps with internal bruising and call myself a doctor." You commented while settling beside the vigilante, making him smile.

“How’d you guess I would not want coffee?” you glanced over at your companion while taking a tentative sip once the initial temperature shock had subsided.

“You never order it.”

“But I never-”

“I think we have spent enough time together to know the basics, right?” A bolder swig, and you could feel the caffeine begin to hit your system like a nitro boost.

“Well I seem to be discovering more and more things about you every second, Y/N.”

“And how are you finding it?” you took the quietness as a chance to test him. It was barely a test, but nevertheless, too important to dismiss. The small questions, ones said in passing and ones to be forgotten were almost always the ones that were to be the most important.

“I want to learn more and more, since I simply cannot get enough.”

Momentarily bashful, you looked at the floor and thought of the garage beneath your feet. The place where you had initially determined that this same man who was now unbelievably bold in his expression of his feelings for you was to be your sworn enemy. How times changed, for the better. Regardless of the twists and turns, the ups and downs, even in the deepest night there was a light to find, and a light that was meant to be yours. This new life was your light, and Seonghwa wanted to be part of it. You grinned at the thought, and finally met Seonghwa’s smouldering gaze, fuelled by care, by determination, by the vision of a future.

“You know, I think I thought of a nickname for you, Seonghwa.”

“Oh?” he set down his mug, mirroring you.

“Yeah. I think I’ll call you mine.” you stood up, knowingly ambling to the light switch, listening to the biker following suit.

“Watch out, I might just marry you on the spot if you keep that up.”

“Well, I am not your bride but you may kiss me.”

“Y/N, you are too addictive, and will make me lose my mind.”

“Well then, are you mine?”

“In every lifetime I am yours.”

Enveloped in a new night, illuminated only by the colours that seeped through the half open blinds you ceased to think and rationalise, giving yourself up to instinct as you felt his arms wrap around your waist, twisting you from the wall, coaxing you closer to him, towards his warmth, his heart right there for you to take. It was easy to oblige and you pinched the material of his tank top, prompting him to step even closer, sure that he was practically beaming into the kiss as he nudged himself forward, lifting your head up just a little to prolong the contact. It was as though he was certain that if you were to break apart from one another, you would disappear. He wanted more, needed more. Digits tracing abstract shapes on your back, running through your hair, Seonghwa wanted to remember every detail. Just as he had said, he wanted to learn every part of you.

Lost in paradise, the kiss was electric. A hand that found itself toying with his chains, and proceeding to snake up the back of his neck to tug on his hair just enough to make him shakily exhale made Seonghwa switch his gears. A previous tentativeness, a tender exploration turned into an urgency as his tongue flicked against your lower lip begging for entrance, which you were more than eager to give. You sighed into the passionate call for more that left you breathless. And yet, in these seconds turned into an unprecedented timelessness, if you had to give up every life-saving molecule for even a fraction of nearly impossible unity, you would do it in a heartbeat. The sensation was as though you had finally woken up from a deep slumber, dragged from the somnolent abyss, and every vibration in the air was resonating with you, resonating with Seonghwa.

You felt drunk, dizzy as you guided Seonghwa to the bed, having very quickly memorised the layout of your tiny apartment to the point where you could move around even if there was not a single source of light. In a passionate blur your top was left by the chairs, while your trousers found their place right in front of the bed, together with Seonghwa’s tank top. With every flame that crossed between you, you laid yourself bare to one another, honest and open, and the vulnerability, intimacy you let yourself indulge in marked another beginning. As your nude bodies laid down onto the dark grey sheets, the both of you fervent for more but aware of the importance of honouring every step, Seonghwa suggested, feeling his side remind him of his injury:

“I think you’re going to have to take the lead here, Y/N, I’m a little bruised up.”

“Of course,” you leaned in for another kiss, smiling at the sweetness, “You ready?”

“More than.”

Seonghwa leaned against the pillows and headboard, devoured by lust as you moved further and further down until you reached his exposed member, leaking precum, hard, pleading for you to give it at least some attention. Testing the waters, you languidly rubbed the tip with your thumb in circles coating it in the translucent liquid and making Seonghwa breathe as though there was not enough oxygen. One glance back and you were in awe of the beauty before you. Eyes shut, reddened lips slightly parted, head tilted back as if he was caught in a divine act. The light from the street outside made him look all the more ethereal, and his skin, now an indescribably stunning collage of hues that had crept through the blinds, was a masterpiece that you wanted to honour with your love. As your teasing progressed into a gentle pumping, first of the tip and then with your hand sliding down the entire length, only to stop and give extra care to the base of the member, a low groan reached you - a melody that only encouraged you. Heat pooled to your core as you continued to elicit a string of indecipherable mumbles, a deep moan, and the most magnificent expressions from the man who had never thought you would even cross paths with again. How foolish you had been, masking Seonghwa’s stunning presence, response to your every action, and his eagerness to please you by whispering praises for how good you were making him feel, how amazing you looked and were, and how he was so grateful. Your prior ignorance was almost impossible to even consider now, as you let spit drip down from your mouth onto his dick, adding more lubrication and letting you increase the speed. The wanton sounds of your hand pumping Seonghwa’s throbbing cock, blended with the breaths turning shallow, any moan coming out airy, barely there, were filling you with your own desire, and your free hand quickly moved between your legs, fingers gliding along the folds, finding them to be slick, soaking, needy. You began to run your digits over your now wet clit, rolling over the nub painfully slow in a weak attempt to prevent yourself from cumming too soon, but what used to be a hint of a high only accelerated to a knot at the bottom of your stomach, pulsating and begging for fullness. With how Seonghwa’s hips began to buck up, oblivious to the bruises, the wounds that ghosted and adorned his body, you needed him.

“Hwa…”

“Mmh- yes?”

“May I… ride you?” Through phrases broken up by your choice to quicken the pace of your hand, abusing your clit until a trembling sensation spread over your legs in anticipation of an orgasm, you voiced your desire.

“Please- Y/N I- yes-” equally as shattered, Seonghwa was barely able to respond, moaning as you gave him a chance to recover ever so slightly, letting his member spring free, but more desperate than before for stimulation.

“Do you have condoms?”

“Back pocket, trousers, wallet.” he sighed, pointing at the discarded article at the foot of the bed.

“How’d you even get it in this Sector?” you asked, fishing the item out of his wallet, tearing the packaging and crawling back to unroll it.

“Con… tra… band,” he enunciated through your swift actions, biting his lower lip as he felt your heat press against him, your hand guiding the cock between your folds as you rocked back and forth.

“Vigilantes indeed. Protecting in all kinds of ways.”

“Are you kidding me?” Seonghwa groaned at the sorry attempt of a joke, his mind conflicted between the humour and the unbearable closeness of your pussy, lined up against his tip.

“I’m not the one smuggling condoms, though I have nothing to say but thank you, darling.”

Lowering yourself onto the member, bit by bit until he bottomed out inside you, you leaned forward, consumed by the euphoric feeling. Seonghwa took this as a chance to caress the side of your face, draw a line against your jaw and lead you towards him with soft fingers under your chin. Placing one kiss, another on your lips, and peppering your cheeks and nose with loving pecks, he encouraged you. He wanted to ensure that you felt loved, and only loved. When you began to move, hands finding the headboard for better balance and as a security measure so that you would not hurt Seonghwa, his gaze stayed on your face, bearing witness to the single most gorgeous view of his mortality.

He gave himself up to you, something that he would have never imagined, but something that felt so right that he was terrified of thinking how his life would be had he never met you. Seonghwa let you control the pace, and when your walls tightened around his dick with your climax fast-approaching, did nothing to stop you, deny you of the ecstasy, much to his own fortune, for the cries of his name as you reached your high and rode it out, leading him to his own heavenly demise were now permanently etched into his brain. Never before did anything of his sound so captivating. Never before did he think that he could see a light in this dark city, in his dark path. But there she was, an angel in his arms, falling forwards, a barely noticeable shake still over taking her as she nuzzled into the crook of his neck, your lustful fever accentuated by the coolness of the metal necklaces. Seonghwa kissed your cheek once again, then your forehead and the crown of your head, thanking you, adoring you, and as the minutes ticked past, finding his footing in the post-coital bliss, and nudging for you to clean up with him, so the oasis you had created in your four walls could last longer, and you could drift into the sunniest dreams in each other’s embrace.

As you laid in Seonghwa’s arms, flushed from the shower and changed into an oversized t-shirt, his leg lazily thrown over yours and breath tickling your exposed skin, you felt even more alive. As he pulled you closer to him, and with the hand that was fully on the other side of you reached out to rest his palm on the back of yours, and let your fingers intertwine, you let yourself fall into a serenity that you had never known, and listened to his heartbeat through the tee you had given him, a rhythm that you never wanted to forget, a soul that helped yours truly come back from a place of no return. Seonghwa traced the tattoos on your skin, whispering about their marvel, their story, pointing out his favourites, the details that put every piece together into one flowing design. He repeated, again and again, his adoration for you, kissing your earlobe only to say it once more, accompanied by his favourite sound: the syllables that made up your name. In rare moments like this, everything felt easy, within reach. In this time and space that existed after a revival, a self-discovery and a promise of a new beginning, you were ready to take the scenic route.

“Hwa, could you pass me the C-spanner?”

“Ah, the mechanic’s scythe, sure thing.” you rolled your eyes and grinned, accepting the tool from Seonghwa’s outstretched hand. You were working on a swanky new Yamaha that had been added to the general Blue Bird collection after a certain Aprilia had been turned into scraps in the name of security. Not that you knew anything though - after all that was not you, and you did not exist at all in the databases of the Guardians, having flown under the radar thanks to some quick camera wipes, and security checks around Night City. Your new beginning was greeting you with open arms.

As you adjusted the pre-load on the rear shock absorbers, Seonghwa noticed something that reminded him of cling film peeking out from under your sleeve and letting his curiosity get the better of him, inched towards you, around the bike and giving you barely a second to register his intentions, poked at the plastic.

“What’s that, love?”

“A little upgrade.” you smiled to yourself and continued to make adjustments to the energetic beast.

“A tattoo?” he inquired, taking the c-spanner from your hand and laying it down on the ground. You spun on your old stool to face him.

“Mhm…”

“Show me?”

“I don’t know… probably won’t be clear enough through the film and I don’t want to ruin it so…”

“C’mon Y/N, weren’t you gushing about it to me just yesterday? How Seonghwa would adore it and-”

“Don’t sell me out, bossman.” you retorted, faking a glare at Yunho who was in the depths of a discussion about component orders with Jongho and evidently, was getting more and more bored.

“And focus on the papers, Yunho.” the latter rapid-fired after you, making Yunho groan and shift his attention away.

“So?” Seonghwa nudged your foot with his, shoving his hands in his pockets. Clearly, whatever tailor he knew in this city was a magic person, because even months after the turning point in your identity, a switch in time that let you open your eyes to a beautiful new world, the beloved biker pseudo-uniform in black and orange hues was pristine, seamless, bearing no signs of any gunshots, nor of any tears nor grazes.

You stood up, and cautiously rolled up your sleeve to reveal a transparent bandage that covered your fresh ink. Another restart, another call for a new step in the form of a single blue feather, with a stunning gradient and black detailing. As Seonghwa peered at the design, open-mouthed and silent before nearly squeezing the air out of you as he hugged you as tightly as he possibly could and spun you around, you blinked away the last of your doubts that had been stuck to you from before the fateful arrival to Night City. In the most unexpected places, surrounded by the most unexpected people, time was finally on your side, and let you slowly but surely take steps towards the you that you were happy being. The you that was loved and could love. The you that turned a fresh new leaf, and was more alive than ever.

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arminsfavoritepookie · 10 months

Text

Gojo's infatuation with the idea of touching you was maddening.

Every time your skin brushed against his, his entire body felt alive with electricity. It was as if the air crackled around him, and he could barely contain his excitement when he felt your fingers accidentally intertwine with his own.

Even watching horror movies together sent him into a state of nervousness and delight - not just from the scares on screen, but from the sensation of your warmth pressed against his side. Gojo's senses became hyperaware in your presence, honing in on every detail. He felt the soft touch of your breath against his skin and the quickening of your heartbeat when he wrapped his arm around you. Your head would rest against his shirt, and he'd become enthralled by the smell of your shampoo.

Each time you squeezed his arm in fear or excitement, Gojo was overcome with a wave of blissful euphoria. But as much as Gojo wanted to revel in these sensations forever, he also yearned for something deeper. He wanted to hold your hand without fear of it being misunderstood, to feel the warmth of your body against his without hesitation. Yet he never dared to act on his desires, content to simply exist in the realm of possibility that was your friendship.

In those moments of quiet intimacy, Gojo found himself daydreaming about all the ways he could touch you. He'd imagine tracing the curves of your body with his fingertips, kissing the soft skin of your neck, and playing with your pretty curls. Each touch he imagined was so vivid, it was as if he could feel your skin beneath his fingers already. Even beyond his daydreams, the mere concept of touching you fascinated Gojo.

He couldn't help but wonder how your body felt beneath his own, or what your lips would taste like if he kissed you. When he was around you, his mind became a cascade of imagery, painting vivid pictures of a future where they could explore each other's bodies without hesitation. Despite the possibility that these fantasies would never come to fruition, Gojo couldn't help but continue dreaming about them. Each touch felt like a tiny spark of magic, and he relished in every accidental brush of your hand against his.

For Gojo, the thought of touching you was a portal into a world of sensory bliss - a place where he could forget about everything else and bask in the sheer radiance of your presence. It wasn't fear of rejection that held him back, for he was more than capable of bearing the weight of unrequited love. It was the fact that he cared for you more than words could ever convey.

The very thought of putting you in danger by pursuing anything more than a friendship with you made his heart constrict with dread, as if it were being strangled by the weight of his emotions. He knew that he needed you, craved your presence, your laughter, and the gentle touch of your fingers against his flesh. But as much as he wanted to bask in you, he couldn't fathom risking your safety in the dangerous depths of his job.

The mere idea of you being in harm's way was enough to make him lose his breath, as he imagined the myriad of ways that the cruel world could snatch you away from him. You were his weakness, and he couldn't let himself be blinded by the illusion of safety that his love for you promised. For as long as he could remember, Gojo had been living in the shadows, shrouded in darkness and surrounded by danger. And he knew that he could never let that darkness seep into your life, could never let you be exposed to the horrors of his world.

He cherished the innocence that shone through you, the purity that you exuded with every breath you took. And he vowed to keep you safe, to guard you with all the strength that he could muster. But when he watched you smile, oblivious to the danger that lurked around you, he couldn't help but feel a pang of bittersweet pain. For he knew that he could never have you, that his love would remain unfulfilled, forever etched in the depths of his soul. He reveled in your presence, drinking in every moment as if it were his last.

For he knew that one day, the shadows would claim him, and he would have to leave you behind. But until then, he would cherish you, love you from afar, and be completely infatuated with your touch.

For Gojo Satoru, you were the light that kept him going, the beacon that shone in the darkness, and the only thing that gave his life meaning.

#gojo x reader #gojo x y/n #gojo x you #gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru x black!reader #jjk x poc!reader #jjk x you #jjk x black reader #jjk fanfic #gojo fluff #gojo angst #gojou satoru x you #Gojo #gojo headcanons #jjk gojo

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daydreamtofiction · 8 months

Text

Thou Shalt Not Covet // 8: Penance

Contents | Part 7 | First Person Version [AO3]

Summary: (Priest!Benedict x Female Reader) "This was it. This was really happening."

Word Count: <4K

Warnings: Strong language, irreverence, dark humour, religious imagery, explicit sexual content from the outset. Smut: penetrative sex/unprotected sex, (some)dirty talk, other things I’m sure but it’s 4am and I’m tired. Readers must be 18+

Kissing him now was different than before.

