Unprofessional [pt. 1] /// Yandere Tendou X F!Reader

I need to get back to this

please give us more of the blogs you like<3

Blog Recs

Alright then, since you asked so nicely, I'll put in the effort and just go through my entire following!

Keep in mind that some of these blogs may be inactive, but their old works are definitely worth taking a look at!

Not all of them are yandere, but they are satisfying nonetheless, so check them out!

Also, most of these blogs, and blogs in general, write for fanbases with specific characters. I follow mostly people who write either BNHA, JJK, or Haikyu!! So, if you like that, you'll probably like most of these.

Other than that, sorry, I won't be writing anything specific for each blog. I suggest just checking them out one by one. I'll make an exception to my delete later rule and leave this post up for good, so take your time, people!

My mutes in the order I started following them:

@mrsdarkandyandere7 @gojosprettyprincess @yandere-romanticaa @deathofacupid @elsecrytt @delulustateofmind @madamechrissy @jay-joy113 @depravitycentral @yanderedrabbles @dcsiremc @lymtw @yanderecrazysie @kachowden @moyazaika @suiana @misstycloud @kakushino @envy-of-the-apple @temptacioun @ozzgin @justabratsworld @eevwrites @moechies @youryanderedaddy @moshimochis @aquadenks @ghostsy @cheesecakethots @cursingtoji @mostlyheinous @the-grimm-writer @dilfhos @wilderuby @shaisuki @lewed @dabislittlemouse @ectologia @mamayan @call-memissbrightside @saintshigaraki @dj--owlixx @athanatoz @yanstan @emperorwriter @its-makonom @unicreamuwu @starcrossedyanderes @sems-diarie @iwasei @ssplague @seiyasabi @potatoes-is-are-food @hotwings0203 @after-witch @tomurasprincess @shinkun @tainted-wine @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love @shorkbrian

Others in the order I started following them:

@casuallyanidiot @gojosoups @what-the-dark-has-foretold @fangdokja @manmuncher777 @frid4y @yeyinde @running-with-kn1ves @ridingthatd @bratbby333 @lamefish @lxnarphase @chososcamgirl @spacelabrathor @angelltheninth @romantichomicide95 @prettyboykatsuki @ceilidho @quarterlifekitty @lady-lauren @zeninsama @specialgradefckr @monstersholygrail @monstersflashlight @depravityfever @arias-diaryy @uvobreakmylegs @shumidehiro @dear-yandere @stickyspeckledlight @the-saltiest-saltine @teabutmakeitazure @sqoa @mellowwillowy @bunnis-monsters @cumtastiics @onmyyan @whore-ibly-hot @allurilove @jessamine-rose @webism @heich0e @lesinquietes @jaegerbby @killsaki for old fics and @kis4kis for new @ghostbeam @bunnirabbits @meo-eiru @yandere-sins @yandere-writer-momo @amusedyan @wri0thesley @kiiozawa @strafepanzer @suguann @alottieluv @suguwu @streimiv @hawnks @katsukikitten @miggiisdumb @iwaasfairy @of-a-darkness-untold @doumadono @jazzthatonewriterchick @kingkatsuki @crybaby-bkg @crikeygatormate @willowser @thecowboykatsuki-anon @cyancherub @oh-katsuki for old fics and @woahjo for new @touyaz @libiraki @angelatsumu @animeyanderelover @yanderemommabean @weebsinstash @inkykeiji @morgana-ren @humanitysfandomhoe @pbelfz @korpuskat @minnie-mei @love-toxin @obscureamor @villain-hotline @ddarker-dreams @your-yandere-kiss @seijorhi @yandere-daydreams

@yanderenightmare-reblogs

iron tide [1]

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. 11k words. 18+ mdni the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from. or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him [masterlist]

Jonathan had long forsaken his godliness; but if he were to deify anything, it would be the Sea. 

Great big blue, infinitely vast and infinitely deep. She was sweet when she was still, gentle, little ebbs like kisses against the barnacled hull — formidable when she was angry, titanic swells like mountains that crashed and shattered and sucked irreverent men down into the depths of her. 

She took as much as she gave, demanded sacrifices for her gifts. Stole his father when he was a boy, swept off the deck of his ship by a rancorous wave and cast out into the expanse before she inevitably swallowed him. But what she purloined she returned in abundance — a cornucopia of life; fish, lobsters, molluscs — and enough crabs for John to make his living for the better part of his life once he retired from the Navy. 

In more recent years, though, he had begun to lose faith in her, too. 

The seas were violent and only getting rougher, warmer when they needed to be cold to let the crabs get meatier, colder when they needed to be warm so they could replenish their numbers. 

A burgeoning resentment had rooted in his crew like a spreading cancer, minute at first but steadily swelling — every year they were paid a little less and damaged a little more, and who else was there to blame but their skipper? 

Wrong spot, wrong depth, wrong time of year; he seemed to keep getting it wrong, despite decades and decades of seafare. As though the Sea was punishing him, as though he had taken too much — only a matter of time before it was his turn to give. 

She made known her spite as he leaned over the paint-chipped railing of the deck-facing balcony, watching his crew haul in pot after pot from the raging ocean. Each cage more vacant than the last, the crabs smaller than he had come to expect from the once generous North Sea, soft brown shells where they should have been thick, ochre red, and thorny. Half of them too small to keep, so were begrudgingly tossed back into the deep.

The sun had set not ten minutes prior, hidden by black cloud and dense fog, the sea and sky smudged into a uniform shade of gloaming blue. The waves were tempestuous, whitecaps high and valleys low — the Iron Tide was a resilient girl, and she carved through the bulk of the swells, but even she could not avoid the plummets and climbs of an ocean this rough. He felt the mist of the cracking waves on his cheeks, the wind blistering cold and forcing him to squint. 

As the Captain he had outgrown the need to get his hands dirty, he could stay in the comfort of the wheelhouse if he wished — but he still liked to venture down to the deck to pull ropes and haul pots when he could, if only to show his crew how it was properly done. He liked to ensure his callouses stayed thick and his mettle hadn’t turned soft. 

“This’s a fucken’ suicide set, captain!” Roared Johnny from the deck, work-worn voice barely audible over the bellows of the waves on the hull. Lead deckhand with the attitude of a first mate. 

The first mate himself, Simon, had begun ascending the rusty steel stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency, the hood of his fluorescent orange jacket around his shoulders, kept there by the wind. 

“How many ‘ve we got?” John asked him, jaundiced, having to shout over the gale. 

“Thirty-two,” Simon said rigidly, “from twenty pots.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” John grunted, aggravated, smacking the rail with his palm. He cynically observed the next pot as it was hauled up, even emptier than the last one, and he made up his mind. “Alright, set ‘em back.”

“They’ve been soaking for twenty-four hours,” Simon disputed, but the pith of his irritation resided in the knowledge of how much labour had already been wasted. It was an inexorable fact, though — there was little point in retrieving them now, as empty as they were. 

“It’s a waste of time to haul them all,” John barked. “What have we got, seventy to go? Set them back.” 

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb, exasperated. “Alright.” 

He echoed the Captain’s command in a roar down the stairs, deckhands looking up to listen before they obeyed — John watched, disenchanted, as they began launching the string of pots over the side of the deck one by one, throwing loops of yellow nylon rope and the bright red marker buoys out to follow them. 

It was easy for John to fall into a sour mood, and after the abysmal stew Nikolai had thrown together for their supper, his fuse was cut even shorter. Seemed the Russian mechanic’s turn to cook always landed on the harshest nights, left everyone crotchety and indolent. 

He needed nicotine. 

He made his way back to the helm with a crease in his brow and his jaw in knots. The bolted windows spanning the length of the bridge were near impossible to see through, the battering of sea spray distorting the view of the dark ocean that extended unendingly past the bow. He glared out into the abyss for a beat, stoically watching the black waves, wondering what next the Sea would punish him with. 

A blink of red pierced through the mist. 

He almost ignored it, at first, rubbing his forehead as he twisted his spinning chair behind the helm — until it was there, again; a pin-prick of bright carmine, cutting through the blue sea fog and disappearing behind a wave. 

Frowning as he leaned into the radar screen, his eyes scoured over the bright blue disk and immediately caught on a tiny yellow blip. Due north, twenty degrees west. It was faint, flickering every odd moment, and he stared at it vigilantly — a spot he would normally dismiss as sea clutter, if not for the blinking light he thought he saw on the horizon. 

He reeled down the window by the seat and stuck his head out into the winds, squinting through the spray — at the top of a crest shone the little red light, blinking at half-second intervals, clear as day. 

The realisation rinsed him colder than seawater. 

A lifeboat. 

He snatched the intercom radio from its hook by the wheel and held it to his lips. 

“All hands—” He barked, “Secure the deck. Got a lifeboat up ahead. Prepare for rescue.” 

Simon’s crackling voice quickly came back through the radio, from the call point on the deck. “D’you say a lifeboat?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Roger.” 

John could hear the yelling on deck from the wheelhouse, all that fervour frothing up at the prospect of an emergency; a new challenge. He immediately spun the wheel to adjust the rudder, steering the boat in the direction of the blip on the radar. Gently pushed the throttle to catch up and felt the roaring engine quake through the boat, the sharp bow of his ship cut through the swells like a fist through a wall. 

“See it,” Simon called through the intercom. 

“What’ve we got?” 

“Life raft.” 

He tugged the throttle lever back to halt the boat on approach, aligning the vessel so that the lifeboat was portside, knuckles white on the wheel. He set the engine to hold station before marching out to the deck, bracing for the wind as he hurried across the steel balcony and down the ladder, knurled steel stairs clanging loudly with every thud of his boots. 

“Any survivors onboard?” John shouted, joining his crew where they peered over the railing, as another wave cascaded over the gunwale, greenwater flooding the deck before gushing out of the scuppers. 

There it was, neon orange and climbing up a steep swell. Hardly a lifeboat — an inflatable raft, little red light blinking atop a rounded corner. From the deck he could tell it was ancient, the bright skin of the raft peeling and blistering, exposing the ballooning black rubber within that kept it afloat. Modern regulations demanded modern lifeboats — fully enclosed boats with their own motors, search and rescue transponders equipped. He struggled to imagine the kind of vessel the raft had even come from; certainly not a cruise ship, or any legally operating fishing or passenger boat. 

“Only one,” Alex answered, yelling over the roar of the ocean. 

Nik let out a grunt, dismissing it all with a sweep of his hand. “That woman is dead.” 

John squinted at the raft, and quickly determined that Nikolai wasn’t unreasonable for thinking so.

The woman aboard the raft lay face down in the orange bed, bare-footed, nothing on but a saturated ivory dress that clung to her skin like glue. Sodden hair webbed across her back, tresses floating in the inch of water that filled the basin of the boat. 

Even if she were a corpse already, though, he wasn’t going to let the Sea digest her unchallenged. 

“Alright,” he declared, chewing on his plan before he uttered it. “I’ll strap on the lifeline, jump in and grab her, then you lot can reel me back in.” 

The disputes were quick to gush from his crew, all cursing and shaking heads. 

“Get fucked,” Alex scoffed, appaled, “skipper jumping overboard? What world are you living in?”

“You gonna do it, then, Keller?” John retorted, lips in a line. 

“I can,” Soap yelled, already shucking off his heavy jacket. Daredevil that he was.

John gritted his teeth. Wasn’t sold on the risk of losing his lead deckhand; but as he considered it, he would never be prepared to risk losing any of them. 

“You sure?” 

“Ah’m the best swimmer,” he boasted through a grin, now down to his thermals, shoulders raised in the cold and rubbing his hands together. 

“Good man,” John nodded approvingly, and the crew quickly went to work strapping him in — hooked the harness over his shoulders and secured it in the front, fed the end of the long blue rope into the winch so he could be retrieved after the catch. 

Came the thudding of boots on the deck, running towards the commotion; “Fuck’s going on? Why’s the engine idle?”

Kyle, the ship’s engineer, finally emerging from the engine room with a smudge of gear oil on his cheek. Must have had his earbuds in when the Captain issued the all hands directive. 

John let out a huff, not prepared to give a long justification to the designated safety officer, conscientious as he was.

“Oh shit—” Gaz chirped, discovering on his own the gravity of the situation, as he glanced over the railing and spotted the raft. “Is she alive?”

“We’re about t’find out,” Soap said keenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to warm himself up. 

“You’re jumping in?” Gaz balked, “That’s — you’re fuckin’ mental.”

John let out a sharp huff. He didn’t disagree, but he thought it counterproductive to express any reluctance. “Got a better idea, lad?” 

Gaz sighed anxiously as he clutched the guardrail, head hanging from his shoulders. He knew as well as John that this was the only option — it was that, or leave the woman adrift in the ocean to die, if she weren’t already. 

John held fast to his pragmatism, but his morals were unyielding. Nobody gets left behind. 

Men took turns giving Johnny good luck pats on the back as he climbed over the railing. He hung off the other side like a monkey with his fist around the bar, looking down into the furious ocean and taking an anticipatory breath. 

The crew watched raptly and let loose a strident cheer as he launched off, diving into the waves with knife-pointed arms and sinking out of sight. Nik remained steadfast by the hydraulic winch, ready to set it off at any indication of either success or failure. 

Soap reemerged from the water with a visible gasp ten-odd metres out, breaking through the white foam and powering ahead in a freestyle stroke. He reached the raft quickly, and climbed aboard like a wet dog, hauling himself up over the ballooning sides and almost pulling it under the water with him. He kneeled beside the woman once he was in, pulling her by the shoulder to assess her — he gave no indication to the crew as to her status before he hoisted her up and held her tight to his chest, arms hooked under hers so that she wore him like a backpack.

He pushed himself back into the water with an eager holler; “Got ‘er!”

Nik immediately pulled the lever on the winch and it zipped loudly as it began spinning, winding up the rope and hauling Johnny through the swelling sea. The crane arm of the davit extended far enough beyond the gunwale that he didn’t slam into the hull on his ascent, and he clung to the limp woman for dear life — John and his deckhands leaned as far over the railing as they could without toppling overboard, hooking the rope that suspended the swimmer and heaving he and his cargo onboard. 

Soap coughed out a splatter of seawater as he gingerly lay the woman on her back, before rolling over and wiping down his face, dripping wet.

“Found yerself a mermaid, cap,” he sputtered, sniffing and shivering violently as he pushed himself to stand. 

“Nicely fuckin’ done, Soap,” Alex lauded, smacking him on the back and earning a screech from the Scotsman. 

“‘S too cold,” he bit, grabbing at his genitals through his sodden thermals. “Ma fucken’ balls are gone.” 

“Go in and get dry,” the Captain barked, as he hurriedly crouched beside the woman, sweeping locks of drenched hair from where it stuck to her face. 

“Jesus,” Gaz muttered concernedly. 

Her skin was bitterly cold, but soft on her cheeks; some indication that resuscitation might have been possible, that her skin wasn’t as stiff and waxy as corpse skin would have been. Eyes were lightly shut, her thick lashes clumped together by seawater. He used a gentle thumb to lift up an eyelid, and her pupils were nice and black — blown out, but not clouded over. Laces of capillaries meshed through her white scleras. Blood still bright red.

“How’s she looking?” Alex asked, crouching beside John, pessimism in his throat. 

“She’s frigid,” John said grimly.

“Could be hypothermic,” Gaz said from behind him, worry leaden in every word. “That water is barely higher than zero.” 

“Mh,” John grunted in agreement, hastily pressing the palps of his fingers under her jaw into a spongy jugular, held there for a few seconds — no pulse. “We’ll worry about warmin’ her up once we get her breathing.” 

He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, laying his hands knuckles down between her breasts. Pushed his weight into her sternum with a hard shove and her ribs sunk underneath him, bouncing back up when he released the pressure. Repeat. Over, and over, grunting with each desperate compression.

The heaving bodies of five men caging her kept the bulk of the angry waves from dousing her, the spray crashed over John’s back and dripped from him, beads landing on her body. Solemn silence hung heavy between them, as though fearful that expressing any hope would condemn her to certain death. Simon clutched John’s shoulder, grip encouraging. 

He counted his compressions until he reached thirty, before he urgently keeled forward and pressed his mouth to her cold lips, pinching her nose and lifting her chin — pumped air from his lungs into hers with a forceful breath, then another, then another. Her chest rose as it filled up with his air, sunk again as he let it seep out from behind her teeth. 

Returned to compressions. Push. Push. Push. He pressed so hard into her sternum that her ribs threatened to snap under the weight of him, but they were rubbery enough to withstand it. 

Continued the next round until he reached twenty-one — when water began to rise up her throat, sloshing about in her open mouth and trickling out of its corners. He urgently halted his compressions to flip her onto her side and tip out the brine, hammering into the midline of her back with an open palm. 

“C’mon, love,” John growled, teeth gritting. “Cough it up for me.” 

As though she had heard him, a gurgle eked from her throat, torso retching as an eruption of water gushed out of her mouth and sprayed over the deck. A few weak coughs followed the first, and she shuddered — the men roared in shock and celebration as John returned her to her back. 

Her eyes fluttered open for less than a second, shrinking pupils fixed on John for a heartbeat — wet, glittering under the beaming of the deck lights, carving straight through him and taking root in the marrow of his skull. Vacant and yet swollen, the glow of life anew, as though glaring right into the heavens — and with a little sigh, they feathered shut again. 

He held a hand to her cheek, gave her head a soft shake; prepared to continue the chest compressions, but as he curled forward and held his ear to her lips, he felt her breathing, shaky and weak against the cartilage shell. 

“She breathin’?” Simon asked bluntly, laden with apprehension. 

“Yeah,” John huffed, relief potent as liquor flooded hot into his chest and made his temples throb. 

“Good shit, cap’n,” Alex commended, releasing a puff of pent air, just as relieved as the lot of them. 

John nodded dismissively, hands on his knees, before he pushed himself to stand. He stood over the girl and hoisted her up with his hands under her arms, before delicately draping her over his shoulder.

“Gaz, help me with her, will you?” He grunted, before marching toward the stairs up to the superstructure. “You three — fun’s over. Get back to setting the pots. I’ll send Soap back out once he’s in his dries.”

“Aye aye,” Alex said facetiously, shaking out his hands as he and the others returned to the stack they had just tied down. 

“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked stiffly, in quick pursuit as John steamed up the stairs. 

“Gotta get her warm,” John said. 

“Yeah—” he agreed with a hesitant tone, “what d’you want me for?”

John’s eyes rolled into his skull. “You did a couple years of health science, didn’t you?” 

“One year,” Kyle corrected. 

John could have said that he wanted Gaz specifically because he was the ship’s assigned safety officer, or because he was the only man aboard with a university degree. But, in truth, he wanted him simply for the fact he was the least likely of all of his crewmen to make stripping the girl into something needlessly lascivious. 

He carted her to the head in steady stride, passing Johnny through the narrow corridor as he dried himself off with a towel around his neck. 

“She’s alive?” He asked hopefully. 

“Uh-huh,” John rumbled. 

Soap triple-smacked the veneer panel of the wall with a flat hand in excitement, all but bouncing off the ceiling with it. “Halle-fucken’-lujah! Need help warmin’ her up?” 

“No. Get your skins on and head back out to deck, Johnny, y’got more pots to drop.” 

Johnny groaned like a teenager, but he went off as he was told.

The head was small — enough room for a toilet, a shower, and a three-inch wide sink, not quite the floorspace to lay her down gracefully. John tore back the curtain and propped her up against the wall of the shower, nestling her into the corner so her head leaned against the perpendicular wall. 

No sense in wasting time. He clinically peeled the sodden fabric of her white dress up her thighs, lifting her limp leg to tug the skirt out from under her. 

“Christ—” Gaz grumbled, disquieted, he turned away. 

“Will y’hold her arms up for me?” John monotonously requested, uninterested in the boy’s reservations. 

Gaz sighed as he obeyed the order, taking her cold hands by the wrists and holding them above her head. John hiked up her dress without reservation, revealing the saturated bra and underwear she wore underneath, as he lifted it her arms up above her head. 

“This’s fucked up,” Gaz mumbled. 

“What is.” 

“Taking her clothes off,” he said, reluctance poignant. 

“You’d rather we let her freeze to death, eh?” John bit, not even dignifying the engineer’s aversion by turning to look at him. 

He tugged her flaccid body towards him, and her head fell against his shoulder — he reached under her arm into the space between her back and the shower wall, unclasping her bra with a single hand. 

“No,” Kyle acquiesced. “Do we really need to take off her underwear, though?”

“She’s not gonna get warm in wet knickers, is she,” John grumbled, frustration blossoming, releasing it in a sharp sigh. “Y’need to grow up, Garrick. Go and grab my jersey and a towel from the laundry, then.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” he agreed, marching out of the head like he might trip over in his haste. 

John bit down on nothing as he pulled the straps of the girl’s bra down her arms, adding it to the pile atop her drenched dress. Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing — pudding-soft curves, pretty little face — might lend an explanation to the young engineer’s discomfort, couldn’t reconcile the attraction he felt to a near-dead woman while she was incognisant of her nudity. 

John did not care, he had no qualms. 

A pragmatist, through and through. He felt no shame for admiring her as he leaned her back against the laminate wall, nipples grey-purple and hard as pebbles by virtue of her palpable hypothermia. Soft lips were slack, not as blue as they had been when she was fished out of the ocean, now that her blood was pumping again. 

He wasted no time ogling her, though, he was no reprobate. His only priority was getting her warm and awake. And that happened to involve hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, saturated in seawater and cleaving fast to her skin. 

He hooked an arm around her to lift her from the shower floor, used the other hand to tug her underwear over the swell of her bottom before he set her back down to reel them down her thighs. 

Pretty cunt, too. Unshaven, how he liked them. 

He reached up for the shower head, held it in a fist as he switched on the water. Already nice and warm, preheated by the engine-powered calorifiers. He held the stream of warm water over her chest, watching as it cascaded over her breasts and flooded between her thighs. Didn’t care if he got himself wet in so doing. Checked her pulse every odd moment with the pad of a finger on her wrist, ensured her chest continued to rise and fall. 

Rubbed his free hand over her skin to scrub off all the salt; started modestly with her arms, shoulders, back — but was unhesitant in rinsing and scrubbing her armpits, down her belly, between her legs. Didn’t touch her pussy, though, even John felt that was a step too far. He simply rinsed it. Let the water run over her mons and channel down the cleft of her unaided. 