In the church it had been desperate, chaotic, a deliverance from lust that served neither of you well. This time, though, there was no rage; no fury in his touch, no aggravation in your chest.

Your mouths moved, deep and slow, luxuriating in the taste of one another without the fear of interruption. You weaved your hands into the back of his hair, the silky, damp locks slipping between your fingers. His lips parted against yours, a heavy breath escaping him as you tugged his head back gently, like a hot, satisfied sigh of relief. You wondered how long he'd been starving himself of this intimacy, how someone who kissed like this would ever have the strength to abstain.

His tongue swept into your mouth, so fluid yet dominant in its invasion. You revelled in the taste of him; the cigarette he'd smoked, the whiskey he'd drank at the party, the intoxicating warmth of his breath. This was the same tongue that spoke to god, that gave sermons in church and preached of chastity, now gliding against yours in a sinful union, inciting feelings within you that he'd so adamantly condemned.

You moaned softly against his lips, pressing your body harder against him. His damp clothes were cold now, making you shiver as the rainwater seeped through to your chest. Your nipples began to harden in response, sending jolts of prickly pleasure to your core with every brush against them.

His hands skimmed up your back, the sensitivity of his touch lost against the thick material of your jumper. You wanted him to delve beneath it, craved the warmth of his large palms splayed across your flesh. But his movements were unhurried, and you weren't sure if it was out of reverence or doubt. But then he rolled his hips beneath you, pressing a straining erection up against your centre, and it definitely didn't feel like doubt.

There was a part of you that was surprised to find him so hard, eager, aching to break out of his confines and sink between your legs. But the other part of you knew; from the moment you met him he seemed to know exactly how to burrow straight to the core of you. To delve beyond the awkwardly timed jokes and resigned disposition to the place where it all made sense. Where you made sense. It was like he belonged within the very depths of you, and he wanted to be there. You wanted him there. Mind and body.

The feeling was torturous; the friction, the pressure, the connection stifled by layers of clothing and his forbearing restraint.

"Touch me," you whispered against his lips.

"I am touching you."

"No, touch me." You reached back and gripped his wrists, attempting to guide him beneath the jumper.

He closed his eyes and let out a growling sigh. It made you halt, leaning back slightly to look into his eyes.

"Please don't hate me."

"Why would I hate you?" he replied.

"I don't know. You just seem... angry."

"I'm not angry, Ellis. I'm devastated." He moved his large hands to frame your face, thumbs on your cheeks, fingers curved around the back of your neck behind your ears. "You have... devastated me."

A breath caught softly in your throat, your voice barely audible as you muttered. "I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

He returned his mouth to yours and you gasped at the newfound fervour in his kiss. Sharp teeth nipped at your bottom lip, his tongue less gentle in its assault. He said you weren't really sorry, and perhaps that was true; a sorry person would have stopped him, spared him, absolved him of his sins before they burgeoned beyond forgivable. But instead you let him kiss and bite and lick at your parted lips, hummed in approval as he brought his hands to your bare thighs - fingertips bruising in their rough grasp - and bore down against the hard bulge beneath his trousers.

There was a fire deep in your core, flames licking and dancing as they swept through your body. Your skin puckered with heat, every touch searing, every kiss and ragged breath drawing the blaze closer to the surface. You had never wanted someone this desperately before, never been so aroused that you could feel it tingling in your scalp, surging in your stomach and pooling between your legs as your clit pulsated with need.

You dragged the jumper over your head, turning it inside out as you impatiently peeled it from your body and threw it to the ground beside the couch. For three years, no one had seen you naked except Alfie, and there was a comfort that came with that. He'd already acquainted himself with the curves and blemishes of your body, the parts you liked and didn't. He'd seen the scar from an old bellybutton piercing, traced his fingers over the stretch marks on your hips. You never had to fear exposing yourself to him. Most of the time you never even had to; his eagerness to shove inside you completely outweighing his desire to fully undress.

For weeks you'd opened your legs for him, closed your eyes as he clumsily thrust into your body and imagined Father Benedict there instead. You would sink into a world of steepled ceilings and stained glass, dark curls and white collars. But when it was over, you would open your eyes and be back in the house - Gina's house - with Alfie's satisfied smile gleaming down at you.

But this time, Father Benedict wasn't a fantasy, and those piercing blue eyes were actually there, trailing over you in silence. You suddenly became very aware that you'd revealed yourself to him; bare chest, uncovered stomach, dips and contours and textures and curves, parts of you that had belonged solely to someone else for the last three years. A shyness washed over you, the urge to wrap your arms around yourself and hide. But as his gaze raked over your body, hands gliding slowly up your sides, you stilled.

A heavy breath fell from his parted lips, the exhale rattling with a soft growl. "Forgive me, Father," he muttered, his voice so low it was barely audible.

You couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic, or if he really was speaking to God; begging for mercy before he'd even taken a bite of the forbidden fruit.

He leaned forward, placing a kiss on your collarbone as his fingers dug into your hips. Your head fell back instinctively, opening yourself up to him, eyes closing as the warmth of his tongue trailed up to your neck. A shiver ran through you like static, raising goosebumps and tightening your nipples into painful, hard pearls. He hadn't spoken directly to you, and yet somehow every insecurity you had began to melt, dripping from your centre in wet, hot desire.

You took his hair in fistfuls as he traipsed kisses down your chest, teeth grazing over the soft flesh of each breast before pausing suddenly. You opened your eyes and brought your head forward, looking down to find him leaning back to examine you curiously.

"Are these bruises?" he asked.

You glanced down at yourself; the motley of reds, purples and browns marring your breasts.

"Love bites," you replied quietly, simply.

He glared up at you, half-lidded, jaw sharp.

"Does it bother you?" you asked.

"The evidence of another man's mouth all over you?"

"So it does?"

He didn't respond, his silence confirming your suspicion.

"Why?" you whispered.

"Because I know he didn't deserve the privilege."

You felt his words spark the nerves in your clit, like the striking of a match. You rolled your hips slightly, trying to ease the sudden ache. "Are you saying you do?"

"No." His tone darkened as he looked up at you. "But I plan to earn it."

You didn't know what you were expecting him to say. But it definitely wasn't that. It made you wish you could see yourself through his eyes - a woman he had to earn. You leant forward and swept him into another kiss; so overcome with need and adulation, the feeling of being desired and appreciated almost as arousing as his lips on your bare skin. He returned your kiss, just for a moment, before bringing a hand to your face, gripping your cheeks between finger and thumb to peel you away.

"After tonight, no one will ever touch you again unless they're worthy of you," he said, his voice so quiet and serious, lips grazing yours as he spoke. "Will you promise me that?"

You nodded, as much as his grasp on your face would allow.

He eased his grip, seemingly satisfied with your response, and allowed you to melt into him again. You fumbled for the buttons on his shirt as you kissed him, popping them open one by one until you reached the collar. It seemed wrong for you to take it off. Even now as you sat straddling him, half naked and panting heavily, that strip of white plastic around his neck was like armour, an impenetrable shield, blasphemous to remove.

"Go ahead," he said quietly, as if sensing your apprehension. "It just snaps off."

"You don't want to do it yourself?"

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. "Just do it."

You pulled at it with shaking fingers but it didn't budge. With a slight huff you tried again, harder, hearing two quick pops, a heavy exhale from his lips. You slid it out, eyes fixed on his as you dropped it to the ground - his commitment relinquished, abandoned, discarded into the puddle of your jumper on the floor.

He undid the last few buttons himself before placing his hands around your waist, silently granting permission for you to peel the shirt back from his body and reveal the smooth, cold skin beneath it. You lay your palms on his chest, dragging them slowly down his torso as you admired the sight, the feel, how he expanded with every breath, tensed with the tickle of your fingers. Some parts of him were soft, tender, malleable beneath your touch. Others were hard and robust, broader than you expected them to be. This person wasn't a dream, wasn't a character or a myth. This was a man.

His throat bobbed with a deep swallow as you leant forward and placed a kiss on his chest, his hold on you tightening, body turning rigid beneath you. You trailed your lips up to his neck, revelling in the taste of him; salt and earth, soap and faded aftershave.

"Tell me about the fantasies," he whispered through a serrated breath.

"What do you mean?"

"I want to know what you pictured when you thought of me."

You paused before moving your mouth up to his jaw, kissing along the sharp edge, the slightest brush of stubble beginning to surface.

"I'll tell you what I was thinking about today in my office," he wagered.

You thought about it for a moment. "Okay. You first."

"I was thinking about you kneeling for communion at the altar." He turned his head, his deep, gravelly voice pouring straight into your ear. "With my cock down your throat."

You gasped gently as a rush of warmth flooded your core, making you roll your hips to ride the sudden, intense wave.

"You give sermons with that mouth, Father," you said softly, voice trembling despite your attempt to sound playful.

His hands glided up and down your back, nails grazing lightly over your goose-bumped flesh. "Now you."

"I never really thought of a specific scene. It's just... always you. But-" you cut yourself off, inhaling the words back into your lungs before they even had the chance to escape.

"But?"

You lifted your head to look at him. "One thing always stays the same."

"And that is?"

"You're never... Gentle."

He buckled beneath you, closing his eyes and letting his head fall against the back of the couch, a stifled groan resonating in the base of his throat. "Hot, fiery Hell," he growled, pushing himself up between your legs.

He felt big; his cock firm and straining as it surged against your sheathed entrance. You wanted to release it, hold it in your hands, run your tongue along every inch. You wanted to acquaint the curl of your fingers with its girth, stroke, grip, tease, watch it sink gradually inside you until there was nothing left of it. For the longest time, sex had been a chore; Alfie's penis a jabbing, graceless thing that prodded around but never truly satisfied. You'd forgotten what it was like to truly crave the intrusion, to feel yourself lubricated and ready before you'd even fully undressed.

He weaved a hand through you hair, wrenching you towards him and swallowing you in another heady, desperate kiss. The other hand slid beneath the rumpled fabric of your boxers, tracing his fingers back and forth over the crease where thigh met hip. You willed him to move further inward, mewling with every almost-touch until the sensation became unbearable. You'd waited so long for this; sat through so many sermons, suffered the ache of uncomfortable pews and unsafe bus rides, the suspicious glare of church volunteers and the boredom of those fucking support groups. It was time to embrace where it had led you to.

You were his penance, but he was your reward.

You reached down and began working to unfasten his trousers, battling with the complicated fly until it finally opened. He came undone with it, breathing a hot sigh into your mouth as you stroked and caressed him through his underwear. He steered his fingers over the junction of your bikini line and you gasped as they slipped easily through your wet folds, gliding back and forth before settling on your clit.

He gave a proud hum as he rolled the pad of his thumb over the tender bud, rousing a storm in your core; sparks of lightning and deep, undulating thunder. You moaned softly, grip tightening around the outline of his rigid length. A shiver rippled through you, making your legs shake, hips bucking involuntarily and pushing you harder against his touch.

Maintaining the pressure on your clit, he moved his other hand to the waistband of your boxers - his boxers, now drenched in the evidence of your desire - silently instructing you to take them off. But you didn't want to leave him, even for a moment. Scared that your brief separation would bring him clarity, grant him just enough time to change his mind. You pressed your forehead to his as you lingered there, staring down into his eyes and searching for doubt in the flecks of his irises.

He removed his hands from you completely - the loss of contact turning the pleasure to a heavy, mournful ache - and tugged at the crumpled material around your waist.

"Ellis," he growled.

You gave in and climbed off him, the weight of your movements inciting a stifled groan in his chest. And in the time it took the boxers to fall to the ground, you were back on his lap, bare pussy grinding against the rough fabric of his trousers; buttons and open fly, the Y-shaped seam of his underwear and confined curve of his cock.

Was God here right now? Spying from the corner of the room like some omniscient voyeur? You'd never been one for exhibitionism. But there was a strange power that came with the thought of your naked body shrouded in a celestial gaze, deities forced to watch but unable to intervene.

You felt Father Benedict shift a hand beneath you, shucking his trousers further down his hips and fisting at his underwear. His cock sprung free against your ass, firm and heavy as it settle along the groove between your cheeks. Your breath turned shallow at the mere thought of having him inside you, a deep shiver rippling through your core like a prophecy of that first thrust.

You lifted yourself slightly, enough for him to reach down and grip the base of his cock, gliding the engorged head through the slick between your legs. He was eager, impatient - maybe he was scared of changing his mind too.

"Are you sure about this?" you whispered, shivering as you felt him prodding against your entrance.

His gaze darkened, like a crisp blue sky in the onset of a storm, and in one smooth, firm slide, he entered you. A sound poured out of you that you'd never heard yourself make before; shock, relief, pleasure, all at once. You marvelled at the stretching sensation, the way your body welcomed every inch of his cock with such ease, your inner walls flexing and moulding around the thick veins and hard ridges as it filled you to the very depths.

His eyes clamped shut, the muscle in his jaw pulsating as he fought to maintain his composure. "I haven't been sure about anything since the moment I met you," he finally replied.

You leaned forward and pressed your lips to the dimple at the corner of his mouth, trying to soothe the tension he was storing there. You draped your arms around his shoulders and let your chest fall against his, running your fingers through the back of his hair, the curls that fell over the nape of his neck.

This was it. This was really happening.

For the longest time you'd felt incomplete; a collection of empty spaces and uncharted lands, voids too deep and complex for anyone to explore, even you. But in the short time you'd known Father Benedict, he'd somehow managed to journey to the very centre of those places, laid down roots and watched them flourish, as swift and besieging as English ivy on fractured stone. Perhaps that was why this felt so right; because the hollows of your body were already his to pervade.

He was bigger than Alfie; thicker, longer, the snug fit stealing the air from your lungs as you relaxed against him. No man had ever filled you this completely; flooding your pelvis with a warm, tense pressure before he'd even moved a muscle. You rolled your hips, testing the feel of him, and gasped quietly as electricity surged through your belly.

A deep, husky groan dripped into your ear, long fingers and large palms skimming up your thighs and settling on your waist with a clawing grasp. His voice sent a chill across your skin, even the finest hairs bristling in response.

"Ellis," he rumbled. "I'm really trying not to lose my composure."

You kissed him softly, allowing another slow, controlled rotation. His voice rattled in the back of his throat, nails pressing half-moons into the dips of your waist. There was something charming in his restraint; how even in this moment, with his cock buried inside you, he was still trying to maintain his civility.

You tightened your hold on his hair, deepening the connection until you were nothing but a blur of sweeping tongues and hot, heavy breaths. His body trembled beneath you as you gradually began to move, hips grinding and rotating to the rhythm of your kisses, punctuating each slide of his length with a soft, desperate whimper.

A divine friction resonated in your core; his cock a rigid, firm stave, your pussy a soft, pliant sheath, moving together in both harmony and dissonance, like the trill of a choir. With every upstroke, your nipples grazed his open shirt, and when you bore down, an electric current hummed in your clit.

"Fuck." The word stuck between your teeth before escaping in a sigh.

His hands caressed your back, the wide span of his fingers leaving no part of you untouched; squeezing, prodding, tickling, each stroke perfectly in tune with the motion of your hips. You rested your forehead in the crook of his neck, the feeling of his collar against your cheek making you realise he hadn't undressed. Not really. You'd stripped bare for him, offered your unclad body like a tribute for him to bask in. You were a creature of desire, his Mary Magdalene, completely devoted to serve.

You felt your thighs growing tired, sore and shaking, a heavy burn smouldering in your muscles. You relaxed your pace, dropping your full weight into his lap as you slowed your movements to a lazy grind. The new sensation made you moan softly against his skin, savouring the longer, deeper slides, the crown of his cock sinking right down to your soul.

His head fell back, a swallow thrumming down his throat. "My god," he groaned.

A smile pulled at your cheeks, the lord's name in vain so delicious whenever it came from him. And this one was your fault; your body guiding him to commit sin after glorious sin. You placed a kiss on his neck, seizing a moment of boldness by taking the skin into your mouth and drawing a bruise to the surface.