He tilted her head back and ran the warm stream over her hairline, careful not to let too much water pour down her face. He combed thick fingers through the tresses, scrunching her hair into a ball to wring out the brine before rinsing it out again. 

As he carded his fingers through her scalp, though, he felt a lump; just above her hairline, concealed by the locks. A squishy protrusion from the skull, with a frayed ridge through the centre of it. Only then did he see the diluted blood in the water that puddled at the bottom of the shower, originating from the ends of her saturated hair. 

Add that to the list of ailments, he thought. Poor wee girl. They’d need to tend to that. 

Kyle finally returned with a cautious knock on the door, a single knuckle. 

“D’you fall overboard, Garrick?” John murmured — he had been gone far longer than it should have taken to find the items he requested. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t figure out which fleece was yours.” 

John said nothing. 

“She warming up yet?” Gaz asked tightly, likely not even looking in the direction of the shower, now that she was entirely nude. 

The girl’s skin was now plush and pink under the heat of the water, and felt warm to the touch under the back of John’s hand; so with a satisfied nod he shut off the water and hooked the showerhead back into its fastening. 

He reached backward with a gesturing hand, and Gaz handed him the crisp towel he had brought from the laundry without a word. 

“Looks like she got hit in the head,” John commented, as he draped the towel over the girl's front, rubbing her down to get her dry. Arms, shoulders, armpits, thighs, feet. He was thorough. 

“Shit,” Gaz said morosely, half-hearted. Soft young man, soft in a way John was almost envious of. Sometimes he wondered if he had grown too rough around the edges, too abrasive for his own good. “What the fuck happened to ‘er?” 

“Not a clue,” John said. “Nothing good.” 

“That life raft was — that was non-standard,” Gaz pondered aloud. 

“Thought the same thing,” John replied, as he scrunched her hair in the towel, twisting it up to wring out the water. He was careful with the top of her head — dabbing her scalp gently, leaving dark red smears in the blue fibres. 

“Ferry capsized, maybe?” 

“We would’ve heard about a ship capsizing nearby,” John said. “‘Specially a passenger vessel. They’d have blasted the distress call out in every direction.” 

“Mh,” Gaz agreed. 

“She had no shoes on,” John remarked, tone sombre. “No gear, no jacket.” 

“Running away from something?” asked Gaz, picking up what John might have been suggesting. 

“Maybe,” John said, before hanging the towel around her back and hauling her up from the floor with an arm around her ribs. 

He hung her floppy arms over his shoulder, kept her body tight to him, the towel just long enough to conceal her buttocks from Gaz, sensitive lad. He kept her up with a forearm under her rear, bounced her to adjust. She was impossibly easy to lift; John could have carried her one-handed, if he were less concerned about avoiding brandishing her nudity around the ship. 

Gaz followed him out of the head, towards the galley. 

“She had no belongings with her, eh?” Gaz asked, “no wallet, nothing?” 

“No.” 

Kyle let out a long sigh, worry oozing from his every pore. “Don’t wanna imagine how long she was drifting for.” 

John nodded, as he sat her down on the bench seat of the dining table, the thin vinyl cushion squeaking underneath her. He dumped the towel, and grabbed his jersey from Gaz — one of his heavy Patagonia fleeces, fabric thick, plush like sheepskin, dark navy with a zip collar. He pulled it over her head, fed her arms through the long sleeves and adjusted it down her torso. It was long enough that it reached her mid-thighs, hands two-thirds of the way through the sleeves — big enough to conceal everything, and cozy enough to keep her warm. He pulled her hair out from inside the collar and lay it to one side over her shoulder. 

“Grab me the first aid kit,” John ordered dryly, as he leaned her against the seat, holding her head upright with a hand at the back of her skull. 

He fingered through her locks of damp hair, looking closely for the contusion that he felt ballooning out of her scalp — found it, eventually, dark purple and swollen, sticky burgundy blood coagulating around the open wound and gluing bits of hair together. 

“Think she fell?” Gaz asked, as he returned with the red polyester pouch after rummaging through the galley cabinets, unzipping and unfurling it. 

“S’there betadine in there?” John asked, before he had acknowledged the engineer’s question. “Hard to say, it looks rough.” 

Kyle handed him the little brown dropper of iodine solution, popping off the cap for him. “You don’t think someone hit her.” 

John’s jaw tightened. “If they did, they hit her bloody hard.” 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz grumbled, upset, watching with his arms crossed as John tipped over the little bottle. He squeezed out several rust-brown drops, they landed squarely in the wound in her scalp, emulsifying with the tissue. “This’s all — just wrong.” 

“Least she’s alive,” John murmured, through a huff, as he put down the betadine. No use in attempting to bandage it, the laceration was small enough that it would heal on its own if left unbothered. 

“Wonder where her home is,” Gaz mused, tone dismal. 

“We’ll ‘ave to see what the bird says when she wakes up,” John said, laying the girl down on her side, tucking up her knees. 

“What if she doesn’t?” 

“She will,” John asserted as he stood, rapping an appreciative hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, will you? I need to get back to the bridge.” 

“Okay,” Gaz nodded tightly. 

“And get her a blanket,” John ordered on his way to the ladder. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?” 

“Will do, Captain.” 

You tasted salt on your tongue.

It was dark, and your body was so heavy — your neurons fired off to raise an arm, and all they mustered was the twitch of a finger. Skin felt warm and viscid, lacquered in a tepid layer of tar as though fully submerged in gooey black pitch, too thick to move around in.

Your eyes perceived nothing but deep, liquid burgundy, and the sparking of white-and-red stars that encroached on the borders of your vision, writhing and swirling in the abyss of your blindness. 

Still, salt on your tongue. 

It was foul, overpowering, all consuming — that brackish grit in every corner of your mouth, between your teeth, crystallising in the back of your throat. It filled your nose, stung where it adhered to the delicate mucosa of your nostrils, every breath hurt to take in. 

You could feel it in your lungs, too. Shards of salt embedded in your bronchioles, saline glutted alveoli, trachea plugged with viscous brine. 

Your diaphragm spasmed beyond your control, body seizing as you erupted into a coughing fit — wet and phlegmy, salty fluid gurgling in your chest and hucking out of your mouth with every ragged splutter, you almost choked on it as you heaved in as much air as your lungs could imbibe. 

Your eyes shot open, then, vision so blurry that you had to wrench them closed a few times before the membrane over your corneas began to dissipate. 

A rubbery cushion under the side of your head, fuzzy fabric enveloping your arms and chest, something scratchy and heavy over your legs. Warm, sore — you ached everywhere, every joint stiff, every muscle burning, every organ twisting and floundering inside you. 

Dizziness wracked through your head, brain swimming free within your skull, spinning around in circles and bouncing against the walls of its cavity as though you were being tipped forward and backward and forward again. 

Nausea swelled up quickly, filled you up to the ears and made your stomach cramp and contort — bile rose up your throat and burned on its way up, you leaned over the surface you lay on and let it spill out from your teeth. Hardly any vomit, merely an oozing stream of chartreuse bile that dripped in strings from the corner of your mouth. 

You heard a voice, a man’s voice, at first too disoriented to understand it. 

“Shit — oh my god, you’re—”

A hoarse groan escaped your chest in response, not a noise you made on purpose, as you tried to roll onto your back. 

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, and suddenly you noticed a pair of knees under a table beside you, only as they shifted when the person stood. “Hey — you’re okay, you’re—”

You moaned again, squinting under the bright light above you, vision distorted by vertigo and brine. Tongue too fat to form any words yet. 

“You’re okay, let me — let me get you some water.” 

You heard the hurried thuds of boots away from you, and you rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, finally able to see properly once you opened your eyes again. Shakily pulled yourself upright with a hand on the table, muscles quivering so violently that they could barely hold you up — but fired adrenaline began to kick in, thumping out from your chest and buzzing in your fingertips as you glanced around the room, utterly alien to you. 

“Where…” you croaked, soaking in your surroundings. Panelled walls of honey oak, an ugly veneered table in front of you, you sat on its bench seat. A small circular window sat above the table, bolted around its borders, and a single light bulb hung from the ceiling. 

The room smelled like dish soap and body odour, fetid with the scent of an unwashed sponge and a hovering note of fish carcass. A small kitchen, as you turned your head around to check behind you — the man towered over a sink, you heard the hiss of running water. 

“Where am I?” You finally asked, finding your words, but your voice was as frayed as if you had swallowed glass.

The man turned then, and you did not recognise him. Not at all. A complete stranger, with a furrow in his brow, and an awkward smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

You bolted up from the seat then, tossing aside the blanket that rested on your knees, fight-or-flight reigniting your muscles and setting your heart into overdrive — your head spun with it, and your balance was completely off kilter, you had to continually readjust your feet to keep yourself upright. 

“Hey — hey, easy,” he said edgily, voice soft. 

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked, immediately defensive, you tried to keep your eyes pinned to him while you made note of your peripheral surroundings. 

“I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t — I’m Gaz. Kyle. I’m Kyle.” 

You scowled at him, panting, hackles raised high as you shuffled away from the table. “I don’t know anyone called Kyle,” you hissed. “Or anyone called Gaz.” 

“We haven’t met before,” he said, body twisting to face you as you inched around him. 

He put down the glass of water he held in his hand, and that only further enkindled your terror. Now his hands were free. He could tackle you, if he wanted to. Tall man that he was, muscular under his black jersey, his big doe-eyes did nothing to soften you to him. 

“We found you in the water,” he tried to explain, “we thought you were dead. But we rescued you.” 

“The fuck do you mean, found me?” You spat, now approaching the kitchen, your eyes scoured around for something to grab. 

He could detect your scheming, inched closer to you on quiet feet, attempting to flank you. 

So you dashed — bolted towards the small cooktop, where a magnetic strip mounted on the wall held an array of kitchen knives. 

“Fuck—” He cursed, through teeth, failing to grab you in time before you snatched one by the handle, and held the blade in front of you with both hands. 

You jabbed it at him as you backed out of his reach, arms so shaky you almost dropped it — but you kept it tight, holding onto it with vicious devotion, as though dropping it would be your death sentence. 

He held up his hands, not in surrender, but as if he were attempting to settle a wild animal. “Okay, love, take it easy.” 

“Stay away from me,” you shouted, trembling, backing away cautiously. 

“Captain!” The man roared worriedly toward the ceiling, and you flinched. “Look, love, I’m not going to—”

“Fuck you,” you bit, before you spun on a heel and flew towards an archway. 

“Shit.” He cursed as you escaped, but he had not yet pursued you. 

You scurried down the narrow corridor, bare feet aching with every step, knife extended in front of you and prepared to slash at anything that got in your way. You were wobbling all over the place, as though the ground beneath you was rocking back and forth; you toppled into the wall on your right, yelping as you tried to get yourself upright again. 

You reached a great big industrial door, painted blue and with a tiny circular porthole too high for you to see through. It had a wheel in the centre of it, connected to a series of bars that spanned it from top to bottom. Not a door you had ever seen before, but you inexplicably knew to twist the wheel — left, first go, and the bars shrunk away from the top and bottom, the steel door unsealing with a clank. 