You half expected him to push you away, chastise you for marking him in a place he'd struggle to hide. But instead you felt his arms flex around you, thighs tensing as he moved to plant his feet firmly on the ground. A jolt of spine-tingling pleasure burst through you as he thrust to meet the languid roll of your hips, turning what was supposed to be a smooth, relaxed gyration into a hard, forceful collision. Your mouth fell open, a dazed cry falling from your parted lips.

He growled softly in response, his control waning.

Your pussy tensed around his cock as he slammed into you again, every ridge and groove of your inner walls melding to embrace him. He brought a hand to your face, drawing you into another fevered, hungry kiss. You obliged obediently, as though you were his to use, a disciple eager to please.

You hummed and groaned against his lips with every pump of his cock, the couch creaking beneath the weight of your union, his hand welded to the back of your head, the other on your backside directing your movements. He was driving you towards completion, filling you with a heat and pressure that grew stronger with every stroke. The feeling continued to swell, expanding deep in your stomach until it was dancing along your nerves; setting you alight.

You'd gotten used to not finishing. Alfie's premature climaxes so normalised that you no longer even protested the stuttering hips and garbled moans. Men came. Sometimes you did too, usually alone with your fingers after they rolled off you and went to sleep. But even in the times you did orgasm, it never felt like this.

Your entire body shuddered, cells exploding and stitching themselves back together again. There was a throbbing in your clit, an ache in your core, the brushing of his cock inside you so sensitive you could no longer tell the difference between pleasure and pain.

He kept your head up with his hand, forcing you to look at him as you rode out every last wave, the aftershocks causing your walls to clench around his cock, coaxing him to his own release. He came soon after with a deep, guttural groan, sinking right down to the root as he flooded you with his seed.

You sat breathless on his lap, still joined to him as he began to soften inside you, his eyes so dark it was like staring into the night sky. If this really was what damnation looked like, then you would happily burn for an eternity.

*Tags: @evelynrosestuff @thealleydog @lexlexigogh @allie131313 @simpingbestie @ironstrange1991 @witchoftheages @hiddendiary @swds @jyessaminereads @withalittlehoney @hunterofshadows04 @slytherindoctorsat221b @diabaroxa @phoebe221 @hai-kbai @downtownshabby @dara-of-qui-zi @unfilteredmoonchild @classicrebound @bigratbitchsworld @aphroditesdilemma @bloodyxsaint @ployavengersog1 @spectaclebitch @paola-carter @veryladyqueen @gordorio @shjl15 @thedaredevilsgirl @howardtonypotts @ceccille @wllsfer @thelostsmiles

*If you would like to be tagged in the next chapter, please leave a comment below, or feel free to add yourself to the list here

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lavendertales · 8 months

Text

SEÑORITA: Chapter 3

pairing: Javier Peña x Murphy!f!reader

summary: dinner at Steve & Connie's new apartment goes a little south as tension runs high between you and your brother—as well as between you and Javier.

word count: 4.4k

series warnings: reluctant friends to lovers, lots of playful banter, mutual pining, slow burn, secret relationship, filthy smut.

series masterlist | AO3

Javier had underestimated New York by all accounts. He knew it was a huge city, but the nickname “the city that never sleeps” somehow evaded him till he actually moved in here a few weeks ago. The constant lights, people everywhere, the noise… it all contributed to unwelcomed flashbacks for Javier, which meant that some nights he laid wide awake in his bed, too afraid to close his eyes.

He doesn’t want to see the bodies of those he had failed.

So instead, he thinks of Steve and Connie and their daughter, starting out fresh in the United States like Colombia’s hell hadn’t followed them, like it doesn’t still haunt them. He thinks of how they’re a family, united through love and support, and he thinks of you.

Rather, he thinks of your strained relationship with Steve, and he grimaces.

Javier tries to imagine a younger Steve being bossed around by his little sister and surprisingly, he has to suppress a chuckle. Quite a funny imagery, Javier decides as he roams around his kitchen at the crack of dawn, scrambling to make some toast and a cup of black coffee. It grows even funnier when he recalls Steve’s exact words about you: “growing up, even if she’s my little sister, she’s the one who bullied me”.

The smile that breaks from his lips remains amused for a little while as his dry breakfast is in the making. It only fades when his thoughts go into a rather surprising—and frankly forbidden area.

Though he begs his mind to oblige to basic commands and envision other things, Javier still falls victim to thoughts of you exchanging glares with so-called bad boys, batting your eyelashes at them and smiling, revealing enough cleavage only to tease, never to give the full taste.

And when he remembers that you live right below him, probably still asleep at this early hour, Javier clears his throat and takes the first bite of toast. He swallows with difficulty, even more so as he recalls the way your hand practically slid inside his pants, hectic and yet so calculated, with cat-like precision and without a care in the world as to how or if that may affect him.

Stop, he shushes his spinning mind.

He reckons this is happening because… well… it’s been a while. Fourteen months, to be exact. Last he shared some intimacy with someone was back in Cali with Gabriella, and it had been, as usual, something quick to take the edge off and satiate the body’s primal need, and they both called it a night. Then things went a bit south and next thing he knew, he packed up his things and returned to his pop’s ranch. And upon his pop’s repeated request, he spoke with Steve and they both agreed on taking this job in New York.

It’s unusual for Javier to be celibate for this long, but in the past year he’s come to realize that all of his encounters with women, while direct and straight to the point, have been meaningless—almost. It was never about having a relationship in the midst of a drug war; that much was clear from the get-go. And Javier never let any of the women he’d seen believe otherwise, less so himself. He wasn’t foolish enough to hope or even want a relationship, not after the things he’d seen and not after almost getting married for all the wrong reasons.

Almost. The word seems to haunt him as much as Colombia itself does.

He’s still not convinced he’d be a good partner to someone. So perhaps celibacy might be good for him. He could take this time to reflect more on himself and grow as a better man. He doesn’t really mind it, though.

When he’s getting in Steve’s car at 7 am sharp, he’s in a good, clear headspace. Especially because he’d hate to have his best friend know that he was thinking of his little sister less than an hour ago. Hell, even Javier doesn’t want to think about that.

But there’s no harm to wonder about someone, right? His thoughts hadn’t been depraved or resembling interest. He was simply being curious about who you are as a person.

“You doing okay today?” Steve asks.

“Peachy. Why?”

“I don’t know. You seem kinda deep in thought.”

“Didn’t get enough sleep to be buried deep in thoughts.”

Steve chuckles, focused on the road. “How’s my sister doin’?”

“The fuck you askin’ me about your sister, how should I know?”

“I figured since you live in the same building you guys see each other on the daily.”

Javier immediately shakes his head, exhausted already from the conversation.

“Don’t do this, man,” he warns Steve. “Don’t even think about it.”

“About what? I didn’t insinuate anything.”

“You were about to. I made you a promise, and I intend to keep it. I got no plans to mess with your sister and she’s not even the kind of girl I’d date. I’m steering clear of her, and we both got lives of our own, different schedules.”

“It’s all cool. I just figured you spoke more with her.”

Javier frowns. “You haven’t talked to her lately?”

“No, no, we have. Just… I don’t know, I guess I just assumed things would naturally pick up between us.”

“It’s not gonna be magically okay between you two. It’s been years, and it takes effort and time. But I’m sure you’ll—patch things up.”

“Thanks, man. Sorry if I seemed suspicious.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it.”

Steve falters and Javier does take notice, but he doesn’t give him a hard time about it.

“Speaking of patching things up… our apartment’s ready, so Connie suggested we invite you both to dinner.”

“Sounds nice. When?”

“How about tonight?”

“Uh—yeah, sure.”

“Can you tell my sister too? Since—you know, you live in the same—“

“Why don’t you tell her yourself? Just call her and invite her.”

As he glances to the driver’s seat, Javier finally notices how nervous his friend looks.

“Why are you nervous?” he asks Steve. “You’re siblings for fuck’s sake.”

To which his friend shrugs, letting a heavy sigh along with it. “I did some mistakes in the past trying to look after her and I… I want us to be friends again.”

“I don’t think removing any male presence from her life is the solution.”

“Probably isn’t, yeah.”

“Probably?”

Both burst into laughter right as Steve parks in front of the precinct.

“You know I don’t actually think all that shit about you,” he tells Javier. “That you’re a womanizer and you mess with every woman you meet. I know you never mistreated any of the girls you were seeing, in any sort of way, and I know you wouldn’t do that to my sister.”

“I wouldn’t. That is, you know, if I’d actually date your sister. Which I won’t.”

“Yeah I know, she’s far from the women you normally��see.”

Javier unknowingly holds his breath, then releases it slowly and steadily, as to not give away the fact that the mention of dating and you in the same sentence requires deep breaths. It shouldn’t, really, but somehow knowing that Steve kindly asked him to stay away from his flesh and blood…

Yeah, maybe some deep breaths are required in order to forget the fact that he thought of you bright and early this morning, handling him like he was nothing but a piece of clay.

But his thoughts weren’t depraved to begin with, so he’s safe. It was simple curiosity.

“So tonight, what time?” Javier inquires instead.

“Seven.”

“Alright.”

Javier gets through the day’s tasks with little to no exertion. He keeps quieter than usual, which luckily none of his colleagues or superiors notice because no one’s taking the time to know anyone personally, and today he is grateful for that.

So for the rest of the day he wonders about the kind of atmosphere that will await him once he sets foot inside Steve and Connie’s apartment. He knows them together and separately, and he vaguely knows you, but he has no clue what to expect from being under the same roof as the three of you. And frankly, he’s not really sure what to expect out of you, either. Probably just—the unexpected. He’s had a basic, mere taste of what you are like and you seem like a lot to handle. Combined with Steve’s obsessive need to be protective over you?

Yeah, tonight should be fun as hell.

He buys a bottle of white wine regardless and rings the door at the freshly renovated apartment at 7:07 p.m. Steve opens the door, smiling rather cordially than out of friendliness, so Javier’s eyes shot straight to Olivia cooing in his arms.

“Fair warning, Connie’s all wired because of tonight,” he mutters. “So if you hear some sharp commands… don’t question it.”

“It’s just a housewarming dinner.”

“Yeah… I wouldn’t tell that to her. Come on in.”

Javier stifles a mocking sound, so he playfully pinches Olivia’s little elbow instead, to which she giggles and hides in Steve’s shoulder.

“See? All the girls are into you,” Steve jokes.

“Come on, Murphy.”

“Just kidding!”

The smell of warm food swathes Javier, more so when he walks into the kitchen, cautiously looking around so as to not startle Connie. He notices her by the counter, frantically stirring something that looks like a salad.

“Smells delicious, Con.”

She turns almost violently fast, her face lighting up when she meets Javier’s benevolent face. Then she goes in for a hug, her eyes landing on the bottle of wine in his large hand.

“I’m so glad you made it!” she smiles. “And whoa, that is quite an expensive bottle of wine, isn’t it?”

“Uh—medium.”

“I hope lasagna is okay. Homemade from scratch—“

“Connie, relax. It smells delicious, and I bet it’ll be even more delicious.”

Connie’s smile widens and Javier can easily read relief on her face. “By the way, you know Steve’s sister is coming too, don’t you?”

“Yeah, Steve told me. Looking forward to the family dynamic you guys got going on. Sure that’ll be fun.”

Connie snorts. “Well. The Murphy siblings are quite something, let me tell you that. Their relationship has been rocky for years, since she went out to college, but Steve’s been trying to reconnect, and I think tonight can be a good step forward.”

“Kind of feels like I’m intruding then.”

“Don’t worry about it. You know we consider you part of our family. You’re Olivia’s uncle.”

“Well I’m his aunt, and I’m not sure I’m into whatever vibe’s been pushed onto the two of us then.”

Both Javier and Connie turn towards you, each smiling in your direction, though you sense warmth and love from your sister-in-law and nothing but mere politeness from Javier. Which makes sense, given how you’re practically strangers and you seem to have nothing in common.

“Hi,” you smile at him, too wide for Javier’s own taste.

“Hola señorita,” he nods.

You can’t help the sound that leaves your throat, a rather mocking sound. “Why do you do that?” you ask.

“Do what?”

“The thing where you greet me with your ‘come and get it’ voice, all sultry and in Spanish too. Do you greet all the ladies like that?”

Javier frowns. “I don’t have a ‘come and get’—what?”

But then he hears Connie’s stifled chuckle and he redirects his frown towards her.

“You do kind of have that voice that’s meant to be… persuasive with the ladies.”

“I don’t—shut up.”

He places the wine bottle on the countertop then settles in the living room. Not a moment too late, Steve makes his appearance, crashing on the couch next to him.

“Alright, Olivia should be down for a couple of hours at least, but that remains to be seen,” he jokes.

“Your sister’s a real tough nut.”

“You ain’t gotta tell me. What she do?”

“Said I have a ‘come and get it’ voice.”

Steve lets out a hearty laugh, a sound Javier hasn’t heard before. Though he doesn’t reciprocate and merely frowns in his friend’s direction, he can’t help but appreciate seeing him happy. Even if it is at Javier’s expense.

“You do,” Steve agrees after a while. “You do have that kind of voice.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“Jav, I’ve seen you at work countless times. Even walked in on you once while you and Helena were—“

“Don’t bring that up again.”

“Sorry. But why are you pouting about this anyway? Never seen you react like this cause of somethin’ a girl said. A girl like my sister, no less.”

Javier remains quiet. Why did he pout and walk away while you and Connie remained engaged in conversation in the kitchen? It is unlike him, Steve got that right; he’d never feel in any way, shape or form small because of a woman, and even if he could be hurt by a woman, he wouldn’t let it show. Not that it is a conscious choice, but rather another bizarre coping mechanism of his.

Yet it seems that you calling him out on his polite manner of greeting is causing his body to react in unusual ways.

Huh.

“What are you two girls gossiping about?” your voice reaches the living room and Javier instantly stiffens, but he still gets up from the couch and helps Connie set the table, steering clear away from you.

Which you notice. Of course you notice.

“I’m not gonna bite, you know?” you address him directly.

Connie’s eyes follow the two of you intently as you stare at each other from opposite sides of the table. She doesn’t say a word; she can only steal curious glances.

“Unless you’re into that, which… mea culpa, I can get into that too,” you smile mischievously, and Javier fights off the mental image of you leaving bite marks over his neck.

Calm the fuck down, Peña. This is just the dry spell talking.

The more he looks at you, as quickly as humanly possible, and the more he listens to you, the more he acknowledges that yes, you are far from his type.

Which couldn’t be more of a great thing.

“You two sound like an old couple with all this back and forth,” Steve says, laying the lasagna tray right in the middle of the table and makes a face.

“Not sure I’d be up for that challenge. And that’s coming from me.”

“Please! You couldn’t stop talking about marrying Derek, that guy you dated when you got into college. Marrying a bad boy was like your lifelong dream.”

You chuckle, taking a seat in front of Javier as he pours you and Connie some wine.

“That was definitely not my life’s dream,” you smile. “But since you wanna spill tea about the past in front of our guest—“

“You got nothing on me.”

Your smile turns into a rather devious smirk, and Javier can’t help but notice just how well you can match your big brother’s energy, how well you are prepared to handle anything he throws at you.

Resilience. Strength. He admires that.

“Oh yeah?” you cock an eyebrow at your brother, then immediately face Javier and focus all of your attention on him. “Get this: when Steven and Connie started dating, it was all very much textbook romance. The honeymoon stage was all honey and sugar. Every song was about them, every poem was about them. Which meant, naturally, that they were going at it every chance they got, on every surface they could find.”

“Sure,” Javier nods.

“We weren’t really like that,” Connie intervenes softly.

But you raise your hand, dismissing her, and continue. “One day, I stop by Steven’s place and I notice there’s clothes everywhere. I think to myself, ‘must’ve been a wild night, good for them’ because I’m genuinely happy for my brother and I really like his new girlfriend, right? Wrong.”

“Please don’t say it,” Steve begs.

“I make my way to the kitchen, when suddenly I feel something soft and rather moist against my foot.”

“You’re saying it.”

“I look down, and I realize I stepped on a condom.”

“Was it—?”

“That’s right, Javier. I stepped on my big brother’s used condom.”

Javier does everything in his power to not laugh, so he munches on a big piece of lasagna and salad. He washes it all down with a sip of wine, noticing Connie hiding her face in her palms and Steve rubbing his temples and staring into the distance.

“What did I do to you that you had to tell that story?!” Steve exclaims.

“You laughed at my lifelong dream. Which by the way, does not revolve around marriage. And certainly not marrying a bad boy or anything related to that. No offense, Javier.”

“None taken till… just now.”

“Is this about the stupid Star Wars disagreement again?”

Javier’s frown deepens, looking at Connie for some sort of information, yet nothing is readable on her face except an expression that resembles a big “oh shit”.

“’Disagreement’?” you repeat incredulously.

“You guys fought over Star Wars?” Javier surprises himself asking out loud.

“It’s not like that,” Steve says.

“I used to write fanfiction, specifically for Star Wars,” you clarify, your tone bitter now. “That’s how I got started with writing. I love books and reading and… I love writing. That’s why I work at the library.”

“A lot of people get their start through fanfiction, I think it’s great,” Connie adds in what feels like a futile attempt to dissolve some of the tension.

But it’s increasingly clear that the relationship between you and Steve carries more than tension from some silly arguments and some bickering. It runs deeper than what he imagined on his way here, and suddenly he feels guilty for being in the middle.

“I still don’t see the point of it, I’m sorry,” Steve mutters.

“Of course you don’t.”

“Steve.”

“No, I really don’t mean to insult or hurt you, you know that. It’s just… to me, I’m just wondering what the point in writing for a story that’s already been written is?”

You feel anger bubbling at the surface, barely protruding your skin, and yet it simmers dangerously close to your breaking point. You do not want to make a scene, not at this housewarming dinner that Connie worked hard to organize, and not in front of someone who’s practically a stranger.

“The point is creativity, expressing your own thoughts and emotions through words,” you say through clenched teeth. “Even if it is an existing story. You can build within it so that it remains unique and faithful to the material.”

“I’m not the bad guy here, sis. I swear I’m not trying to—“

“It’s not about what you’re trying to do, it’s about what you are doing. And you’re being a dick right now. Excuse me.”

You take a large sip of wine on your way out of the living room, hoping nobody follows you in your pursuit to the bathroom. Yet somehow you end up in a bedroom, presumably Steve and Connie’s judging by the framed picture of them and Olivia on the nightstand. You exhale loudly, closing your eyes and taking a moment to yourself.

You know Steve doesn’t want to hurt you. The opposite, really: everything he’s ever done, the reason why he always pushed so hard and pressured and became annoying was because he wanted to protect you in the first place. He loves you and wanted nothing more but to make sure you were safe. You know that.

But right now, you feel like you’re seventeen again, crying in anger, begging your family to just notice you and understand that you are not some freak for being on the quiet side, and the frustration that comes along with the sentiment is nearly debilitating.

A knock on the door startles you, and you roll your eyes. “Not in the mood, Steven. Gimme another two minutes, maybe I’ll conjure a smile then.”

“It’s Javier. Can I come in?”

You’re met with his face, poorly lit, and you nod. He reluctantly sits next to you on the bed, hands intertwined together between his legs. He’s clearly feeling a little awkward, but not too much since he followed you in here.

“You okay?” he asks.

You snort. “Do you really care?”

“I’m not a heartless monster, so… yeah, I guess. Besides the silence at the table is… a killer. Even Olivia’s more talkative. Pretty sure Connie’s laying it onto Steve right about now.”

“I pray you don’t mean physically.”

“Sure as hell hope not.”

You both chuckle, so soft and silent it could go unnoticed by the untrained ear.

“Anyway,” Javier resumes whilst clearing his throat as if what he’s about to say is painful, “I think it’s cool you wrote for Star Wars.”

“I take it you’re a fan?”

“Big time.”

“So… you don’t think my writing is a waste of time?”

“If it’s what you love to do, it never is a waste of time.”

Baffled, you turn towards him. “Watch it, Peña. I might start thinking you’re a good guy after all and so I could spend my time with you.”

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“Definitely not. I’m avoiding you like the plague.”

Javier smiles, looking away from you. You’re witty and got a sharp tongue, but you are still not his type. Even so, you’re not that terrible to joke around with.

“I’m sure you’re a good writer though,” he says, and he’s shocked at his own honesty.

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. Would you mind telling that to my brother?”

“There are few things I actually mind telling him straight to his face.”

You both laugh, just when Connie knocks on the door, eyes locked on your figure. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” you exhale, and this time it’s with relief. “Shockingly, Peña calmed me down. Where’s Steven?”

“Sent him outside to cool down. Don’t let him know you guys were alone in here.”

“Why?” Javier inquires.

“I think he thinks that… well… given your tumultuous past and your well-known reputation with the ladies…”

A laughter escapes your throat, rich and sardonic. “He thinks we’re gonna fuck with the first chance we get?” you keep laughing. “Is that how little faith he has in his best friend and his flesh and blood? Motherfucker.”

Connie coos your name, though you it doesn’t really register with you.

“Also, ‘tumultuous past’, seriously? He can call it what it is. I was smoking, drinking, and hanging out with the baddest boys I could find to teach my parents and my big brother a valuable lesson. Lesson that I see has passed by all three of them.”

“Con, I made a promise to a friend. And I intend to keep it. Besides, she’s really not my type, so neither one of you has to worry.”

You shift closer to Javier. “Oh, you mean you don’t find me available and with no standards?”

“See?” Javier smiles, though evidently a little riled up. “We’re fine.”

“O-kay.”

“I should go. Thanks for dinner, Con, it was very nice. The food, cause what followed was…”

“Yeah. Let me walk you out.”

“It’s okay. I’ll see myself out.”

You watch Javier disappear out the frame, your eyes lingering in the doorway one second too long. You’re very appreciative of the way he came in to comfort you, even if he did so rather clumsily. Maybe he’s not good with words. Or maybe he’s not used to comforting women.

Not in this way, at least.

Then you feel Connie’s gaze on you, burning you alive with questions she doesn’t dare ask, and you feel defensive. “What?”

“All the teasing? Him immediately coming to check on you? Comforting you? Plus, the eyes at the table…”

“What eyes? We’re neighbors, barely acquaintances. You’re reading way into it, Connie.”

She raises her arms in defense. “I’m just saying, for a moment there it seemed like you were interested in each other.”

You tsk disapprovingly. “You heard the man, I am definitely not his type.”

“What about him? Is he your type?”

“Connie. Sweetheart. He’s the walking poster for a bad boy. Inconspicuous past, questionable morals and definitely traumatized. While this was exactly what sixteen year old me would’ve swooned over, as sexy as all of that sounds and as attractive as I’d find him, because I’d be lying if I’d say I don’t… no, thank you. Grown me is more mindful of what—or whom—she puts inside her body.”

“Look, I’m not sure what Steve told you about him, but they’re friends for a reason. Not just cause they were partners in the DEA but Javi’s a really good guy. He might’ve done some questionable things back in Colombia, but so did Steve. They did what they had to do to survive and do their jobs, and Javi is actually a very caring person. He just doesn’t like showing it often.”

You rummage through Connie’s words, breaking down each and every single one of them so as to construct a better image of the man that is Javier Peña: a good, honorable man and friend, charming devil to the ladies, but always honest and upfront despite the wall of solitude and grumpiness he puts forth.

Yep. A walking poster for bad boys.

Even worse.

A former bad boy who’s learned from his mistakes and now wants to do better.

“I understand what you’re saying, but you don’t have to sell Javier’s reputation to me. I am not interested,” you reply absentmindedly.

“Alright, suit yourself. But it’s too bad. I think this could be something great for both of you.”

Again you tsk, this time more stubbornly, and you agree to return to the living room and have another glass of wine while you think of how comforted you felt in the presence of whom you could only describe as the most attractive stranger you have ever seen.

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tags: @pedrostories @milkymoon2483 @ifall4dilfs @psychedelic-ink @casa-boiardi

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romchat · 2 months

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Visual Analysis of the Slow Burn: My Journey to You, Story of Kunning Palace

How do you film a slow-burn romance?

One of the challenges of filming slow-burn romances is that creators have to figure out how to slowly build tension and intimacy between two characters without testing the audience's patience. We have to feel a couple’s chemistry and growing feelings for one another even if it takes a long time for them to get together.

And here's where cinematography and visual parallelism can be a helpful tool. Visual parallelism is when we link two or more characters, events, storylines, etc. through a shared image. When we see repeated imagery, our brains connect those moments and give them more meaning than if we had looked at them in isolation. Because of this, visual parallelism can help complicate our understanding of characters and the world around them without having to spell out those nuances in the script.

In slow-burn romances, visual parallelism can be used to:

Connect characters who, on the surface, appear incompatible or unattracted to one another;

Signal major moments of change in a show's romantic storyline;

Compare and contrast a new relationship with a character’s past relationships;

And much more!

I think two dramas that use this technique in interesting ways are My Journey to You and Story of Kunning Palace.

My Journey to You

Before we jump into that scene, let’s talk about some of the visual techniques My Journey to You (MJTY) uses to establish the enemies-to-lovers relationship of its secondary couple, Gong Shangjue and Shangguan Qian.

Something I immediately noticed about MJTY is that the show loves using certain camera angles and blocking patterns (or how actors are positioned in relation to one another) to define characters’ personalities and their relationships. This repeated imagery is an example of visual parallelism, and in the case of Shangjue and Qian, the show then uses breaks in that parallelism to communicate the subtle changes in their relationship over time. Through this technique, we see their growing feelings for each other even if we don’t hear the characters express those feelings with words.

For example, at the beginning of the show, Shangjue is usually shot from a low angle while Qian is usually shot from a high angle, and the repetition of that camera language reflects the characters' constant game of cat and mouse.

In cinematography, low-angle and high-angle shots are often paired to visually enhance the power imbalance between characters. Low-angle shots make the subject look more powerful and threatening while high-angle shots make the subject look weaker and more vulnerable.

Qian, who is an assassin, has infiltrated Shangjue’s clan, and he is immediately suspicious of her identity and allegiances. He is cold and intimidating towards her, and she does everything in her power not to get caught. But because she is particularly good at reading and manipulating him, Shangjue soon finds himself intrigued by her. He might be filmed looming over her like he has more power in the situation, but her weakness is an act. We know this because we can see how Qian isn’t filmed with such high angles when interacting with characters who know her true identity and nature like Yun Weishan or Gong Yuanzhi. She is pretending to be subservient and delicate to seduce Shangjue specifically.

Side Note: One of my FAVORITE moments in MJTY is Shangjue and Qian’s “do you still think I’m gentle?” scene in Episode 12. Not only is the writing and acting electric, but the camera’s subtle shift in angles pinpoints the moment Shangjue begins to feel sexually attracted to Qian. When she gently blows on his fingers, the camera quickly pans to an eye-level shot and we see Shangjue clench his jaw. After that, the camera uses less extreme angles to film his conversation with her—his moment of desire and her strategic thinking equalized their power imbalance.

Which brings us to the famous bath scene in Episode 17.

Whenever they share a scene, Shangjue is usually positioned at a higher level and facing forward in a thronal position while Qian is at his side, looking up at him obsequiously. The lack of visual alignment in their actor blocking represents how the characters can’t be completely vulnerable or honest with each other while the dominant/submissive pose plays up the sexual tension of their interactions.

So we know that the bath scene represents a critical turning point in their relationship because of the break in parallelism:

Not only are they sitting at the same level while facing each other, the camera is set at a much more neutral over-the-shoulder and eye-level angle. Over-the-shoulder and eye-level shots are often used to bring intimacy to a scene and that camera language reinforces the actors’ relaxed physical acting and flirtatious dialogue. The two characters are sharing a moment of honest pleasure and have temporarily let their guards down, which is why Qian decides to take the opportunity to share her true intentions for wanting to marry into his family. It’s probably the most truthful and revealing conversation she has had with Shangjue up until this point and creates complications for each others' plans.

One of the lingering questions many MJTY viewers have about Shangjue and Qian’s relationship is whether or not Qian developed real feelings for him in the end. While the script could have done a better job of developing her character’s arc at the textual level, I think the show’s thoughtful use of visual parallelism gives us the answer.

Not only does their final scene together subvert the camera language and actor blocking we talked about, but it also parallels an earlier scene where we can be reasonably sure of Qian’s honesty: the torture scene. And it’s the juxtaposition of what is shown versus what is said that gives us what I’d consider a satisfyingly bittersweet conclusion to their love story.

Story of Kunning Palace

Unlike MJTY, which uses visual parallelism to show changes in the secondary couple’s relationship, Story of Kunning Palace (SOKP) uses this technique to represent the undeniable compatibility of its main couple, Jiang Xuening and Xie Wei.

Given the popularity of the show's second and third male leads, many viewers have expressed confusion as to if and when Xie Wei truly emerges as the rightful male lead. Even as a slow-burn romance, SOKP is slow slow.

And yet when we take a step back and look at the show’s visual storytelling, particularly its use of symbolism and parallelism, we not only see why these two characters complement each other but how they find healing in their (admittedly messy and toxic) love. At its core, SOKP is a story about two traumatized and self-loathing people finding "the one" who still sees them as worthy despite all their flaws. Ning-er and Xie Wei are like two jagged pieces of a broken mirror reflecting one another’s sins and virtues, and the show constantly reminds us of that deep connection with how it juxtaposes the two characters on screen. (Just look at that split screen above--they literally complete each other.)

We see this connection from the moment Ning-er and Xie Wei are introduced in Episode 1:

The composition and camera movement directly mirror each other.

When we see parallelism in the portrayal of two characters, we should stop and think about the similarities and differences between them. Both Ning-er and Xie Wei share the trauma of having grown up alienated from their birth families, and the pain of what they experienced drives their ruthless desire for revenge and power. During the show’s first timeline, Ning-er violates her innate sense of goodness while Xie Wei hides his true self.

Side Note: SOKP also reminds us of this connection with its consistent use of a fire motif. Throughout the show, we often see Ning-er and Xie Wei surrounded by candles, furnaces, fires, etc., and this symbolism comes to a head in Episode 34 when Xie Wei desperately argues that they belong together because they've both been forged by the fire of their upbringing.

And yet at the same time, as noted by several characters, they are both incredibly loyal people, sacrificing themselves to change the fate of the people they care for.

Both Ning-er and Xie Wei overlook these redeeming qualities about themselves, but they “see” them in the other, which the show demonstrates through the visual parallelism of their gazes.

In Episode 14, Ning-er asks Xie Wei:

Jiang Xuening: Between my past self and present self, who do you think is better? Xie Wei: Be it the past or the present, it is all you. You're the one and only Miss Ning'er. Besides, the present exists because of the past. Just face it as is. But if we have to make it clear, I think if the present Ning'er knows what she wants, she will be well. And she'll be even better in the future.

In a previous analysis of Episode 14, I've noted how "Ning-er's character arc isn't just about becoming a better person but also about recognizing that she has always had goodness in her and that goodness makes her life worth just as much as someone like Zhang Zhe....Despite being brash and cunning, Ning-er is also tenacious, brave, and even kind (all of which Xie Wei recognized when they first met years ago). She is an 'unrefined jade', someone who can choose a more righteous path than the one she started on. And he sees her. He truly sees her."

So across the show's multiple timelines, the camera will linger on Xie Wei's tender gaze toward Ning-er. In this case, the parallelism of such a distinctive shot communicates something that Ning-er doesn't realize: Xie Wei sees and loves sides of her that she is unable to accept about herself.