Now you heard the thuds of running boots, fast, growing louder, closer — you shouldered open the heavy door and leapt over the lip at the bottom, immediately blasted with an ice-cold wind that made you shrivel up and almost retreat back inside. 

The sky was stark black, and you were blinded by floodlights. You stumbled towards the railing, hanging onto it for dear life as you almost slipped over on the frigid metal grating under your feet — it felt like barbed wire on your soles, and you whimpered with every step. 

Your fierce desperation to escape trumped any pain, though, you burned hot as a boiler, thundering adrenaline keeping you aflame. You spun your head around to determine where you were; a pitch-dark abyss surrounded you on all sides — no sky, no ground, no lights on the horizon, nothing. You peered over the balustrade and realised then that you were on a ship, now seeing the building-tall waves that cascaded over the floor below, bedizened in ropes and grates and metal cages and buoys, populated with a few people in neon jackets. 

“Hey—” Came a bark from behind you, and you shrieked — immediately scurrying towards a steep staircase, pole-narrow, almost toppling down it as you bounced to every second step. 

The floor of the deck consisted of slippery water-logged wood, and the soles of your feet struggled to find any grip as you sprinted across it. You weren’t even sure where you were running, just away, from the man who had followed you — but it became quickly clear you had no escape, and the orange-jacketed men on the deck had turned their heads to spot you.

“Oh, fuck—” One barked. 

Another erupted in bewildered laughter; “She breathes, alright!” 

“Oi — girl—” Called one. 

“C’mere, hen!” Shouted another, Scottish. “We don’t bite!” 

You sobbed as you ran, ravaged by a fear so potent it made your heart shrivel up like a raisin — you were sprayed by a crashing wave, blinded by the salt, and your feet slipped out from under you. Collided into the hard ground with a slam, a bounce, you skidded across the wood and your knife tumbled out of your grip, sliding out of reach. 

Only as you flopped around on the greasy floor did you realise your nudity under the sweater you were wearing, bare thighs slick with cold sea water, ass bitten by the arctic wind. You scrambled to get yourself back up, crawling on your hands and knees towards your only weapon — until a thick arm hooked under your belly, swiftly hoisting you up from the ground with yank, and you squealed. 

“Easy, now, woman—” Gritted the man, the hoarse growl of an old dog, and he held you flat to his chest. “In such a hurry to go back overboard, eh?” 

You wailed, attempted to buck yourself free from him while your feet dangled off the floor, but he only secured his grip with another mammoth arm. The other men on the deck approached hastily, concern and confusion etched in their cold-ruddy faces, looking between each other as though waiting for somebody to decide what to do with you. 

“Let me go,” you sobbed, paltry voice broken by hiccups, you spluttered and cried and kicked when you could muster it. “Please, please—”

“Put her down, Nik, for fuck’s sake.” Came the roar of another man, approaching from further away, an authoritative fury that your captor swiftly obeyed. 

You landed on your bare feet onto the wet floor with a squelch, and a sob, but he kept a firm grip of your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing. You wouldn’t have, though — now, it was clear to you — there was nowhere to run. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yelled the evident commander, “All of you? Christ, look, you’ve scared the shit out of her.” 

You saw him, then, as he stood in front of you — towering, heaving, you felt the vibrations of his heavy feet on the deck with each step. Broad shoulders cloaked in a rugged navy jacket, the hood pooled around his neck, a pair of roomy yellow overalls strapped over the waterproof layer. A black knitted beanie sat on the top of his head, folded just above his furrowed brows. His lips were in a snarl under his dense beard while he addressed the other men, but they softened into a neutral line when he looked at you. 

There was something familiar about him, not that you could place it; a face you might have seen in a dream, or crossing the street once. A face you could imagine with a glowing light beaming from behind it, as though the moon eclipsing a sun. You had no memory to tie to it, and yet, it settled you slightly. 

“Y’alright, love,” he said, voice honey-warm and thick with gravel, he held a hand in your direction and gestured to follow him. “Come back in, will you? Too cold for you out here, eh?” 

You sipped a shaky breath, shivering in the bitter wind, glancing at the men surrounding you from under your brow. Returning to the man that gestured for you, you gave him a feeble nod, and waddled in his direction. 

“Tha’s it, c’mon,” he said gently, hovering a hand at the small of your back. He turned over his shoulder to shout at the others; “You lot have more pots to set, don’t you? Get back to fuckin’ work.” 

He guided you gingerly towards the stairs, close behind you to ensure you didn’t slip over on the way up. Opened the weathertight door to let you in, but walked in front of you down the same corridor you had escaped through. You held your arms tight around yourself, left soggy footprints along the vinyl floor. 

“Got yourself all wet again,” he said, an edge of irritation in his tone. 

“D’you get her?” Came a call from the kitchen you had awoken in, and the man — Kyle — appeared at the end of the hallway. You froze. 

“Go finish your work, Gaz, y’still got an hour on the clock.” He ordered flatly, and Kyle looked at you past him. 

“Yes, Captain,” he grunted disdainfully, shouldering past the man in front of you, and squeezing around you where you pressed yourself into the wall. “Hope you’re feeling okay,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing down a flight of stairs. 

The captain looked back at you, flicked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you dry.” 

The kitchen was much smaller than you remembered it being not a few minutes prior — cozy, much warmer than outside but still not quite warm.

“Siddown,” he said from the kitchen, not as forceful as a command but just as compulsory. You gingerly sat yourself on the same bench you had woken up on, watching him carefully, lips sealed. 

He approached you with a tall cup of water, held by the rim with the tips of his fingers. “Drink it.”

You took the cup timidly, but once it was in your grip you did not hesitate; tipped it into your mouth and skulled it down desperately, a dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. You had no idea how thirsty you were until fresh water touched your lips — fresh, not salty — you panted like a dog when the cup was empty, half-quenched. 

He took it from you, filled it back up at the sink before bringing it back, and you drank the second cupful just as quickly. 

“Better?” He asked, and you nodded, wiped your mouth with your hand. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. 

You watched as he grabbed a light blue towel from the tabletop, and for a moment you thought he might hand it to you — instead he crouched in front of you, and took your leg by the ankle. 

You immediately chirped and attempted to tug your foot free on reflex, but his grip was firm; entire hand wrapped tight around your ankle, he gave you a tut. 

“Settle down,” he snipped, resting the sole of your foot on his collarbone. “I’m only dryin’ you off.” 

Said with such certainty that you began to doubt your instinct that it was inappropriate for him to put his hands on you — tempered by the feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he was only taking care of you. 

He looked at you impatiently until your tensed muscles eased, before he nodded in satisfaction. He hooked your foot over his shoulder so that your ankle rested on his trapezius, before he bunched the towel up in a fist and ran it up the length of your leg. 

You leaned on your arms behind you, heart in your throat, beating so fast that you could hear it buzzing in your ears. 

He was focused, wiping the seawater and muck off your skin, up and down your thighs, down the underside of your leg. 

“Took a tumble, did you?” He asked plainly, dabbing a fresh graze on your knee with the towel, making you flinch with the sting. 

“Yeah,” you said meekly; you were sure it would bruise eventually, but it was largely painless for the time being. 

He tutted you, but continued, wiped down your calf and dried off your foot last; he was fastidious about it, pushed the fibers of the towel between your toes, engulfed your foot in the cotton, scrubbed it along the sole of your foot and your toes curled with the tickle.

He set that leg down once he was done with it, and wordlessly demanded the other with a curl of his fingers. 

Confounding yourself, you did as you were told, and offered him your other leg; he repeated the procedure, resting your foot on his shoulder and scrubbing your leg with the crunchy towel, unabashedly wiping up to the top of your thigh, between your legs, under your knees. 

It didn’t escape your notice that you were naked underneath the jersey, and if he were to look a little higher his eyes would be square with your pussy. The thought made you tighten, and he gave you a disapproving glance when he felt it — but he finished with the other foot, and set your leg free again. 

“Thank you,” you muttered, tight-lipped, dizzy with confusion. 

“D’you want a new jersey?” He asked as he stood, swiping a hand over the sleeve shoulder, where seaspray had beaded on the outside of the fleece. 

“I’m okay,” you said timidly, tucking your legs together. 

He nodded, dropping the towel back on the table. “Alright, pet,” he said. “Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?” 

You were quiet, but he busied himself in the tiny kitchen anyway — followed the rumbling of a water boiler and the slosh of hot water, the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, the tinking of a spoon in a teacup.

“Hope you take it with milk and sugar,” he said. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not.” 

“That’s fine,” you croaked. 

“Good girl,” he said, as he returned with a brown glass mug and set it down on the table in front of you. “Gotta get some sugar in you. You remember the last time you ate?”

You shook your head. 

“Mh, well, let’s get you fed.” 

“I’m not — I’m not hungry right now,” you said hesitantly, and when a divot pulled in his brows, you clarified; “don’t think I can keep much down yet.” 

He nodded. “No problem, love,” he answered, with a pacifying grin. “How’s the head?”

“Where am I?” You asked pointedly, cutting to the chase, unwilling to take a sip of your tea out of lingering suspicion. 

He sat down across from you, landing in the bench seat with a grunt, interlocking his fingers on the surface of the table. His glare was scrutinising, albeit gentle, as though checking rather than inspecting. 

“You’re aboard the Iron Tide,” he said candidly. “We’re fishing for crabs in the North Sea.” 

“Iron Tide?” 

“That’s the name of the ship, love,” he answered, a little patronising. “I’m her skipper, I’m Jonathan. You met Gaz, he’s our engineer — he gave you a fright, I bet, but he’s a good lad.” 

You nodded edgily, looking askance at him. “Okay… but, how did I get here?” 

He smiled sombrely at that, crow’s feet pinching in the corners of his tired eyes. An oceanic blue, you noticed, little round seas reflecting the light that bounced off the table beneath him. 

“Was hopin’ you could tell me that, pet,” he gibed, nodding at your mug. “Drink your tea.” 

You took a sip, as you were told. Just cooled enough to sip with a slurp, blanketing your salty tongue, warm and saccharine, hot as it went down your throat. Earl grey. The taste made you feel tucked in, as though a blanket were over your legs, a pillow behind your head — but the murky memory was as fleeting as it was vague. You swallowed it with a sigh, and he looked pleased. 

“So?” 

“So what?” You asked, with a frown. 

“How’d you end up on the high seas, hm?” 

“I—” You cut yourself off, as you stared into the steaming surface of your tawny-coloured tea. 

Words danced at the tip of your tongue, amorphous and flavourless, nothing you could place. Notions that, if you were to reach for them, would drift away, or turn to smoke. 

You didn’t have an answer. 

“I don’t know,” you said, voice shaky, glancing at him with worry knitting in your brows as though he might be able to remind you. 

“You don’t remember?” He asked carefully. 

A piteous heat swelled beneath your eyes, tears welling from their ducts and pooling in your eyes, your vision went blurry with it. You shook your head. 

“S’alright, pet,” he said, fixing a hand to your wrist across the table. “It’ll come back to you. Do you remember anything at all? If you were on a boat, what country you’re from?” 

Again you shook your head, sniffling, you wiped an errant tear with the soft sleeve of the oversized fleece you have no memory of putting on. “No.” 

Concern cracked through his stoic expression, and it only made you more upset.

“Do you know your name, love?” 