She eventually starts seeing him too.

During the first timeline, Ning-er sees Xie Wei as a threat and warily engages him only out of desperation. But despite her fear, Ning-er also recognizes his true qualities enough that by the second timeline, she implicitly trusts him to help her carry out her own goals. She unlearns her assumptions about him and pushes him to find meaning in life beyond his self-destructive need for revenge.

So it's fitting then that during their private wedding, Ning-er and Xie Wei are shown gazing at each other, fully aware of and accepting of their true natures:

Jiang Xuening: “I’ve seen your light and your darkness, your vulnerability, and your madness. I know everything about you that is known or unknown to others. I might even say that I know you better than you do.”

They've fully entrusted themselves with one another.

#my journey to you #云之羽 #story of kunning palace #宁安如梦 #cdrama #meta #cinematography #zhang ling he #bai lu #cheng lei #lu yuxiao

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theflyindutchwoman · 3 months

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Why are you the reason Mitch lost his leg? 'Cause I let him slide on something. It doesn't matter what, just that I cut him a break when I shouldn't have, and because I did, he went back out on patrol, got blown up. That is the most Tim Bradford thing I've ever heard. You showed humanity. There's nothing to feel guilty about. Rules matter, Boot. Then what the hell are you doing out here? Some things matter more.

| ANATOMY OF A SCENE - CHENFORD EDITION 2.14 - Casualties

These two really have had some of their most personal and meaningful conversations in a car… But what distinguishes this one is that, this time, they are not in the shop. They are in Tim's truck. Out of uniform. Without any camera around. There's no trace of Officer Bradford or Officer Chen here. Just Tim and Lucy. And as a result, the atmosphere feels even more intimate… especially with the way this scene is filmed. It's dark, barely lit, with the camera outside, as if we are intruding… It even looks like there this out-of-focus fence standing between Tim and the camera, reminiscent of the imagery of a fenced window in a confessional booth. All of this gives off this intimacy, this idea of a safe space. And that's exactly what Lucy is for him at this stage. She is his safe space, someone he can open up to and talk about some of his demons without fear of being judged.

And Lucy doesn't waste time, asking Tim right away why he feels responsible for Mitch losing his leg. The fact that he answers her with no hesitation or argument is really indicative of how much their relationship has progressed. How much he values her opinion. And that's huge. This is one of those instances where Lucy gets to peak behind the curtain, behind his wall and see how much blame and guilt Tim shoulders. His body language is fascinating… He can barely look at her, his eyes darting around.

'That is the most Tim Bradford thing I've ever heard'. Her soft chuckle when she says that… But she's right, it truly is. This also shines some light on his behavior, on why he can be such a hardass at times. Because the one time he wasn't, it cost someone he cared about his leg. And he hasn't let himself forget. And he hasn't forgiven himself either. But the beauty of this dialogue is that it's not just about Mitch. This is about Lucy too. And how much he feels responsible for what happened to her. Because when he advised her to get a drink or two, he wasn't acting as her TO, but as her friend. He showed her 'humanity' as she said, and it had a disastrous consequence. In his mind, he repeated the same mistake. This makes Lucy's speech that much more important. She may not fully grasps the context here, but she is already absolving him. The way he is looking right at her when she tells him that he shouldn't be feeling guilty… The tears in his eyes… This is such a good foreshadowing of another conversation in the shop, one where he'll confess his guilt for what Caleb did to her. He's just not quite there yet.

This is also a subtle continuation of another beautiful moment : when Lucy made him her first audiobook. Back then, she was trying to show him how being a kinesthetic learner wasn't a weakness, but a strength. How it made him a better person. And she gets to repeat this sentiment here, by reminding him that showing humanity is a strength as well. And that's probably the most Lucy Chen thing she ever said and did. I like how she doesn't hesitate to gently call him out when he tries to hide behind the importance of rules despite the fact that they are in that moment defying their watch commander's order to drop the case. How she forces him to admit why he is here, that his sense of justice and compassion are stronger. 'Some things matter more'. The way he is looking right at her when he tells her that… The loaded implications in that little sentence… Yep, this isn't just about Mitch anymore...

#the rookie #chenford #chenfordedit #lucy chen #tim bradford #2.14 #Anatomy of a scene - Chenford Edition

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riiverstyyx-blog · 1 year

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Malleus Draconia x GN!Reader

In which Malleus Draconia adores you in your entirety, yet you still have your doubts.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff, mentions of religious imagery, slight cons/non cons (sleeping beauty esc), mentions of size-differences (dragon el oh el), suggestive wording,

Song: Bad Blood, Sleeping at Last

if you could describe malleus draconia in one word, it would be tender.

everything from the confidence in which he carries himself, to the delicate touches that linger as he cradles your being.

he is exquisite. the finest treasure that one can find, and yet you have managed to snare him within your hearts walls. the organ rattles and shakes within its confinements, pleading to express its deepest desires. your soul wishes to lay itself within his palms, for his fingers to glide over every nook and cranny that your being has to offer, for you know he will appreciate you in your entirety.

oh, how you bask in his glory.

he is the moon. elegant, beautiful, and untouchable. you are the sun. compassionate, lovely, and absolutely enchanting.

you have never known love as you have with malleus draconia, and never will he let you forget that fact.

malleus is a passionate being.

he would offer all of the power in the world if it meant that the tips of his fingers could even brush your skin, as they are now. gliding from your chin to shoulder, shoulder to palm. malleus traces all sorts of unfamiliar words and shapes into your plush skin. claws scraping every so often, but never breaking skin. it would be unforgivable if he were to draw tears from any emotions but joy or pleasure.

he will croon and praise you in any form he may take on. whether his scale-coated tale is slithering betwixt your legs, firmly taking hold of you as he sinks his fangs into your bare shoulder, or he is as you are now, laying beneath the blooming willow tree, accompanied by nothing but the dewy, morning spring breeze.

malleus’ palms cradle your slumbering face, taking in every feature with stride. he has far passed the point of memorizing, if he had the ability, he would have burned your attributes further into his memory than his own name. never will he allow himself to forget his lover.

catching sight of your twitching lashes, he cannot help but wonder what dreams you could be having that result in such an unpleased expression taking shape. perhaps he should chase them away? shall he play the ‘knight in shining armor’, as lilia would say?

it does not take much thought for him to chase your intimacy.

your touch ignites a fire within him. he craves your presence like a starved man. a moth to light. as if he were deprived of life's basic necessities, which he is far from.

he is addicted to the air that you breath, your scent fuels him like a drug. as he stares down at your sleeping being, he can’t help but be reminded of your beauty. he adores you entirely, and he would prefer that you know it.

careful as always, his lips brush your right temple, humming as he gifts a soft kiss on the fragile skin. the continue their path of disgustingly soft greetings, laying claim to your forehead, eyelids, cheeks, and finally, your lips.

beautiful is all that he can think.

when his lips meet yours, you can’t help but let out a relieved sigh.

within your dreams- your nightmares, you were presented with a reoccurring horror: your own thoughts.

often your mind shows you scenarios in which your lover no longer finds use for you, situations where you are deemed as not enough, just as you were in your past world. your world.

your love for malleus draconia is strong. it is stronger than the air that you breath, and it is clear that he reciprocates that sentiment. but what if you are simply a way to pass the time? he will live much longer than you. will he remember you? will he perhaps find a way for your life to last? or will you be sent to the end by yourself, to enter the next plane without your dearest?

in your raging fire-filled heart, you know he is better than that. you know malleus draconia is a gentlemen. one who does not love without proper confirmation- one who only has one love. genetically and mentally, he cannot replace you, and yet you continue to doubt yourself.

never before has he shown interest in anyone else, lilia and his grandmother have confirmed this. you know his love was created- no, perfectly hand-crafted for your own. it seems he has his ways of constantly reminding you of this fact.

the gasp that escapes your (now parted) lips earns a grin from the male, who pulls away only far enough to rub his nose against yours.

“good morning, beastie.”

your eyes connecting feels like the first ignition of the flame; a reminder of how everything began.

wrapping your arms around his neck, you take a loose hold of the hair framing his hair, brushing it behind his ears with a soft smile.

“hi, mally.”

he can’t help but think about how peculiar you are.

words escape you so lightly, yet your meaning is always so clear.

your infatuation drips off of your tongue. perhaps, that is why he believes your lips to provide the nectar of the gods.

a curious creature, you are. but one he can not live without.

if you could describe malleus draconia in one word, it would be tender.

and if he could describe you in one word, it would be ethereal.

#Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Malleus Draconia #TWST Malleus #Malleus #Twisted Wonderland Malleus #TWST Malleus Draconia #Twisted Wonderland Malleus Draconia #Malleus x reader #Malleus Draconia x reader

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kaelio · 1 year

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Hi everybody! I've compiled, with our old-man-boy loremaster Armand here, the Interview with the Vampire (Vampire Chronicles) worldbuilding information in a relatively easy-to-read format, and now, it's time to pass it along to you! If you haven't read the books, this is a guide to basically the "rules"/mechanisms of what's going on under the hood. Surely, the show will change a number of these. But at least now you can learn the majority of it without having to read all the books right away. Enjoy!

Okay so: Vampires do not need to be invited into homes. Vampires can enter churches and places of worship without being harmed; similarly, crucifixes and holy water do not harm them. Prayer does not harm them. That said, some vampires do not enter churches or engage with certain religious materials as a matter of practice, and there were some cults/covens who believed they could not enter churches without being harmed, as discussed between Armand and Lestat. Vampires as a group, and some vampires specifically (such as Pandora, Mael, and Marius) precede Christianity and have differing views about it.

Vampires cannot shapeshift. Vampires cannot turn into mist, or wolves, or bats, etc. Vampires cannot inherently find or indicate buried treasure, but they can potentially read the mind of someone who does know where it is. Vampires cannot speak to animals and do not have animal familiars. Vampires can see their reflections in mirrors. Vampires cast shadows. Vampires are not affected by religious imagery, prayer, or religious practices (except for personal reasons), including piles of salt or sand. Some of them enjoy counting, but they are not compelled to count objects. Vampires are not averse to garlic, or any other foodstuff, although non-blood food is unpalatable and they cannot digest it. Vampires are not affected by running water or by silver. Rice described the Vampire Chronicles vampires as “preternatural not supernatural”. (Later, she introduced clearly supernatural things such as ghosts, but this sensibility generally holds for vampires.)

Vampires are “static” in appearance but not in capacity. Vampires increase in strength both inherently, over time, and as a result of feeding on blood. Vampires can become slightly stronger or at least persist feeding on animal blood, and become stronger yet feeding regularly (usually nightly) on human blood. However, a key capability is strength by consuming the blood of other vampires, which is usually a shared act ranging from a favor to an act of intimacy, but is occasionally applied purely mechanistically. For example, when Lestat is gravely afflicted, he seeks Armand in Paris for the favor of Armand’s blood to assist in his healing; this is a favor. Meanwhile, Marius offers his blood to Zenobia in order to meet what he feels is an obligation in leaving a newly-created vampire without its sire. Access to Akasha, the original vampire, is access to the most powerful vampiric blood. Eudoxia, Lestat, Bianca, Pandora, Khayman, and Marius were all given implicit permission by Akasha to feed on her blood and therefore become significantly more powerful than vampires who have not done so.

The strength of the vampire which created a fledgling vampire will also define a recruit’s initial strength. A stronger vampire will create a stronger fledgling. Furthermore, it takes vampires time to “recharge” this capability. The longer it has been since a vampire has created another vampire, the stronger the recruit will be. Armand, for example, explains to Lestat that Nicholas is perhaps only half as powerful as Gabrielle initially, and Louis at best half as powerful as Nicholas.

Vampires have a range of powers they tend to accrue over time as they become older and consume more blood (particularly the blood of other vampires, particularly the blood of other powerful vampires such as Akasha). These are usually referred to as Gifts, such as the Mind Gift (psychic abilities) and the Cloud Gift (levitation). These are nonlinear and seemingly depend on the individual vampire as well as their specific preceding experiences. Psychic communication with other vampires is immediate. Others, such as the Fire Gift (pyrokinesis) take more time and not every vampire will develop them. Some abilities, such as inhuman strength, are intrinsic. Louis, a weak vampire especially for his age, cannot even hypnotize humans effectively (as noted by Armand in “The Vampire Armand”). Others, such as Marius, might have powers that outstrip even older vampires, such as those of Avicus, and significantly outstrip those of equal tenure, e.g. Mael. I forgot what umbrella the ‘can explode rats with your mind’ talent is, so I will call it the Explode Rats with Your Mind Gift, which Marius possesses, allows one to explode rats with his or her mind. These terms are invented by vampires to discuss their powers and aren’t intrinsic, nor do they derive from any established “rulebook” of any kind. Vampires are forever iteratively attempting to figure out what their powers actually are, and many are unaware of certain skills they may have.

The ability of vampires to speak to one another telepathically is a major feature of the Dark Gift (the term for vampirism overall). However, sires cannot speak to direct fledglings. This mechanism is incredibly important in the books, as vampires are often made by people who have a pre-existing relationship of some kind with that person. Marius makes Sybelle a vampire for Armand, which means Armand can speak to her, even though Marius cannot, as a way to bypass Armand’s inability to communicate with her telepathically if he were to make Sybelle a vampire himself. Meanwhile, Marius and Armand cannot communicate telepathically which probably would have solved a lot of problems. This can be circumvented by using another vampire as a conduit, as Armand points out that Gabrielle could help Lestat more often, even though she cannot hear him and he cannot hear her, just by routing whatever he is trying to communicate through a third party.

Many vampires feel ignorant and purposeless and are thus susceptible to cult mentalities. For example, Santino established a number of Satanic cults before losing interest and eventually being destroyed by Thorne. However, there is never any indication that these cults are more than a coping mechanism for the vampires who are members. These cults however often policed the creation and existence of vampires within certain territories.

Vampires are generally territorial and often do not like the presence of other vampires. To the extent they interact, it is usually fleeting, which is to say either incidental meetings (as with Bianca and Armand in Paris) or a cat-colony-esque gathering that comes into being and disperses without an obvious hierarchy or purpose. (Vampires are so regularly described feline terms that their behavior is honestly best explained as “becoming a vampire makes you a cat”.) The population of vampires is often controlled by younger vampires killing older vampires, especially in cult settings, once they go mad, and older vampires killing younger vampires for being verminous. Armand, for example, explains the necessity of killing Alessandra for having lost her mind due to her age, and then later explains he enjoys “clearing out” cities of younger vampires as well (“Queen of the Damned”), and that he is forced to steer clear of the rare vampire who is even older than he is, lest they decide to kill him in turn. Vampires are not generally incentivized to make other vampires except as lackeys or via an established cult pathway.

Vampires may turn people they knew in life or get to know later, but this requires vampires to show interest in specific living persons which happens but not necessarily often. New vampires have very high attrition rates. All “successful” vampires are essentially mentally ill in personally-tailored ways. Vampires tend to be very emotional and rather reckless, though there are semi-exceptions like Gabrielle. Vampires will also cycle through fixations or obsessions to help pass the time, as is implied to have happened to Santino despite the devastating effects of having conscripted Armand during his Satanic promotion phase. Some fixations can be considerably more benign, like Louis rereading Keats, Marius copying paintings, or Daniel’s basement of model trains. Some vampires are numb (Pandora), some withdraw entirely from the notions of human civilization (Gabrielle), some assign themselves seemingly benign if useless causes (Marius), some indulge in fashionable depression (Louis), some are fanatically insane (Armand), and some are forever whacking the metaphorical wasp’s nest just to see what happens (Lestat).

To be a vampire, an individual must have in some way or for some reason a cavalier approach to the value of a human life, although quite a few of them would attest otherwise. However, when the cards are down, basically any vampire will kill any human in a pinch. Many are utterly indifferent, such as Claudia and Gabrielle, and remain utterly indifferent. Some cycle through how much they do or do not pretend to care about human beings. Even vampires who are characterized as “more reluctant”, such as Louis, are regularly highlighted for essentially playing games with themselves, as noted by Akasha. The extent to which they police their hunting varies book-by-book.

Vampires reproduce by sucking the blood from the recruit, mixing it with their own blood within their own body, and then sharing that mixed blood with the recruit. There is no requirement that blood comes from any specific font on either the giver or receiver. The receiver will then later die and spew whatever had previously been in his or her digestive system. From that point forward, the receiver is a vampire and will have basic vampire skills such as improved strength and reversion to one’s default physical state during the day. There is no technical limitation requiring this transformation to be consensual, and in key examples, such as Claudia, it is not.

Vampires are not supposed to turn children into vampires, although there isn’t an overarching authority that establishes this beyond other vampires choosing to individually become involved. It’s self-evidently cruel towards someone who is extremely young, which is not to imply that vampires do not do it anyway. Marius specifically warns Lestat not to make vampires as young as Armand (17), which Lestat later does with Claudia (5) regardless, and then Marius later converts Benjamin (14). Eudoxia was also a similar age as Benjamin, approximately fifteen, and conversely maintains that only the young should be made into vampires, such as her fledglings Asphar and Zenobia. The Satantic cult in Rome, for a time overseen by Santino, never made vampires of those over thirty. Pandora and Marius are relatively unusual for being older when they became vampires.

Vampires are generally very good-looking, largely for cultural reasons, which is to say that some cults had rules about only making vampires from attractive humans but it really seems that these “rules” to whatever extent they existed generally derived from vampires being incorrigibly vain. (The Doylist reason of course being the likelihood said vampire would feature in erotic passages in the novels.) Even vampires that are considered especially attractive also seem to become easily infatuated with one another if only for brief stints.

As vampires cannot have sex, vampires have odd relationships with one another that are by necessity described in human terms but clearly do not quite map to human terms, which in part is established by often listing different human relationship types in sequence when trying to characterize relationships to one another. E.g. the terms “paramour” and “lover” show up even for characters who don’t have what would regularly be considered romantic much less sexual relationships.

Vampires can engage in some sexual activity, in that they can provide manual stimulation or oral stimulation to living people, but they do not have “sex” as such (*reminder that this is a books 1-8 summary). As a result, the “sexuality” of vampires is difficult to define. Armand specifically notes that Lestat was actively sexual with women and men before he died, but that is considered noteworthy vis-à-vis his or any other vampire’s relationships postmortem. Of course, Armand also had sex with women and men pre-mortem so this might again be one of Armand’s tangents about how he isn’t sure why Lestat won’t be his companion, completely ignoring the fact that Armand is markedly mental even by vampire standards and that surely has more to do with it. Owing to their inability to have conventional sex, this means some implicitly sexual activity toward a vampire includes licking the blood out of a vampire’s eyes.

One would think the absence of “sex” would make vampires less weird about sex and suffice to say that would be a misapprehension.

Vampires are casually violent, again like cats. Vampires that like one another will often have beaten or otherwise injured one another, often many times. As a result of their long lives and the strangeness of their existence, vampires tend to be very forgiving of extreme behavior but still sensitive to more human slights. For example, Lestat and Armand are on good terms and are strong allies even though they beat the daylights out of one another now and then. By the time Louis and Lestat reunite in Los Angeles, Lestat is ambivalent about having been set on fire several times. Meanwhile, Pandora and Marius had fairly normal arguments and have been unable to reconcile for over a thousand years.

Vampires do not need to sleep in coffins, and some don’t. The coffin or sarcophagus is traditional but it exists primarily to block out light. Gabrielle, for example, sleeps in the dirt, and Lestat in a pique has done the same. Marius at times sleeps in a regular bed in a lightproof room. A sarcophagus can also offer some protection, as a vampire is strong enough to move a stone lid that a lone human could not. Some vampires have been instructed to use a coffin by other vampires, but it isn’t necessary. Speaking of vampire sleep, vampires choose when they go to sleep but they do not choose when they awaken.

Vampires are insensate while they sleep. Some vampires wake earlier than others and this is implied to depend more on the person than his or her intrinsic power. For example, Lestat canonically wakes about an hour before most other vampires and simply ascribes it to being an early riser. During sleep, vampires will return to their default physical status. For example, if a vampire cut its hair during the day, it will regrow that night. Armand has video recorded his hair growing during the day while he is asleep. (Of course, if a vampire is grievously injured, this return to their fixed status cannot happen in only one day.)

If a vampire is made while the person is wounded or dying, their condition will improve as part of becoming a vampire, as with Gabrielle. That said, vampires have been known to heal persons who are about to be turned before turning them, as with Marius’ turning of the wounded Armand. Vampire blood has a mending effect on wounds, and it is not uncommon for vampires to use this to disguise the damage their bites leave on corpses to help keep their murders or other feeding inconspicuous.

Vampires do not inherently need to kill the people they feed on, but they usually do. The practice on non-lethally drinking from a human is difficult and requires practice and power—power that usually derives from having lethally fed on thousands if not tens of thousands of people. The vampires who care about human lives at all, or the potential moral implications of feeding, generally resort to the idea that feeding on “bad people” isn’t quite as morally awful, but the reality is that no vampire described in the series has ever represented a remotely moral existence. Vampires such as Lestat might reach a point where they suspect feeding is no longer necessary for their survival, but they kill and feed nevertheless because they enjoy doing so.

Children are even more pleasurable to feed on than adults, according to Armand. It is taboo to create a child vampire, but children are routinely fed upon.

Vampires usually feed and kill every night. Many vampires prefer to kill early in the night as this makes them appear more passably human. Vampires flush with vitality after they feed. This can stack, as vampires who feed on multiple people in one night will appear more human than those who have only eaten one or two. When Marius slays the banquet, Armand notes that he appears afterwards nearly human.

Vampires must stop feeding before the person they are drinking from dies, or they become seriously ill. Vampires can be made ill by poison in the blood of the person upon which they fed.

If a vampire starves or is seriously wounded or burned, it may appear skeletal or otherwise scarred and strange. Vampires recover by drinking blood, either the blood of animals or humans or the blood of other vampires. The blood of other vampires is much more effective than the blood of humans, which is more effective than the blood of animals. The more powerful the “source” vampire, the more powerful the healing effect. For example, Lestat seeks out Armand when he is wounded for Armand’s healing blood. Vampires can recover from virtually any injury. A “stake through the heart” would be essentially irrelevant although potentially annoying. Vampires do not turn to dust when they die, although, as fire and sun are the only ways to kill a tenured vampire, many die as ash.

Vampires can be killed by beheading, sun, and fire, although with age a vampire becomes resistant to all three and impervious to the first. Mael, even then a well-tenured vampire, is beheaded and his arm is severed, and Avicus and Marius are able to reattach both by re-severing them and attaching them again properly. This process is described as essentially the operation room scene from John Carpenter’s “The Thing” but in reverse, with tendrils reaching out to join the various components. The sun becomes less effective over time, with several vampires (including Mael again) finding the process too long and agonizing as a means of suicide. Fire is apparently always a mechanism, although vampires can survive being severely burned provided they are not fully carbonized (such as Lestat, Marius, and Teskhamen, as opposed to Magnus). Vampires are also said to die by starvation, but it’s suggested this is reversible if their mummified remains are exposed to fresh blood.

Vampires commonly terminate via suicide and particularly for the eldest vampires, nothing is likely to ever kill them aside from another more powerful vampire, or self-immolation.

Vampires become increasingly plasticky over time. Their skin also tends to whiten, although many vampires are described as very ashen essentially right away. Even early in the series, Akasha and Enkil in particular are described this way, as appearing to be made of a strange polymer or mineral. The extent to which vampires become increasingly inert is not clear, or whether this is a response to outside events. Vampires can become comatose, and they can also leave this comatose state, and it does not appear to be dependent on blood the same way as recovering from skeletal starvation. Thorne, Marius, and Lestat all have noteworthy coma periods.

Vampires can experience injury, including fatal injury, if the holder of the Sacred Core (this core also being known as the Amel) is correspondingly wounded. For this reason, Akasha and Enkil are referred to as “Those Who Must Be Kept”, despite appearing as statues and only rarely moving or communicating. This stems from a misunderstanding of the couple, as only Akasha actually holds the core and eventually kills Enkil with no consequence. When Akasha is killed, the Sacred Core is eaten out of her body by Mekare, although later books indicate it was damaged during transfer.

As a result of vampires originating in Egypt, vampirism has largely radiated out from Egypt. Particularly in accounts of the early existence of vampires, e.g. the First Brood, vampirism is an Egyptian phenomenon which then spreads out to incidents within territories bordering the Mediterranean.

Vampires are often described as having unusually pretty eyes, though the extent to which this is true depends on how much is assigned to the author’s description versus objective reality. However, it is clearly true that vampires have strange fingernails which appear perennially lacquered. There are the prettier traits. Vampires also weep in a mix of blood, and they sweat blood. Vampires can make themselves appear “more human” by slaking their faces in human blood which temporarily makes their skin appear more human.

Though vampires, broadly speaking, don’t tend to fear humans very much, they can be captured by humans. Magnus captured a vampire to steal the Dark Gift, for example, and some druidic cults had a practice of keeping starved vampires under trees to exploit their powers, as with the Gods of the Grove Avicus and Teskhamen.

There is a secret society with knowledge of vampires, the Talamasca, but they are not vampire slayers. They catalogue the actions of vampires and help them disguise their existence in the world, as well as offer other services like research and acting as a point of contact (as with Raymond Gallant). Members of the Talamasca have been known to become vampires themselves, such as David Talbot.

Sometimes vampires to choose to change the names by which they are known. The vampire known as Pandora was, in life, “Lydia” and Armand in life was originally “Andrei” and then in Italy known as “Amadeo”.

(Created with the help of @thecactifindahome 🌵!)

#the vampire chronicles #tvc #iwtv #iwtv amc #interview with the vampire #armand #lestat #louis de pointe du lac #vampire #anne rice

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starqueensthings · 10 months

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Dork Love: Part Two

Ao3 | Chapter 1 | Chapter 3

Summary: Life had returned to normal. Despite the budding adoration that had plagued you since meeting him, hopes of any type of relationship with Tech had diminished as time continued to pass, and you’d shifted your attention to the continued demands of owning a successful business. Until a surprise arrives to brighten your day…

Pairing: GN!Reader x Tech (can also read as ND!GN!Reader x ND!Tech if you look hard enough)

POV/Rating/WC: 2nd, all readers welcome, 7594 (I am so sorry lol)

A/N: This is the *slowest* of slow burns… borderline painfully slow, but writing accelerated intimacy feels really off-brand for Tech, especially when it’s a strangers to lovers trope. The man needs time to process! This chapter kinda drags a bit because there’s a lot of scene structure, but all of the seemingly useless details will play a part in chapter 3, I promise. Enjoy!

Thank you to @staycalmandhugaclone for beta reading ❤️

Days, differentiated only by the restful hours between evening and morning, passed underfoot without the appearance of anything even remotely as thrilling as the adventure of the riflescope. Mirroring the return of mundanity, the sun had become a recluse, the warmth of its exquisite majesty virtually smothered by a dark, dense veil of cloud that, despite the persistent bite of a cool wind, refused to shift aside.

This morning saw the clamouring chime of your chrono alarm rouse you from a slumber enriched with renderings of large brown eyes crinkled under the pressure of a shy smile, though the moment that yours fluttered open, unfocussed and narrowed against the jarring intonation that abruptly robbed you of your reverie, the imagery vanished from both thought and memory.

The recurring cool drizzle, falling mercilessly from the grey blanket above, had imbued the road outside of your shop so completely that it now more resembled a path of mirrors, capable of nothing except intensifying the gloom lingering overhead.

The drafty windows of your storefront whistled to the tune of the cold wind as if resolute that no area be free of its subjugate song, and in an effort to retain as much body heat as possible, a steaming cup of caf had found itself a permanent extension of your left hand. Despite the handicap that accompanied a continuously occupied limb, the counter behind your register was nearly barren, laden with only a sporadic collection of tasks left to complete.

Ten cold fingers had oriented themselves in a wreath around the ceramic mug still poised in your clutches, all of them trembling under the duress of your insistent need to sip at the warm pool of caffeine. With lips bunched to one side in a motion that inexplicably corralled your concentration, your eyes scanned the trio of trays scattered across the back counter. The urgency in which they needed to be addressed dwindled as the clock ticked the present into the past, and it was with a mumbled, “I’ll call them tomorrow” that you hastily stacked the containers and stowed them away.

A satisfied sigh poured from your lips and your shoulders squared pridefully of their own volition as you turned and departed the area, offering only a fleeting peek toward the mizzling outside as you passed. Semi-concealed in the shadowed corner beside the refresher, and adorned with an unostentatious sign that read “authorized personnel only”, was a door that separated the retail space from the backroom. On the left side past the threshold, and traversed so frequently over the years by various shoes that the stain itself had worn off the floorboards, was a piteous excuse for a kitchen. A single bank of cupboards anchored a derelict aluminum sink, the deep basin bespeckled with water spots and blotches that refused to dissipate despite countless, vigorous scrubs. The durasteel countertop flanking either side of the vessel still held much of its original integrity, though its formerly reflective surface was now hazy from decades of being scratched, buffed, and rescratched. An unpretentious caf machine found itself perched on the end of the counter nearest to the door, and its repeated call-to-arms as a reinforcement in your battle against early mornings and human fatigue, had seen it begin to look worse for wear, the heating element encrusted and charred in spots, and the glass carafe cracked and hastily repaired with industrial grade glue.

Arranged parade style in the depths of the sink was a legion of used and forgotten mugs, silently awaiting the shower that would free them from the sticky residue of a caf long since devoured. Their appearance wasted no time robbing your shoulders of their gratified posture, and you were reminded, once again, that mental checklists were growing increasingly insufficient in the thralls of your overstimulated mind.

“Wash mugs, water plants.”

Your chilled hands dug their way from one pocket to the next, furtively searching every crevasse and fold of your lab coat for any semblance of a pen; any tool that you could use to ensure the tasks did not continue to slip from the forefront of your mind. A cantillating chant erupted on your lips, repeating the small series of words as you yanked the cap off a red lens marker and hurried to ink a scrawled reminder on the back of your hand.

Your feet guided you thoughtlessly from the room, the familiar cadence taking you back atop the worn footpath and across the narrow hallway to the Mecca of your business: the workshop.

The fabrication lab was a modestly sized and minimally furnished room, and likely appeared to the untrained eye as a recipient unworthy of the several thousand credits that you had funneled into its refurbishment, yet the space had become both your sanctuary and your perdition. Several purchases later, all of them procrastinated in the name of thorough research, saw all new manufacturing equipment installed in the space. Despite your uncle’s repeated claims of their superiority to modern machinery, the equipment he’d bestowed upon you with the purchase of his business had deteriorated at a rate similar to his wizened mind, the tools habitually seizing mid cycle, their mechanics unable to overcome the strain that decades of neglect that had enchained them.

Their sophisticated replacements now encircled the perimeter of the room, meticulously and deliberately placed to maximize functionality in the void of square footage, and their sparkling infancy created a drastic yet welcome contrast to the decrepit cupboards of which they sat atop. But the flame ignited by the potential of efficiency upon their installation, was aglow for only hours before being snuffed completely by an unaccounted for realization: voltage requirements had apparently changed since the previous equipment had been wired. It was now a frustratingly common occurrence for fuses in the electrical panel to blow if you didn’t maintain a hyperfocussed awareness of which machines were cycling simultaneously, the infancy of the equipment now a hindrance, as your role of mechanical babysitter emerged.