You vacuumed in a slow and trembling breath, eyes bouncing between your hands, as if they might hold the answer. You could think of names — Jessica, Lucy, Nina, Anna, Rebecca — but they were only that, random names floating about in the air around you, and you could not pin any of them as your own with any certainty. 

“No,” you eked, followed swiftly by a sob, despite your effort to swallow it. 

He exhaled, long and beleaguered, stroking the back of your hand with his colossal thumb. Hands as big as saucers, calloused and molten hot to the touch. Made your hand look like a pixie’s underneath it.  

“Don’t fret, eh?” He said, failing to comfort you. “Y’got plenty of time to remember. Just finish your tea.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked weakly, plenty of time comment making you uneasy. “Aren’t you going to take me to — back to land?” 

He smiled, bemused, as he released your wrist with a pat and leaned back against the bench seat, hanging an arm insouciantly over the back. 

“Not heading all the way back to port yet, love,” he said frankly. “We only left a couple days ago. Got a lot more crabs to catch.” 

“I’m — I have to stay on this boat until you’re done fishing?” You asked, fighting back the tears that threatened another cascade. 

He tilted his head. “This’s my job. If I don’t get crabs, I don’t get paid. Neither do the other lads, ‘n they won’t be letting that happen.” 

You pouted, lip quivering and face scrunching, and he let out a huff. 

“Look, sweetheart, what would I even do with you if I took you back now?” He asked, tone rigid. “Y’got no ID, no passport, no papers, nothing on you but that bloody frock. We don’t even know what country you belong to. You’d get snatched up by the authorities and tossed around immigration services until your head is on backwards.” 

You sniffled, wiped your cheek with your sleeve. You had no argument, and even if you had the energy to muster one, you had no knowledge of how such a system worked, or where you would possibly go if they allowed you free movement. You’re sure you’d have a house somewhere, a family, someone out there must be looking for you…

The thought made you cry again, head falling from your shoulders and landing in your hands, you sobbed unremittingly into the dense fleece. 

Jonathan sighed at that, evidently growing impatient, but he pushed himself to stand — he was suddenly next to you, planting himself on the bench with his thigh against yours, and he draped an arm around your shoulder. 

“S’alright,” he crooned, voice as deep and rumbling as an engine, and you found yourself curling into him on instinct. Tucked up under his arm, head on his chest, a warm hand rested on the side of your head and smoothed down your hair. “We’ll sort it out.” 

“I don’t even kn-know where my home is,” you blubbered into him, muffled by his jacket, still speckled with beads of sea mist. “Or if — if I’ve got a family, or a husband—”

“Y’look a little young for one o’ those,” he remarked, with a chortle. 

“What if I don’t remember anything? Ever?” You cried, and he stroked the shell of your ear with his calloused thumb, fingers woven in your hair. 

“None o’ that,” he grumbled, you couldn’t determine if he was rocking you or if it was simply the motions of the boat tipping over the waves. “No wallowing on my ship. Keep your chin up, and you’ll be fine.” 

You whimpered, but nodded, and he petted your head like a cat. 

“We got another nine or ten days at sea,” he said, comforting hand retreating from you, resting on his lap. Kept his heavy arm coiled around you, though, and you were daftly grateful for it. He patted you on the far shoulder with a stiff hand. “You’re a tough girl, yeah?”

“I dunno,” you sniffled, sitting yourself upright and reeling away from him. He released you, then, arms crossing over his chest instead. 

“Well you survived God knows how long floating around in the North Sea, pet, I’d call that pretty tough.”

You attempted to compose yourself, sucking deep a breath and wiping down your face with your sleeves. Hoped that whoever’s fleece it was didn’t care about tears and snot being smeared over the cuffs. 

“Is there somewhere for me to sleep?” You asked cautiously, in an attempt to come to terms with reality — nine or ten nights of sleeping on a fishing boat. It made you sick to think about. 

He curled his lips as he thought for a moment. “You can sleep in my bed,” he said. “Skipper’s cabin is a lot nicer than the crew berths, I’ll tell you that.”

You blinked at him, uncertain — it was unsettlingly vague whether that meant he was offering you the bed to yourself. 

“Or you can ask one of the lads to share a bunk with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head hastily, and he cracked a grin. “No, thank you, skipper’s cabin sounds good, please.”

“Alrighty,” he concurred, with a nod, the deal done. “Sleepy already, eh?”

You nodded sheepishly — for the most part, you just wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet and enclosed, out of sight. But you were utterly drained, left ravaged by receding adrenaline, body battered and bruised. Curling up in a bed sounded luxurious, and heaven only knows how long it had been since you slept in one. 

“Y’only been awake for twenty minutes,” he joked. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea.”

He flicked his head towards the mug, and his imperious expression made clear that he wanted you to finish it. 

So, if only appease him, you clutched the mug and tipped it into your mouth, sucking down the now luke-warm tea in five hefty gulps. Licked your lips when you were done, and dumped the mug back on the table. 

“Happy?” 

He smiled wide, let out a haughty chuckle. “Nicely done,” he said. “Alright, then, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt, finally freeing you from behind the table, and you followed him. 

“Y’sure you don’t want a bite?” 

You shook your head. “Maybe in the morning, if that’s okay.” 

He laughed as he made his way toward an upward staircase. “Morning’s fine, but I’m not having you starve yourself.”

“I won’t.”

As you climbed to the top of the stairs you reached the bridge — a large control station with many screens, all showing different radars and panels and numbers. The wheel was there, too, a spinning chair with a sweater thrown over the back of it tucked in front of it. Sea spray made pattering rain-like noises on the thick windows, but very little light came in from them. The air was thick with cigar smoke and terpenic air freshener, the everpresent ghost of saltwater lingering in between. 

“Just through here,” he instructed, and you followed him around to the other side, through a door, and down a shorter staircase. 

There you were met with a bedroom; it was intimate, stuffed full of bags and boxes and papers. A fold-out desk jutted out from an warm-wood wall, covered in maps weighed down by protractors and a drawing compass. Coats hung over hooks, boots lined up by the door. 

A cot bolted to the wall, perhaps a king single, unmade — a thick duvet with a red-and-navy plaid blanket tossed overtop, heavy wool that you could ascertain would be itchy without needing to touch it. A single pillow in a navy pillowcase, cream-coloured fitted sheet likely toned off-white due to age or overuse. 

It was rich with musk in there, the single porthole window not able to be opened, and the heady scent made you dizzy. You imagined it was only a marginally diluted version of the same scent you’d get pressing your nose into his armpit. It was only tempered by traces of toothpaste and cigarettes, and the potent smell of Imperial Leather bar soap. Daft that you remembered that, and little else. 

“Not a five-star hotel, eh?” He gibed, nudging you with his elbow. You didn’t have a response, at first, and he chided you; “Don’t be a sourpuss. No room for being fussy here, love.”

“No — this is perfect, thank you, I’ll sleep anywhere.” 

He smiled and crossed his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, you get yourself comfortable then,” he said. “Loo’s just through there, if you need it. Use my toothbrush if you like, just give it a wash after, eh?”

You almost grimaced at the thought of sharing his toothbrush, but the lingering bile and salt in your mouth had you looking forward to the taste of toothpaste. 

“Need anything else, pet?” He asked, still gruff. “Paracetamol? I can get you something else to sleep in—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you insisted, perhaps too plainly eager to get him out of the room. 

“Alright, love,” he said. “G’night, then. I’ll just be up there, still got some steering to do.”

“Okay.”

With a firm nod, he turned around and headed out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him. 

You let out a pent breath once you were alone, potent exhaustion suddenly crashing into you like a train. You stumbled into the tiny ensuite — a small toilet and a sink, the shower head jutting out from the wall above the commode — rinsed his frayed toothbrush under the tap and globbed on some colgate. 

Brushing your teeth made you feel marginally human again, and you spent a good five minutes scrubbing out every crevice of your mouth. You washed it afterwards, like he said, and stuck it to the wall with the suction cup on the back of it. 

There was no mirror, and you found yourself glad of it. You couldn’t yet confront the fact that you did not remember what you looked like, an existential dread that simmered in your belly, but too tired to churn up. 

Only then, as you glanced at his bar of soap (it was Imperial Leather, as you had guessed), did you realise how clean you felt — you wondered if he had washed you, and now you were certain that he had changed you. The thought made you shiver, and you tried not to think about it. 

His bed was squeaky underneath you, and the mattress so soft that you sunk deep into it; the weight of him permanently embedded in the springs, you settled into the divot like a cat, curled up towards the wall. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, much like the rest of the ship, so you tugged the blankets up your cheek, rubbing your icy feet together to warm them up. 

The sheets reeked of him, of man and musk, the pillow smelt of scalp and salt. It was unusually comforting. Such a human smell, and as you tucked yourself under his layers of blankets it swirled around in the front of your head and made you dozy. 

Sleep called to you, dark and ebbing, and you slipped willingly beneath the surface. 

You were roused, only slightly, at the sound of a door handle. 

Not alert enough to open your eyes, you still floated deep in slumber, soft and warm. Your consciousness ascended close enough to the shallows to acknowledge the opening of a door, the footsteps across a hollow floor, but the sounds conveyed no meaning to you. 

Sleep pulled you downward but you floated languidly back up at each noise; the fizz of running water, the scrubbing of brushing teeth, the spit of toothpaste.  

A zip being undone, velcro being ripped open, boot laces being untied. The clunk of a shutting door, a cough, a grunt, and you finally broke the surface. 

Now entirely awake, you remained completely still — not out of fear, you didn’t think — perhaps in the hope that he would leave you alone to keep sleeping, absolutely not ready to get up yet. He made no effort to be quiet, as he dumped his boots by the door, rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, coughed again. 

You kept your nose close to the wall, eyes barely open. He flicked off a light switch and the room was abruptly drowned in darkness. 

The blanket was lifted from you, then, and you flinched — with the cold air nipping at your skin, you realised your long jersey had been hiked up in your sleep, and your bare bottom half was starkly exposed. 

You froze, curled up, tongue in your teeth; until a sudden weight plummeted into the mattress, bouncing you up before sinking deep behind you, causing you to slide into the dip.  

With a grunt and a huff the blanket was pulled back up over you, scratchy wool brushing your cheeks. A titanic arm hooked over your stomach, and you squeaked — he paid no mind, yanking you backwards until your back was flush with his chest, ass nestled into his lower belly, his thighs tucked up behind yours. 

You held your breath, skittish, not yet daring to move; he let out a deep sigh into the back of your head, warm breath seeping through your hair and into your skull. 

His entire body was a furnace, burning hot, and you felt yourself melting into him whether you liked it or not. A mammoth hot water bottle, wrapped around and behind you, keeping you soothingly warm. 

His hand ventured nowhere untoward, arm only hanging listlessly over the divot of your waist, forearm tucked into your chest. He felt clothed against you, sweatpants and a thermal on. 

There was something wrong about it — something off, a survival instinct that buzzed around you, humming like a mosquito, a ringing in your ear, annoying and persistent. 

But his pyretic warmth made you lightheaded, so comfortable tucked into him that it felt like you were already dreaming. 

With a heavy blink, and a deflating breath, you sunk deep into him and let slumber swallow you whole once again. 

⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖࣪  lover !!