The lights overhead buzzed menacingly as you brought them to life, and it was with haste that you added “call electrician” to the tasklist on the back of your hand, but despite the dirty dishes having stolen a portion of your resolve, the tower of orders waiting to be manufactured saw your cold knuckles cracked into action, and your sleeves yanked to your elbows before the flickering bulbs ceased their warning.

With knitted brows, you turned your attention to the counter on the right, hands instantly working to dismantle and sort the acrylic containers into an arrangement with some semblance of priority, while your eyes searched relentlessly for a specific triad of exigent orders; three small pairs of the glasses, the colourful frames fated to remain lens-less for only minutes longer now that the opportunity to initiate their fabrication had finally presented itself. You found your prize in the third tray from the bottom, you gaze quickly unfocussing upon the invoice as the sight of their exotic names launched your mind’s eye into a recollection of that humbling day:

Tarlu, a Twi’lek man from the 22nd level of Coruscant’s underworld had made the trip into your shop several weeks ago, a stunning turquoise chain of clasped hands stumbling in tow behind him; three small children, all of whom appeared at first glance to be a spitting image of their broad shouldered father, though their sparkling, violet eyes, dancing around the foreign corners of your shop, were largely unlike the electric blue of his own. He uttered a cautionary warning to them, a demand for the respect of good behaviour while he ‘spoke to the nice shop owner’, and the half dozen steps that he took away from his children, purposefully orienting his back to them in some semblance of privacy, were not lost on you.

Age and the innate understanding that accompanied life experience had yet to rob the children of their naivety, and innocent shrieks laden with insouciant joy left their mouths as they disobeyed their father’s plea, running amok around the confines of your shop. Their violet eyes blind to the slump in their father’s dejected shoulders; their youthful minds still too ignorant to identify the tension that riddled his brow as he quietly and solemnly confessed his desperation. Their mother was blind, he explained grimly, diagnosed at a young age with a degenerative visual condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa. Her most recent years had seen her vision and her hope recede to nullity, and it had taken every credit left in their savings to purchase a transport ticket and hire a protocol droid to see her safely returned to Ryloth.

Coruscant, he divulged, and its esteemed medical field had offered them a glimmer of hope in the face of impending visual darkness; whispers of a corrective procedure inaccessible to them in the primitive outer rim saw them willingly and enthusiastically uproot themselves… their family… their entire lives. But the usurious capital planet had repudiated them, and the system had swiftly exposed itself as corrupt, only willing to accede to the needs of those whose wallets would support their owners plea’s, shunting all others into the cold embrace of exorbitantly long waitlists.

A grave shift in the children’s behaviour since last seeing their mother had only amplified his despondency; tantrums, repeated condemnations from their school teachers, fights escalated over trivial issues, an increase in their desire for isolation, a rejection of things and experiences that once brought them joy. The intelligent Twi’lek man couldn’t and wouldn’t deny that the fracturing of their family had likely acted as the catalyst for the behavioural decline, though he admittedly couldn’t shake the dread that something else was amiss.

The way your voice shook under the constraints of suppressed emotion offered the truth before your lips had finished somberly wrapping their way around the explanation, and despite every effort to remain professional, your glistening eyes betrayed your composure as you confirmed his suspicions; his children were all showing signs of the same condition that had robbed their mother of her sight and her freedom. “I can’t stop the progression,” you whispered with a quivering chin, “but give me a couple of weeks and I’ll make some glasses that will maximize what vision they have left.”

“I have no desire to linger here.” His tone was that of a man utterly broken, a man whose hopes had been stripped and excoriated within an inch of complete eradication. “Nor do I have the funds to pay you for your services. I will need every available credit to transport us back to Ryloth. The children need their mother, and I need help.”

Despite every cell in your body yearning to ease the father’s dejection, the gift of hope was not one that you were capable of bestowing on him, as the recent past had seen his very soul calloused by the greed of business and politics; you could not promise him that his children would have a future free of obstacle, all of them destined to walk in their mothers footsteps with the unbearable weight of depleting vision on their shoulders, but what you could offer was a helping hand: three free pairs of glasses and the promise to expedite the process to the best of your ability so he could leave the planet that had forsaken him and return home.

It was their tray held firmly in your grip as you marched across the lab toward the lens generator, refusing to deviate your attention to anything and anyone until their needs of this family were satiated…

As if determined to challenge your resolve, the harrowing tinkle of the doorbell saw you halted in your tracks barely two paces from your destination, drenched in the cold realization that, in your haste to recuse yourself to the lab, you’d overlooked the routine task of locking the front door.

“For kriff’s sake…” you grumbled, your eyelids aflutter in frustration as a familiar cool, damp draft whistled through the gaps of the door and raised the fine hairs on your arms. An unceremonious flick of your wrist saw the plastic container tossed onto the counter beside the machine, and an irritable huff sagged your shoulders as you turned on the spot and retreated back toward the door.

“Hello,” you called blindly, summoning the pitiful remnants of your patience from the depths of your soul as you pulled open the door that led back into the retail space, tugging your sleeves back down.

For the second time in as many seconds, you found your steps halted abruptly and another intense wave of gooseflesh erupting across your skin. “Tech!” His name escaped your parted lips drenched in startled disbelief.

A tall, poorly postured figure stood patiently at your counter, and it was the prompt of your voice echoing around the quiet room that had him turn to face your direction. His magnified gaze was alert and twinkling with an unexplained light as it fell upon you, and the ingenuine smile that you’d hitched onto your face at the prospect of an unexpected interruption, lost all sense of insincerity at the sight of the familiar, thick goggles.

“Hello.” His answer came accompanied by a respectful nod, his fingers suspending their dance across the device in his hand to needlessly shift his goggles on the bridge of his nose.

“I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you admitted, crossing the handful of steps between you and leaning against the counter next to him. “Either of you. Did my fix on the scope not hold up?”

“On the contrary,” he began after a quiet clearing of the throat. “Crosshair remains quite pleased with your repair. The rigidity of his nature does not coincide with being a proponent of change, particularly so with his weaponry. Your repair has ensured his continued satisfaction, indirectly maintaining symbiosis amongst the rest of the squad… for now, anyways.”

The familiarity of his curt, matter-of-fact tone only intensified the smile on your face, forcing you to fleetingly avert your gaze to the floorboards below your feet, eager to minimize the flush rising to your cheeks. Your attraction to him was as enigmatic to you as he was; the simplified truth was, you knew almost nothing about him, other than the fact that he was exceedingly poor sighted without the aid of his goggles, and that he was remarkably well educated to have been brought up by the indurate embrace of combat training and war, and yet you were drawn to him with an unexplained appetence.

“Good, I’m glad,” you answered, leaning onto an elbow. “Your goggles look like they’ve stayed in decent repair since I last saw you, too.”

The departure of his eyes from yours to the void of space over your left shoulder saw you promptly regretting your comment, as the swift flush of his cheeks and the deliberate bob of his Adam's apple exposed the fact that your unintentional scolding of his dirty lenses during your previous conversation had rendered him somewhat embarrassed.

“Ah… yes,” he murmured, the warmth of his eyes only blessing you with a fleeting glance before departing again. “I have since managed to incorporate a routine cleaning into my morning regimen, though despite having extensively researched varying techniques, I can not seem to achieve the same result as yourself.”

Disapproval bathed his every feature, the corners of his lips inverting into a reproachful frown more adorable than any quirky half-smile he’d previously gifted you, and it was with great difficulty and another quick aversion of your eyes that you repressed the chuckle threatening to spill from your lips. Intent on alleviating even a portion of his indignity, you permitted your brows to offer a jesting, egotistical wiggle and uttered, “Well… you won’t.”

His gaze darted back to you instantly, lids narrowing only slightly in befuddlement at the smirk twisting your lips. “Opticians have the magic touch. Hand ‘em over.”

You extended a hand toward him, the eagerness to award him with even a fraction of the same satisfaction that you’d somehow gifted his brother outweighing all else in that moment, but his response to your gesture was as apprehensive as yours was determined. His affronted gaze danced across your awaiting palm, his long fingers fidgeting needlessly around his datapad as he seemingly blinked away a myriad of intrusive thoughts. Reassurances flooded the tip of your tongue, poised to express promises of meticulous care and affirmations that you fully understood how desperately he relied on his goggles, but your lips had barely parted wide enough to permit an intake of breath before the datapad was released of his grip and placed gently atop the counter as his hand reached instead for the strap around his head.

A blend of gratitude and adoration welled inside your chest as your fingers enveloped the rubberized surface of the unexpectedly rigid frame, your pinky fingers hooking themselves securely around the strap lest the staggering weight of his lenses cause the equipment to fall from your clutches. If any apprehension or doubt of your abilities lingered in his exceptional mind, it was seemingly usurped by the need to massage his tired eyes, as he forewent the motion of possessively watching your hands to grind his knuckles against lids clamped tightly closed.

Dismal as it may be, the dwindling daylight meekly cascading in your windows threw into sharp relief the poor condition of his spectacles, and the thoughtless action of retrieving the trusty cleaning cloth in your pocket was halted entirely by the sight of several deep gouges across his lenses, all of which had been previously hidden from your scrutiny by the darkness of the shooting range.

A contemplative hum rumbled past your pursed lips, the rounded edge of your thumbnail trying in vain to scrape away the remnants of a mysterious, encrusted substance from the front surface, achieving nothing but imparting another microscratch to the wide array of others. A scoff of contempt threatened to escape you, scorned by the fact that someone in Tech’s situation, so highly reliant on their eyewear, would be issued such a subpar set of lenses; the material obviously too soft to uphold the demands of his lifestyle, the subjective magnification exacerbated by the poor choice of curvature by whichever ignorant being had manufactured them, the coatings improperly sealed before being thrust into the scrupulous edging process.

‘I bet these are Polycarbonate…’ you thought to yourself with a disdainful roll of your eyes. ‘But only one way to find out.’

Without even a breath of hesitation or an ounce of consideration for his potential reaction, you gripped the goggles tightly in one hand and applied firm pressure around the rim of the right lens with the other. His knuckles fell from his eyes immediately, the ungodly snapping sound of the lens separating from the frame triggering a wave of horror to erupt across his features, but you remained blind his unspoken objection, too deeply enthralled in the abhorrence of his glasses to notice his mouth falling open and his unfocussed eyes widening in terror.

“Did– did you just–?” His stammered query trailed away to an aghast silence, too appalled to finish vocalizing the question that he feared the answer to.

“Hmm?” you hummed innocently, wrenching your rolling eyes away from a series of small pressure cracks in the plastic between your fingers and directing your attention back to him. “Oh! No, they’re not broken!” you hurried to assure him, recognizing the semblance of panic tugging his eyebrows together. “Lenses are manufactured with an angled bevel to permit repeated insertion and removal, as long as you apply the pressure in the correct place.”

He swallowed heavily, his gaze still affixed at the disc-like plastic clutched loosely in your palm. “I just wanted to identify the lens material,” you continued pleadingly, convinced that if you provided a detailed enough explanation for your objectively impulsive action, there may be a chance you could placate his evident fear and surging mistrust. “I’m assuming they’re polycarbonate lenses based on how easily they’re damaged, but without seeing the initial paperwork, the only real way to tell is the sound that the lens makes when tapped against a rigid surface.”

To no avail; periodic blinks over widened eyes robbed of their warmth was the only indication that he hadn’t simply died of fright. “Listen,” you beseeched, gesturing for him to step closer and prepare to witness the presumed madness behind your methods. His gaze reluctantly followed your hand as it began gently tapping the very edge of the lens against the counter top. “Hear how it sounds kind of… tinky and light? Polycarbonate is a fibrous material so it makes a sharper tone compared to resin plastic. Resin is a powdery material, so it makes more of a deep thunk.”

The dramatic expansion of his eyes softened significantly as they watched you extract the orphaned plastic lens that you’d pocketed this morning after finding it astray under the desk, his gaze intent on following your every move as you knocked it rhythmically against the surface to demonstrate the difference.

“That is… fascinating,” he admitted in a mumble, the tension in his shoulders dissipating enough to collect the pieces you were extending out to him.

“Do you have a few minutes?” you asked him, teeth nibbling against the smile threatening to tug at your lips as he immediately turned and began percussing the lenses against the countertop. “I’d like to give them a thorough clean with my favourite solution, but it’s a peroxide blend and needs a good five minutes to neutralize.”

“Thank you, that is very kind of you,” he replied with a nod.

“My pleasure,” you answered with a bashful shrug, another wave of heat surging to your cheeks as his already narrowed and unfocussed eyes shrunk even further under the expanse of his bashful smile. “Would you mind flipping the sign and locking the door for me?”

He followed your gesture to the entryway, the lights of your shop reflecting brightly in the glass door against the dark backdrop of the deepening sky beyond, before nodding and departing the counter, lenses pinched protectively between his long fingers. An empathetic frown tugged at your lips as you watched him fumble to engage the deadbolt, his movements clearly impeded by the lack of depth perception, robbed of him by the removal and disassembly of his glasses. “Just come meet me in the backroom when you’re done,” you called, sending him one last adoring glance before retreating through the threshold to your workshop.

You were granted only a short minute to calm the bounding of your heart against your chest, launched into a fervent dance by Tech’s unexpected appearance, yet despite funneling every effort into stifling the persistent smile on your face, the joy that his visitation had triggered simply refused to be so easily contained. Your confession to him had been truthful, the concept of seeing him again was one that you’d actively avoided entertaining since your introduction, for it was simply too impractical of a hope; he was a soldier living too nomadically to risk establishing relationships of any kind… yet here he was, but why?

The thunk of his boots on the wood floor alerted you of his approach, and you hurried to clear the surging giddiness from your mind with a gentle shake of your head before retrieving the bottle of cleaning solution from the cabinet below the counter.

“My apologies,” he offered as his tall frame filled the expanse of the doorway a moment later. “I did not familiarize myself with your hours of operation prior to arriving. I hope I am not keeping you from any prior endeavours?”

“Not unless you consider several hours of grinding lenses a ‘prior endeavour’.” you chuckled, upturning the bottle until the entirety of its contents drained into the small steel bowl perched in front of you. He folded his arms across his chest in a near perfect impression of his sniper brother, a passively curious expression on his face as he watched you finish formulating your concoction.

“Do you still have your other lens?” you questioned after submerging the entirety of his goggles into the effervescent, blue liquid.

He gently dropped the loose disc into the tub with its counterparts, stooping comically low to study the bubbling substance, the tip of his nose barely an inch from the surface, and eyes narrowed to nearly full occlusion in an effort to refocus his vision.

“I didn’t mean to scare you when I popped your lens out,” you offered apologetically, leaning casually backward against the counter and watching him. “It does tend to freak people out, I should have warned you.”

He stood and cleared his throat quietly, unfolding his arms in a motion to shift his goggles on his nose, only to remember half way through the gesture that there was nothing presently on his nose to shift, instead justifying the awkward motion with a small scratch of his reddening ear.

“I will admit my knowledge of the Optometric industry to be lacking in comparison to other subjects,” he voiced, turning to lean on the counter beside you. “My brothers and I are subjected to visual testing on Kamino as a subsection of a routine complete sensory examination. My oldest brother has senses heightened to a nearly inhumane degree, and by the time the result of our inspections have been collected for further processing, departing the clinic for the comfort of our barracks is typically his first priority. I have never lingered long enough to expand my limited knowledge of optics and ophthalmic correction.”

“Heightened senses?” you repeated instantly. The snippet of information had been delivered so blithely that it had almost failed to register, yet the implication of the statement could simply not be ignored.

“Yes,” he confirmed. “All clones are genetically modified in the embryonic stage of formation to allow several decidedly ‘desirable’ characteristics to take precedence during growth. Regular clones have an enhanced sense of loyalty, obedience, tenacity, and stamina amongst several other attributes. My squad was the first and only to have our DNA further reconfigured to enhance additional qualities. The aforementioned brother is our leader, and Hunter has senses incomparable to any other being. He perceives every movement, hears every sound, feels minute vibrations, senses lingering energy signatures… As such, he became plagued with recurrent episodes of extreme overstimulation while in the depths of our training, but has established a sense of near-complete autonomy since our convocation.