ᝰ.ᐟ even if he doesn't exude this energy to outsiders, you're happy to know that your boyfriend is the biggest simp around when it comes to you. or: the cute things he'll do for you.  (fem!reader)

featuring yoichi isagi, seishiro nagi, reo mikage, rin itoshi, rensuke kunigami content contains hotel bathroom sinks designed by a man, slight jealousy (reo is the jealous boyfriend), height differences (nagi + kunigami + rin are described as taller), wearing his clothes + clothes is described to be oversized on you (nagi), called a simp by his teammates (kunigami), clingy bf (yoichi <3) author's notes hq version coming soon!!! i just wanted to write something soft n fluffy for once <3

౨ৎ YOICHI ISAGI — goes viral on tiktok when the two of you go on vacation to celebrate your second year anniversary. you're recording yourself from the bathroom of the private villa he rented out for the two of you, and you originally wanted to record what an absolute joke the sink is. there is literally no counter space. nowhere to place any of your makeup or skincare products. yoichi interupts the video unknowingly, knocking softly and asking if he can come in. he doesn't realize you're filming, and it's entirely genuine when he asks, "is everything okay? you sounded frustrated? did you need help opening something?" you laugh before explaining the situation, and he's silent for all but one second before he goes, "oh! i'll just hold your makeup bag, and i'll hand you the stuff when you need it." (poor yoichi means well, but he's standing there for over an hour as you laugh at him when he can't tell the difference between a tube of lipgloss and liquid blush. the look of concentration on his face as he nods intently while you explain what each product is for is absolutely adorable; it's the same concentrated look he gets when he's reviewing game footage, meaning he's taking this seriously for you.) he's also the type that loves to follow you around. it's a common joke for his fans to comment "walk him like a dog, sis!" on any candid photos of you + yoichi because he is almost always holding your hand while trailing behind you. he's like your shadow as he follows you around different stores in the mall, and even when you tell him he can just sit down with the other boyfriends while you just try on some clothes, he refuses to leave your side. tries to follow you to the dressing room, and gets all pouty when he realizes he's not allowed in. makes you walk outside the dressing room with the new outfits on so he can rate them (he is incredibly biased and believes everything looks good on you and forces you to bring everything to the cashier so he can swipe his card to get it for you <3)

౨ৎ REO MIKAGE — cannot handle anyone else taking up large chunks of your time, especially when he rarely gets to see you during game season. makes a face anytime he realizes that the server at the restaurant is a guy. the server will smile at you and tell you that he'll get started on that meal for you right away, and reo leans forward once he's gone and goes, "i can't believe he was flirting with you right in front of me! disgusting!" he's actually convinced that every man in the world wants you for themselves, and if you tease him by threatening to run off with any of these men, he'll instantly frown and start telling you to take that back right now! however, he is entirely convinced that you are the greatest thing to ever grace this earth, and he feels so proud whenever you two are out in public and a fan or an employee compliments you. they could say anything postive about you, and he'll beam with pride, going "i know, right? i tell her this all the time!" it's almost common knowledge that the easiest way to get on reo's good side is to treat you well. he also loves listening to you gossip, and is the type of boyfriend who loves all your friends (even if he can't quite remember their names; it's only important that they treat you kindly and loyally), and hates everyone that you hate. he's also less forgiving than you; if someone backstabs you but you forgive them and grant them a second chance, just know that reo still hates their guts and he'll make it incredibly obvious.

౨ৎ SEISHIRO NAGI — can’t help but make video game versions of the two of you any chance he gets. he’ll pretend to not notice the way your eyes light up when you pass by any claw machine containing plushies of your favorite anime characters, but somehow he’ll manage to find himself at the machine, casually winning you your favorite as if the game isn’t designed to make everyone lose. (he’s just that good.) even if you’re not as big of a gamer as him, he’ll watch you play sims 4 (and subsequently watch you spend 3 hours on the create-a-sim section because you’re trying to create a perfect carbon copy of the two of you.) looks for his favorite hoodie only to glance over at your still-sleeping form on his bed and realizes that you’re wearing it. you look adorable in it; he’s taller than you, bigger in every aspect, so the material swallows you up. (he doesn’t wake you up nor does he ask for it back.) despite the fact that he’s taller than you, nagi is definitely a big baby, and is constantly the little spoon. he loves to come home and bury his face in your neck, loves the way you gently run your fingers through his hair (it’s the easiest way for him to fall asleep), and he’ll constantly try to find ways for you to hold him.

౨ৎ RIN ITOSHI — grants you “scary dog privilege.” literally will mean mug every man in the street as the two of you are walking together. everyone thinks that rin would be a selfish lover from his outside appearance, but he surprisingly puts up with a lot of your antics because he loves you so much. you don’t bother buying a step stool because you count on rin to get you anything you need from the tall shelves (and when you’re mad at him, he’ll purposely find ways to get all your most-used items on a hard-to-reach area so you have to sulkily seek him out and ask for his help. there’s no way in hell you put your face wash on top of the fridge, and rin looks all too happy to grab it for you.) he has a very bare social media account and most of the time, he just posts whatever his publicists draft up for him. the only post he has personally created and shared himself is the one of you on your birthday; in a sea of promotional posters and professionally taken game highlights, the smiling faces of you and rin stand out. (it’s the happiest any of his fans have ever seen him look.)

౨ৎ RENSUKE KUNIGAMI — his teammates make fun of him because he is notoriously loyal to you. they tricked him and took him out to a strip club, and there’s a viral video of kunigami staring intently at his phone, never looking up once at his surroundings. (he was going through your instagram feed + then ran out of photos to look at, so he started going through his camera roll to look at pictures and videos of you.) is the boyfriend who embodies the phrase ‘wear whatever you want, baby, i can fight.’ there’s a photo of you two that did numbers on pinterest. kunigmai is such a big guy, towers over you, honestly, but he readily gets down on his knees for you. in the photo, you two are dressed up to attend a gala. he’s on his knees, and you have one high-heel clad foot resting on the top of his thigh as he looks down and is adjusting the ankle strap of your heel for you. his friends shared the photo in the team groupchat and called him a simp, but kunigami knows that if they had someone half as great as you, they’d act just the same.

Lucky Find

writing this took a lot longer than expected lol

Warnings: kidnapping, mentions of drugging, mentions of death, blood, smut, dubcon, oral

The first thing you were really aware of was the noise – the sounds of car motors as they accelerated, the screech of rubber on hard cement, followed by a lot of voices, all shouting alongside the sounds of….

Gunshots?

Through the thick haze your mind was currently trapped in, not only could you identify the sounds as being gunfire, but you were aware enough to know that such sounds couldn’t mean anything good. Your automatic response was to try and get away from those noises, but when you attempted to push up from where you were laying on your side, you discovered that your arms were stuck behind your back. No, not just stuck….. You had been tied up?

Trying to shift your legs revealed them to be bound as well, and when you tried opening your mouth to call for help, you found that a wide strip of tape kept you from speaking. You couldn’t see anything, either. Were you also blind-folded?

…. No, it was just dark. Practically pitch-black, and you couldn’t make out anything. The most you could tell was that the space you had been put inside was cramped based off of how your body had been folded up and how your head kept knocking against one of the hard walls.

The surface that the side of your face was laying on was carpeted, the fibers scratching at your exposed skin.

You had heard a familiar sound of tires screeching as a car once again came to a halt.

…. Were you in someone’s trunk?

Keep reading

The Earth Kills the Moon

Dark!Gojo Satoru x reader

Word count: 6.3k

Part two of The Sun Eats the Moon

Synopsis: A retelling of The Sun Eats the Moon in Suguru's perspective

(Warnings: forced relationships, bullying, non con touching, non con kissing)

Suguru liked you. 

It wasn't even a crush. A passing interest, maybe. You were pretty. You had a nice smile. Though, he'd never directly spoken to you, he could tell that you were kind. Not in the artificial cherry most people were. Natural, like honey, never spoiling. You share the same homeroom as Satoru, and he'd always tended to be observant, unlike his friend. One thing he liked about you was how observant you were. You were constantly looking out for your friends, mere acquaintances, and everyone in your vicinity. Often, Suguru wondered if being a people-pleaser was natural or from a fear of not fitting in. 

Suguru is observant. He notices the lingering gaze Satoru gives you when you walk away, hurrying to catch up with the rest of your friends. Satoru then turns back to the carton of chocolate milk you'd left him.

"Cute," Satoru says after a minute. It's more of an afterthought than anything. He pops the carton open. Suguru hears the fabric tear. He hums in agreement. The topic switches to something else, a hot celebrity maybe? Suguru can't remember. That day had been so insignificant to him. It hadn’t mattered to him for Suguru to remember anything further.

A few days later, Suguru noticed Satoru was spending a lot more time with you. 

It was hard not to notice, actually. His friend attached himself to you like he'd die if he couldn’t. Satoru went everywhere with you now. Suguru caught him walking you from school, offering you rides in his new car, following you to the lunch hall. And if he couldn’t go to where you were, he’d drag you back to him. Watching you and Satoru was a bit like watching two magnets. North pole and South pole. So different, yet constantly finding the other. 

“Tryna’ run away from me, now?” Satoru asks, a teasing lilt in his voice as he watches you fiddle with your bag.

You laugh, continuing to fish out your lunch box. “Just grabbing lunch.” 

“Eat with us,” Satoru insists, “we found a great spot up at the rooftop.” 

You meet Suguru’s gaze just then. He’d been silently lounging on a nearby desk, observing the two of you. He gives a smile. You return it. Polite. He wonders if your mother taught you to smile like that.

“I thought students weren’t allowed up there?” You ask Satoru. 

The boy rolls his eyes. “So, who cares? It’ll be fun.” 

You pause, right then. The tiniest of hesitation. Suguru wonders if you’re noticing just how different you and Satoru were. You, the people pleaser, meek, always more than willing to bend towards authority. Satoru was rougher, more resilient, uncaring of signs and rules. The gap between the two of you is astronomical. Could you feel it as well?

Whatever you’re thinking, it’s gone in a moment. You rise, giving Satoru another laugh. To Suguru, it sounds pretty. 

“Well, have fun for me. Besides, I can’t ditch my friends. They’re waiting for me.” 

With that, you give both him and Satoru a tiny wave, before disappearing out of the classroom. Suguru waves back. Satoru doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his eyes on your back until he can’t see you anymore. 

“Got ditched again, hm?” Suguru teases. Satoru only groans, tossing his head back as he leans dangerously on the chair.

“Always leavin’ me for ‘em, too,” he complains, “so fuckin’ annoyin’.”

Suguru can only smile, getting up to follow his friend out the door. He can barely count how many times he’d seen this before, each with a different person. It starts the same. Satoru will cling onto you for a couple more days, and then ask you out. When you say yes, he’d date you for a few weeks before eventually getting bored and dumping you. 

It’s a cruel cycle, something that’s just an inevitability with Gojo Satoru. The boy can’t stay in one place, he’s constantly moving around, never one to stop. For Satoru, Suguru was the most permanent thing in his life. Which made sense, they were pretty similar in terms of ideals. 

A cruel cycle, and Suguru feels a tiny bit of sympathy for you. You were sweet, unlike the type Satoru typically went for. Honey. Natural. Truthfully, Suguru was a little disappointed as well. The type of disappointment he’d feel when someone took the last crab stick before he could. A fleeting feeling, one that ultimately wouldn’t matter. 