“My genetic structure was deviated to permit the rapid collection and categorization of data. I am able to perceive much of which the typical mind overlooks, with the subsequent ability to recall information at a moment’s notice. As you may have deduced by my chosen moniker, an interesting and perceptibly correlated mutation has bestowed upon me a particular proclivity with technology and mechanics, and during rare instances where I am not able to direct my thoughts into research or the customization of various equipment, I too can become overstimulated.

“Wrecker is our resident ordnance expert, having extensively studied the science of detonations and their various implementations in warfare, and is both the physically strongest and arguably the most emotionally intelligent member of our squad, though a recent poorly-timed detonation has compromised a large portion of his eyesight and an even larger portion of his mental reasoning skills, a challenge of which we are still shifting to accommodate.

“Crosshair, our youngest brother whom you have met, has a mathematical brain that could rival most modern software. He can process calculations and formulations in mere fractions of a second without the plague of human distraction. Paired with his remarkable eyesight, his mutations have formed him into a marksman of incomparable skill and ability, though at the cost of charisma; he would rather concede his crown than to engage in a lengthy conversation of any topic.”

The effervescent cleaner had long since stilled, only mere remnants of the microbubbles tasked with removing surface grime and grease were still clinging to the rubberized surface of Tech’s submerged goggles. Both thought and speech were robbed of you; unable to fully compute the implication of his explanation, you could only stand there, lips parted to permit shallow breaths from your lungs as your eyes unfocussed on his features.

The information itself was a repulsive dichotomy of fascinating and horrifying. Largely sheltered from the ramifications of the war, your knowledge of the Clones from Kamino was limited to only that with which you had firsthand experience; that they were typically lovely people, barred from extensive interaction with civilians though seemingly drawn toward the dynamic of humanity. The science of genetic manipulation was not one that you’d ever heard of before, and despite finding the notion of it unethical, there was no denying that it was medically captivating.

But layered atop the affronting information was the casual tone in which he delivered it, as if he was merely describing a mildly unusual childhood, or reciting a paragraph that he’d written in the book of his upbringing, and if ever he had shared in your feeling of revulsion, he’d long since learned to mask all evidence of it.

“That’s… wild.”

It wasn’t the correct word… if there even was a correct word, though ‘wild’ suited the horrifying notion more appropriately than anything else that came to mind; it certainly wasn’t tame, or humane.

Hurrying to conceal the conflict ghosting behind your eyes, you turned and retrieved his dismantled goggles from the basin on the counter beside you, gently shaking the excess liquid from the frame before swaddling it in a soft towel. Tech watched you nurture his glasses intently, showing exceedingly more interest in the technique you used to reinsert his lens than he had while discussing the unique dynamics of his family.

“Nothing can remove the scratches unfortunately,” you lamented, wiping away the last of your fingerprints from his lens before handing his goggles back to him. “But they probably haven’t been that clean since you first got them.”

“That is likely an accurate estimation,” he answered, shifting their weight on his nose and attempting to blink away the strain that several, prolonged minutes of blurred vision had imbibed on him.

“Isn’t that an oxymoron?” you chuckled absently, tossing the damp hand towel over your shoulder.

His attention returned to you so urgently that it stilled your hand on the empty bottle of cleaning solution, the dripping container poised in your fingertips mid-way to the trash bin below the counter. You’d seen that look before, and it had adorned you just as urgently then; wide eyes, lips parted, gaping at you as if you’d just uttered the very secret to human existence. It was an expression reminiscent of your first encounter, interrupting you mid-muse about the dislodgement of a focal plane in a riflescope with the sudden intensity of his eyes, and the vulnerability setting your skin alight under his awestruck gaze was no less palpable the second time around.

“What did you say?” he probed, brows furrowing slightly.

Hesitation paused your response, momentarily abashed by the dubious smirk beginning to tug on his lips as his eyes continued to look upon you quizzically.

“Wouldn’t– wouldn’t that be considered an oxymoron?” you repeated tentatively. “I mean… you can’t really have an ‘accurate estimate’. They’re technically opposing ideologies, thus making that an oxymoronic statement…”

All semblances of a smile that had previously blessed his features were instantly outshone by the grin unfolding across his face. The doming of his cheeks under the embrace of a true smile lifted the goggles off the bridge of his nose, and it was quite possibly the most attractive thing you’d ever seen.

“Yes,” he answered, with a reassuring nod. “It is precisely an oxymoronic statement. Excellent catch. I am impressed.”

“Um… thank you,” you muttered, barely able to wrap your own grinning lips around the two measly words as the pounding of your heart nearly deafened you. “Not just a pretty face… I guess…”

“No, you are much more than that.” The deep reddening of his cheeks rivaled only that of your own, and that moment saw both of you equally embarrassed by the comment that had seemingly poured from his mouth without second thought. “I– I surmised your intelligence almost immediately upon gaining your acquaintance,” he continued, the aversion of his eyes entirely negating the welcome shift of his body to face you. “Your practiced recital of the laws of refraction was fluent and precise, and your charitable willingness to assist Crosshair with his problem in combination with the extensive knowledge that you possess of a topic that has always been of intrigue to me, is the reason for my intrusion… not just your attractive features.”

If you hadn’t known it to be completely medically ludicrous, every credit would have left your bank account on a bet that the butterflies in your stomach were rearranging your organs as if they were pieces of furniture. Yet greater than the uncomfortable flap-a-bout happening inside of you, was the sudden and mystifying crave for his touch; an increasingly gnawing desire to feel the solidity of his presence, desperate for the affirmation that his enigma wasn’t just a trick of the mind. A gentle hand, trembling slightly from the spontaneity of his flattery rose into the space between you, palm facing him with softly bent fingers.

He swallowed heavily and cast an apprehensive glance toward your gesture, his hesitancy to mirror your intimate motion swatting violently at the butterflies in your stomach with the paddle of rejection. It felt like years were passing under the disguise of mere seconds on the clock, his eyes darting back and forth between yours as the tips of his fingers fidgeted anxiously against each other. His jaw clenched, once, twice, until… at long last…

The slippery material of his gloves felt strange against your skin; unexpectedly metallic and silky despite the apparent density of the material, yet it accommodated the swell of his knuckles with ease as his fingers interlaced yours.

Had the clock simply stopped now? Had Father Time so easily forsaken his fateful duty, halting the progression of anything and everything else to permit you this quiet moment of delicate connection? Or was it the gentle caress of those stunning brown eyes atop your features that manifested the wistful longing stay in this lingering second for eternity?

Despite the nimble swipes of his thumb along the back of your hand pulling a shiver down your spine, it wasn’t until the lights overhead launched into their menacing flicker that you returned to some illusion of cognition. “So… hang on,” you muttered, pausing to briefly nimble on your bottom lip. “Are you here to hangout with me? Or to learn the laws of refraction?”

“Um… my priority was the former,” he admitted, “Though I would quantify both being a desire of mine.”

“I can do both,” you offered through a giddy grin, relaxing the entanglement of your fingers from his until your hands separated. “You said you have an affinity for mechanics? Maybe you can help me grind some lenses, and I’ll serenade you with facts about the deviation of light waves through a prism with a biconvex curvature.”

The speed of which he mastered the lens manufacturing process quickly eradicated any lingering scrutiny in your mind of the validity of his mutations. It took less than three complete demonstrations to have achieved a near flawless understanding of what each piece of machinery did and how it accomplished its goal. The clock had barely ticked an hour into the past before Tech was independently running lenses through the sealant process, happily chirruping about his fascination with optics; about how he’d always longed for a deeper understanding of differing refractive indices, about how he found it truly remarkable that a minor decrease in curvature on the front of a lens, when paired with the correct backside curvature, could drastically alter the magnification through the lens itself.

Thrice more did he reach for your hand, his fingers long since freed from the protective confines of his gloves and draping themselves around yours with affectionate intention; every fleeting glance he sent your way, every barely-there brush of his arm against yours continued to reinvigorate your enrapturement for each other.

“How’d we do?” you probed him coyly, sneaking a peek at the sparkling, blemish free lens that he held delicately over the ocular of the lensometer. “Prescription accurate?”

You nibbled gently on your bottom lip, teeth only barely containing the knowing smirk tugging at your lips as you held your breath in expectation of his response. “It is precisely correct,” he answered without diverting his attention from the screen in front of him. “Perfectly on axis, with zero induced prismatic effect. It seems I have attuned my lens manufacturing skills quite remarkably, if I may say so.”

The irony of his words threatened to dissolve your feigned complacency; a man so intelligent that he’d achieved a near mastery in optical technologies in record time, unable to determine that the lens clutched between his fingers being so heavily scrutinized by his eyes had been manufactured to his prescription.

“You may,” you permitted slyly, disguising the grin on your face as nothing more than a reaction to your own audacity. He merely offered you a small snort, exchanging the lens in his fingertips for its counterpart. “You know,” you choked out, lungs nearly seizing under the controlled repression of a chuckle. “That last pair of lenses that you made are for yo—”

The admonition so desperately vying to leave your tongue was robbed of its overdue spotlight by a sudden and complete blanket of darkness. The whirring chorus of engines descending into utter silence inducing a stark ringing in your ears more deafening than the hum it replaced, and you hurried to jump down from your seated perch on the counter.

“Kriff,” you grumbled, fingertips obtusely patting around in the darkness to reestablish a bearing of your positioning.

“It appears that we have lost power,” Tech mumbled introspectively from your right, his arm brushing gently against your chest as he stepped away from the equipment.

“Hang on,” you advised through an undignified grunt, bending over carefully to reach for the handle on the drawer situated somewhere in the proximity of your right hip. “I forgot to keep an eye on what machines were cycling together,” you admitted. “The generator and the polisher always… always trip the electrical breakers if… if they cycle at the same time. Maker have mercy, where is the fucking handle?”

A spotlight appeared abruptly on your right hand, illuminating the pair of pliers clutched stupidly in your grasp, the steel handle having felt convincingly similar to the drawer pull you’d been blindly hunting for in the utter blackness of the windowless room.

“Where is the electrical panel located?” Tech asked you, his free hand deftly snapping closed the pouch from which he’d just retracted his flashlight.

“On the wall beside the edger,” you advised, pointing uselessly in the dark toward the culprit across the room.

Visible only as a dark figure sauntering behind a stark beam of light, you watched him cross the room, the grotesque squeak of the panel’s aluminum door indicating through the echoing silence that he’d successfully found the perpetrator. “That is… alarming,” he muttered, triggering a snort of laughter from your nose. “The breakers in this panel are both drastically undersized for the required pull of amperage and… discernibly ancient.”

“I would merit that both of those claims are accurate,” you confirmed glumly, wincing as your fingers knocked dumbly against your nose in their intention to rub your eyes. “Getting an electrician has been on my to-do list for a shamefully long time.”

Several loud, familiar clicks saw the overhead lights flickering back into some illusion of life, and a cacophony of dissonant chimes erupted around the room as each machine simultaneously launched into a reboot cycle. Tech deactivated his flashlight and stowed it deftly away in the pouch strapped to his right thigh while his other hand trailed gently along the series of cobweb-laden breakers.

“I would estimate that the sum of the required amperage for each breaker largely exceeds the allotted amount for the panel in its entirety,” he mused, cringing mildly against the abhorrent squeak of the door as he pushed it closed and latched it. “It will be both a costly and a laborious installation.”

“Glorious,” you sighed, knotting your arms tightly over your chest, anxiety rippling through you at the implication of his conclusion.

“However, the odds that I may be of assistance are in your favour.” He hesitated for only a second before gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists, dismantling the hug that you’d bestowed upon yourself as anxiety began to simmer in your gut. “Commercial electrical panels are of a different mechanical structure than those regulated for areospace,” he continued quietly, lacing his fingers between yours, “but the circuitry should be vastly similar to that of my ship. I would be happy to attempt the installation for you, pending we can locate the correct mater—”

“Tech… Come in…”

A loud chirp and a foreign, husky voice issued from several feet to the left, robbing you of the listful smile that had begun to peel across your face at the reintroduction of his touch. His posture straightened immediately, his body reacting instinctively to the summons echoing from the comlink on his gauntlet, long ago stripped from his hands and buried under the thick blanket of his gloves on the counter.

He flicked his gloves aside impatiently, collecting the rigid plastoid piece and bringing it to hover in front of his mouth. “Sarge,” he addressed, his eyes flickering to you apologetically before adhering themselves intently to the blue light illuminating his chin.

“Where the hell are you? I’ve pinged your datapad a dozen times.”

“Ah,” Tech vocalized awkwardly, left hand absently patting the empty pouch perched on his lower back that typically housed his beloved device when not in use; the device abandoned to a live a solitary existence on the front counter. “My apologies. I… I fear my task of locating a spare condenser valve was hindered by a… um… distraction.”

“Does this ‘distraction’ happen to wear a labcoat?”

The jeering inquiry was bathed in a slithering smoke all too familiar to you, the mild distortion from the vocabulator failing to deplete any of its intensity. The image of Crosshair’s sneering face erupted in your mind as a ringing, potent silence ensued in response to his sardonicism.

Tech’s lips pursed into a thin line, eyes wide and unmoving as if his mind had simply seized under the effort of frantically searching for a plausible excuse that did not entail he divulge the truth of his whereabouts.

“Just get back to the ship… now,” the first, hoarse voice demanded. “We’re overdue on Ithica. Cody’s holding his advance until we get there.”

Tech offered a simple “understood,” before silencing the comlink with a prod of a button, and you met the return of his gaze with a fearful, guilty grimace. All-too thrilled to waste your time in his presence, basking in the joy that walked hand-in-hand with the emergence of his affection for you, time had simply vanished.

“I lament that I must depart so quickly,” he spoke, wiggling his fingers back into his gloves. “I have unknowingly delayed my squad’s departure significantly.” He paused to reaffix the plastoid pieces to the backs of his hands, flexing his joints until satisfied with the comfort of their positioning.

“Don’t worry, I get it,” you reassured him with a meek shrug, meeting him at this position in the doorway. “Thank you for coming to waste your time with me.”

“Time with you is never wasted, darling.” The endearing term embraced you with a warmth so layered that you doubted even the sheets of cold rain cascading from the clouds above could have robbed it from you, your adoration for him only intensified by the brazenness he was now showing in the face of his frenzied departure. “And if it is,” he continued scooping your hand into his, “I will happily do so again when I return… if you would still desire my company.”

Your movements stilled, breath halted in your lungs, lids refusing the innate need to blink lest you miss a fraction of this moment. His eyes attuned to you, soft yet determined, as he gently guided your hand upward, setting your nerves alight with the tender press of his lips to your skin.

“Oh, I will,” you reassured him in barely more than a whisper, the tingles radiating from the spot where he’d adorned your hand with a kiss, rendering you numb to the gentle squeeze that he gave before releasing it.

Budding disappointment forced a slump into your shoulders as he offered you a small nod of salutation and turned toward the door. “Tech!” you interjected, watching his tall figure begin to disappear behind the doorframe. His head poked back through the doorway, cheeks aflush and eyes atwinkle. “Good luck.” It left your lips somewhat meekly, the two words nowhere near expressive enough to convey all the thoughts and reassurances of understanding that you couldn’t verbalize.

He paused, reaching up to pacify his feelings by shifting his goggles on his nose before granting you a smile, the same quirky grin that had stolen the breath from your lungs hours earlier. “The ideology of luck i—”

“Yeah, yeah… an ‘illogical concept’…”

Taglist: @anxiouspineapple99

#the bad batch #tbb #bad batch #bad batch fanfic #tech x gn!reader #tech x reader #tech x you #tbb tech #bad batch tech #starqueenswrittenworks

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