◉

From the day they first met, Suguru knew one thing: Gojo Satoru has never been told no before. 

It made sense. He was the only child to one of the most powerful families in the country. Spoiled from day one, some could say. Satoru grew up knowing nothing but wealth and prosperity. They met when they were both still in elementary school, still with high-pitched voices and large eyes. Suguru’s family was fairly affluent as well. Now that Suguru thinks back, perhaps their meeting had been orchestrated by meddling parents in order to form more connected. It didn’t matter, either way. It had benefitted all three parties, after all.

Yes, Suguru knew from the moment Satoru pointed at him and declared him his ‘best friend’, that Satoru had never been told no before. 

Satoru was the Sun. The universe revolved around him, catered to him. Suguru supposed he wasn't much better considering he too spoiled his best friend in that sense. They were different. They'd been born different, coming from families who cherish them with wealth and power. Suguru supposes it was natural for them to be so intertwined. Like calls for like. 

Suguru isn’t aware of the exact details, but he knows you rejected Satoru. 

The boy doesn’t have to tell him. His friend is uncharacteristically quiet during that weekend. He has no interest in the arcade, or the next basketball tournament his team is going to compete in. Satoru just sits on top of Suguru’s bed, casually sucking on a carton of chocolate milk. Suguru glanced down at the abandoned PlayStation remote. He’d lost yet another game against his dark-haired friend with no complaints. Satoru didn’t even play

You’d really done a number on him, Suguru thinks to himself. Suguru would assume it’s heartbreak, but he knows his friend better than that. Something burns in his chest, but he’s pushing it away before he can figure out why. Nipping it in the bud. It was a cruel thought. A bad one. He should ignore it.

Well, it’s done. It doesn’t matter anyway. Satoru would eventually get over it. He’s not known to sulk. 

He’s not there to see what Satoru tells them, but he’s there to see the effects. 

It starts out small. Or perhaps just not noticeable enough. Gojo Satoru has always attracted attention, whether it was satisfactory or not. Lackeys, Satoru often calls them because they're too far beneath him to even be called equals.

Suguru notices their sudden interest in you before even you can. A harsh word here and there. Giggling at the word 'easy'. You peacefully trek on, not noticing the abuse until it turns physical. That starts at the end of Monday. 

By Tuesday, they're already shoving you down each chance they get. You get surprised when it happens the first time, then the second, then the third. You have soft skin, plushy, Suguru could tell. He wondered if it was getting marked now. He wonders if you go home, peeling of your uniform, staring at the bruises of hands on your skin because you’re so fragile.

(They never go too far, not enough to completely injure. Suguru knows this because one time, one of the idiots had pushed you too hard. You’d stumbled, nearly hitting the back of your head with a metal locker. Satoru had seen. Suguru doesn’t know what Satoru did, but that particular one was gone the next time and the rest got the memo to scare, not injure.)

Satoru never takes part in this, but he keeps an eye on you sometimes. Tuesday evening comes and they both silently watch you through a window. You move through an empty hall, before they arrive again, slapping your binders out of your hands, chortling with each other. They're too far away to hear, but Suguru could bet it would sound like nails scraping against a chalkboard. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Suguru watches his best friend. Satoru looks impassive, face blank as he stares down at your figure. Akin to a child watching ants burning through a magnifying glass, instilled with that innate desire to see them explode into ash. 

When the lackeys leave, you bend down on the floor, collecting your stuff. Your hair covers your eyes, so he can't see your expression, but he can see your shoulders tremble. Were you-

A corral of people run to you. They lean down, picking up the stuff you had missed. You look up, your eyes are shiny but you're laughing when they say something. You wipe at your eyes, standing up as they lead you out of the hallway. Suguru had seen them hanging out with you before. They all seemed like they supported each other, supported you. 

Suguru feels his frown deepen, conflicted. He doesn’t like it.

"It's not nice to pick on the weak, Satoru," he quietly says. 

Satoru's eyes trail your figure out the door. He gives a small hum.

By Wednesday, your friends disappear from your side. 

The abuse is getting worse, noticeable to the point where the rest of the student body is heavily avoiding you. Teachers won't raise a finger at what's happening. As much as they like to preach about their 'zero tolerance for bullying', Suguru knows they'll willingly turn a blind eye when matters involve Gojo Satoru. No teacher wants to deal with the wrath the Gojo family is more than willing to unlease for the sake of their heir.

Yet, you aren't getting it. You don't break, don't bend. He can feel the humiliation roll off of you in waves, yet you don't react. Which was strange because he knew your archetype. A people-pleaser, constantly bending over backward for other's sake. You want nothing more than to become part of the crowd again, completely invisible. You’re community-oriented. You thrive off of companionship. This ostracization must be killing you. Suguru doesn't get it until he spots your face, just once, narrowed eyes, anger. 

Pride. He'd forgotten other people had that too. Though, Suguru admires it, a part of him knows it shouldn’t last.

Suguru thinks he does it because he pities you. You're a little naive. Suguru has your thought process figured out. You think if you take the torment long enough, Satoru would eventually just forget about you all together. Once he's done with you, you'd focus on picking up the pieces that used to be your life. It's not a bad plan, if you weren't dealing with Gojo Satoru. 

The boy is a hurricane. Fast, unrelenting, unforgiving. Satoru won't stop. He won't stop until you're ruined and broken. Turned into a mere asteroid of what you once were. 

So, Suguru decides to give you a push in the right direction. 

The students have already created a wide circle for you by the time he steps in, bending down, picking up the stuff you had dropped. You're silent until he hands you his pieces. He doesn't bother responding to your timid thanks. 

"Give in," he tells you, watching the way your eyes widen as you look up at him.

You're weak. Physically, emotionally. He could easily pick you up with one hand, crush your body with his fist. Satoru could eviscerate your body from existence. You don't stand a chance with him. With either of them. 

His advice to you is good. Reasonable. And yet, he sees the face you make, the way you slowly get up. You won’t listen. That same burning feeling in his chest starts. It's gotten more painful. 

You don't listen to him until you lose nearly everything. Just as he warned you. Friday comes. You become Satoru's. And it's a little too late for everything. 

◉

Suguru doesn't think you ever learn that Satoru loves messing with you. 

Or, perhaps you do, but you can't help it. You're too honest, too open. He often wonders if that's how you were raised. To be honest, open, vulnerable. Your parents must have filled your thoughts with delusions, coddling you with words of cheap motivation. The world is your oyster. You just had to reach out and take it.

Maybe now you're finally realizing, sitting on Satoru's lap, that all men aren't created equal. 

Clearly, you weren't happy about it. Yet, you aren't complaining, sitting there pliantly legs firmly crossed, hands curled into tiny fists, staring rigidly on the floor. The first few times Satoru had done this in public, you were always biting your lip, tears threatening to fall. Now, Suguru thinks you just dissociate, coming back when Satoru laughs at something, jostling you in his arms. 

It's a bit like watching a helpless bird on the ground, twitching and spasming after it had just collided with a glass window. Pitiful, but there was nothing that could be done. It's the inevitability of it all that makes him pity you more than anything else, really.

Every so often, your eyes would catch his. It's a quick glance, as though you were wondering if he was watching. He can barely catch it, but Suguru is observant. Much like you. It's meaningless, and your gaze returns to the floor. Your fists tighten. 

Granting you mercy, Suguru stops looking at you during those times. 

He's not sure how Satoru sees you. Perhaps, you're akin to a dog for him. Though, that might not be very good for you. Satoru hadn't been very good with animals when he was younger. Satoru had always been rough with any pets he came into contact with, pushing and tugging. Suguru doubted that had changed. 

Satoru's is your official title. It isn't a relationship. It's an ownership. Unequal from the start. The one who holds the leash in the end, will always be Satoru. 

It took a while for you to fully learn that. 

Suguru didn't mean to catch the two of you. Looking back, it was probably because Satoru couldn't care less if someone was watching. Maybe Satoru was being obvious on purpose. It was a little while after school had officially ended. Suguru knew your usual routine would place you right at the library, scrolling through books. Satoru would most likely be there too, pestering you about this and that. It's the scene Suguru prepares himself to walk into.

Instead, you're wedged in between the white-haired boy and the wall, there's no space for you to do anything but sink. You're already crying (when was the last time you smiled?), trying to pull away but Satoru isn't letting you. He's gripping you by the chin, forcing eye contact. His sunglasses are off, tucked on his collar. 

Suguru's close enough to hear. You're begging. Apology after apology. It's barely a whisper, but they're spilling out of you like a prayer. He can't discern the context, but he knows enough. 

You made Satoru angry. 

He's still smiling, but it isn't sincere. Almost bordering on mania as he tightens his grip on you, forcing you further into the wall. Suguru doesn't think Satoru has ever hit you before, but now he's wondering if quick violence was preferable to this. 

"Don't be like that," Satoru chides as another squeak leaves your lips, "Where was that smile you were givin' him, hm? C'mon, pretty girl. You were wearin' it just a second ago." 

"It-it wasn't like that, I swear," you continue to plead, still not realizing that it's too late, "he was giving me his notes. Please-please Satoru-" 

"Wrong answer," he cuts you off, you flinch at his harshness but Suguru decides Satoru's being nice to you. He's been known to do worse, "we've been over this before, haven't we? Or did your stupid brain forget?" 

You're choking down another hiccup. It takes a minute for you to calm down enough to speak clearly. Ever impatient, Satoru's hand digs into your shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, Satoru," you say, "it won't happen again." 

He tilts his head, waiting. You wilt under his gaze. 

"I'm sorry...’Toru." 

Satoru gives a satisfied hum, pulling back and Suguru can practically see your lungs sag with relief. His mania is gone, replaced by something much more lighthearted and carefree. Suguru'd seen it before, but it was certainly something watching Satoru go from one high to the next. Even to Suguru, it's terrifying to witness. 

Suguru decides to make himself known right then. He comes out of the shadows, acting as though he'd just arrived. His friend lazily gives him a wave, curling an arm around your waist. You try to scrub away your tears with your forearms, unaware of how much Suguru had seen. Another mercy Suguru grants you. He doesn't acknowledge it. 

The three of you sit in the library for half an hour until you're done pretending that you're studying. When Satoru walks you home, Suguru follows. He notes that you barely hesitate to give Satoru a chaste kiss on the lips, and he wonders how often his friend has demanded one from you for you to be so casual about it. 

He thinks he gets it when he and Satoru are walking on the street without you. To Satoru, you aren't a dog. You aren't a pet, something that he keeps to see bark.

No, you are just Satoru's. 

◉

Towards the end of the year, Suguru realizes that Satoru loves you. 

He's nicer to you, now. Suguru doesn't think you've realized how softer Satoru's gotten, but the change is there. He spots less marks on you now. The biggest evidence he has is that stolen moment of you and Satoru. You'd accidentally fallen asleep during lunch break, dozing off on your desk. Satoru was right next to you, gently pushing your hair out of your face. Satoru loves you. 

You've changed too. Adapted, he should say. You cry less, now. Each time he sees you, you look more and more put together. As though, you're done mourning. The final stage of grief. Acceptance.

Despite how much nicer Satoru is to you, he's still just as clingy. Suguru notices that even now, none of your former friends speak to you. No one at school does. It's an unspoken rule to not mess with Satoru's things. 

Suguru can still remember the last guy who hadn't gotten the memo. A new student. Freshly transferred. Suguru had heard the conversation. The guy was hardly interested in you. It was nothing more than small talk. The pat on your shoulder had been thoughtless at least, friendly at most. 

Satoru beat him until the boy was bloody and had a broken nose. A week later, he'd transferred again. 

You're off limits. To everyone but Suguru. 

The Earth is the only planet capable of sustaining life within this cold solar system. It's close enough to the sun to feel the warmth, yet far enough so it doesn't burn. It's strong, too. A powerful magnetic forcefield, capable of shutting down the sun's cosmic radiation. Thus, the Earth spins happily around the Sun, surrounded by a sea of dead planets. 

So, sometimes when Satoru can't walk you home. Suguru does. 

It was just the beginning of spring. The school year was starting to end. The school itself was starting to slow down. Teachers were getting less and less strict, less work was given out. It didn't matter. Colleges had already been picked. They were all close to the end. 

You don't say much when the two of you are alone. Suguru understands. It's hard to say much of anything when you're crushed by the weight of Gojo Satoru. But Suguru could have sworn he'd seen a flicker of relief when he came to pick you up and not his friend. You're clearly happier when it's him. Suguru decides he likes how that feels. It's a quick feeling of superiority. Something that quickly disappears when your eyes flick down. 

He knows where your house is, but he lets you take the lead anyway. Suguru figures it's the least he can do, give you that sense of control when nothing you do ever really does anymore. 

You and him have forged a shaky companionship. He's not sure what he is to you entirely, but you seem reliant on him in some way. it’s his fault, he thinks. He wonders if it has to do with the contraception he'd given you. He can still remember the trembling hands as you took it from him, curling the packet into your grip. That day he went home and his fingers felt strangely itchy. 

Does the Earth ever wonder if it can turn the Sun?

When he asks you a question, you answer. At least you aren't mute, though Suguru doesn't think he'd blame you if you ignored him. Your voice is stilted, with enough words to answer the question, but still not enough to fully sate him. 

And then, you break. 

Just a bit. 

A tiny piece of you shatters, and you show yourself to him. 

He'd been talking about something insignificant, college, his plans. Just ramblings. Somehow, Satoru comes into the conversation and he's talking about the area of his friend's college campus, how Satoru mentioned that he's looking for apartments for the two of you to stay in. And then, you're uncharacteristically scoffing. 

"Right," you say, head faced down on the sidewalk as you kick a rock, "because I'm following him there." 

Suguru can't help but place the sarcasm in your voice. The bitterness. He's heard it before, but it's a fascinating thing hearing it come from you. And then Suguru realizes that you accidentally gave something away. 

You were leaving. 

Somehow, it never crossed Suguru's mind that you were still rebelling, even now. And yet, he can't shake off the heat in your voice, your words. 

You seem to realize this too, freezing. 

He lets you falter for a few more moments before giving you a reprieve. 

"Satoru's idealistic like that," he let out. 

Your shoulders lower, and for the sake of both you and him, he doesn't press any further. 

He doesn't let himself let it go, even when he drops you home, arriving to his own house. Always cold. The mansion's lights are always off. No one's ever home. And Satoru's out of town. 

It's better this way, Suguru thinks as he lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling. No distractions, he can think better, as he replays your words over and over again. You were leaving. You were leaving. You were leaving Satoru. 

The night passes. When Satoru comes back to town, he's joyful as always, an arm slung around your shoulders. Suguru watches the way he coos at you, saying how much he missed you. You take his affections the way you always do, with a strained smile and wavering eyes. 

You glance at Suguru. Suguru stares right back. 

For a moment, Suguru thinks he understands why people are so enthralled with solar eclipses. The moon is seen as an underdog in most instances. It must be thrilling when a weak satellite can cover the sun's rays. Even for just a little bit. 

Suguru doesn't tell Satoru. He pushes the burning in his chest, ignoring the itchiness in his fingers. Things are better this way, right? After all, the two of you come from completely different worlds. It's nonsensical to think otherwise. 

Two weeks before graduation, you disappear without a trace. 

And Satoru breaks. 

It's a slow dissent. It comes in stages. The boy is angry at first, searching for you at school, when he can't find you there he loses his facade and demands where you are from your parents. They can't give him a clear answer because you're an adult now and you barely told them a thing before moving out. Suguru doesn’t think they knew what Satoru was to you. He doesn’t think they ever will.

The heat fades day by day, Week by week. Satoru starts to deflate the longer you aren't in his hold, his to mangle, and grab, and keep. He stops taking care of himself. His skin became paler, cracked lips, hollow cheeks. His eyes turn into this grayish blue that Suguru can't bring himself to look at for too long. He loses weight day by day. 

Suguru had never seen him react this way before. Satoru was always shining. He was the sun. Now, the center of the solar system was dying. He can feel himself dying with it. 

Satoru hadn't just loved you. Satoru had been obsessed with you. He breathed you in, inhaled your essence like oxygen. You'd been a part of him; a necessity. And then, you tore yourself away, leaving him bleeding on the concrete.

Guilt. Suguru feels it in his stomach, rising to his throat, threatening to stain his clothes. It's too late to say anything now, so he keeps it huddled deep inside of him. Suguru hopes it'll never come out. He helps the best he can, being there for his friend, his best friend. 

It takes a month for Satoru to start eating properly again. A few months later he starts regaining his usual physique. The gray in his eyes stays for a bit longer than Suguru likes. Suguru supposes he should take what he can get.

A year passes like that. The evidence of what you left behind fades, like bruises disappearing on skin. Suguru and Satoru become college students. Then, they graduate.

When Satoru joins the business, Suguru, his right-hand man, his second, his best friend, is right next to him. They’ve always worked well together, but that doesn’t change as they shift into adulthood. Despite how different Suguru and Satoru were, Suguru liked to think that their personalities were stagnant; unchanging even to the times.

What Satoru feels about you remains stagnant as well.

Suguru doesn’t think about you often, these days. Barely a few times a year, when he feels nostalgic enough to get out his old high school yearbook. He’d page through, spot your smiling portrait face. He’d find himself staring at you far longer than he liked too.

At first, Suguru thought Satoru was the same. Much like how one thinks about a lost toy they cherished when they were younger. The resentment would fade with time. Satoru didn’t speak about you for years.

Suguru hadn’t expected the girls, however.

He doesn’t notice the first one. He sees her, but he doesn’t internalize it. She’s hurriedly putting on her clothes after a clearly exciting night, so Suguru respectfully averts his gaze. He’s more focused on his exasperation at how Satoru had missed yet another meeting with the board. They would be less than pleased if they discovered Satoru didn’t show up because he was hungover.

The second time it happens, Suguru has a passing thought of how familiar the girl looked, despite being sure he’d never seen her in his life.

The third time it happens, Suguru realizes all the recent girls Satoru’s been bringing strike an uncanny resemblance towards you.

It’s not anything too obvious, but all of them would look a bit like you. Most would have your skin tone, your hair. One had your eyes, not the color, rather the shape of it. Satoru had kept her around the longest.

Suguru doesn’t say anything about it. Part of him wonders if Satoru is even doing it on purpose.

Suguru loves Satoru like he would his own brother, but his recent hobby was starting to get on his nerves a bit.

“So much work,” the man complains, “Why can’t we just send all this off to Ijichi?”

“He has his own work to complete,” Suguru reprimands, “the sooner you stop complaining, the sooner we can finish.”

Satoru rolls his eyes but moves to another page of meaningless paperwork; Something that would be scanned into their system and then tucked away into a random file cabinet. They currently sat in Satoru’s grand kitchen, lounging on the barstools after Suguru had pounded Satoru’s door in. Satoru had let him in with an irritated look, complaining that it was the weekend and he had ‘stuff’ to do.

“He’s my assistant,” Satoru retorts, “my work is his work.”

“The reason why we’re in this mess in the first place is because you kept pawning off your job to the poor man in the first place. You’ve given him wrinkles from just the stress of being in your vicinity.”

“That’s insulting,” Satoru counters, “my presence is nothing but calming.”

“You do the exact opposite, actually. A black hole that sucks the soul out of everyone who hangs around you.”

“You hang around me all the time and you don’t have wrinkles.”

Suguru smiles. “It’s because I don’t respect you enough to listen to anything you’re saying.”

Satoru’s about to respond, when another voice interrupts him. Alluring, feminine.

“Satoru,” she coos, “When are you getting back here?”

From his seat, Suguru has a clear view of Satoru’s bedroom. Only her head is peeked out, and Suguru notes her bare shoulders. Your eyes, and your lips this time. She’s tilting her head, mouth curved in a coy smile.

Of course. Suguru can only roll his eyes. There’s that same burning feeling in his chest. During the years, it hasn’t really gotten any better.

“Coming, coming,” Satoru calls back, “just a minute, babe.”

“Stuff to do, hm?” Suguru drawls with amusement. Satoru flips him off.

"Worry 'bout yourself," Satoru says, "when's the last time you got any, huh? Honestly, when's the last time you've taken a break? A vacation?"

"I can't," Suguru replies, "I'm always stuck babysitting you."

“I’ve been waiting for half an hour, ‘Toru." The woman interrupts. "Can’t you just do it later?”

Suguru hadn’t even noticed it. He brushed it off, barely hearing their conversation as he shuffled around the papers.

Satoru had.

He hums. Straightening his back.

“Yeah, I’ve changed my mind. You should head on home.”

At first, he thought Satoru was talking to him. Then, he hears the woman’s annoyed huff.

“Hold on, you’re kicking me out?” She asks.

“Yeah, sorry,” Satoru says, not sounding very apologetic, “I got a lotta’ stuff to do and you’re not gonna wanna stick around.”

His tone is light, but Suguru can’t help but place a sense of annoyance in them. The anger. His posture is stiff, almost like he’s primed for a fight.

‘Toru. She called him ‘Toru.

You used to call him ‘Toru.

“Seriously, I-”

“I hate repeating myself: Get the fuck out.”

There’s silence, and then Suguru can hear her mutter to herself as she shuffles inside the room. She comes out minutes later, not quite dressed, but presentable. She shoots Satoru a glare, to which he only waves off. The door shuts with a noticable thud.

“Back to work,” Satoru says, “do you feel hot? The AC has been acting up, lately.”

He carries on like that, back to normal, as though he wasn’t about to snap just a few minutes ago. Suguru follows suit, not aknowledging the outburst, much like he doesn’t aknowledge most things regarding you.

Later, Suguru laughs about the hypocrisy of it all. Satoru brings home physical reminders of you, but he refuses the remnants of you. The most intimate parts, he’d kept hidden away from his life, yet he still wishes to touch, to feel. He wonders how you’d feel if you knew that Gojo Satoru is wrapped around your finger, even now.

◉

Satoru had done something yet again. It's always something with Gojo Satoru. Suguru should have left him to deal with the legal team himself, but here he was, trailing beside the firm’s directors as the man droned on and on how well Mr.Gojo would be well taken care of how here our clients are family. He forces himself to push away that feeling in his chest, scorching his throat. He was getting sick of the constant blabbering. He’d glanced away for just a second.

And then he saw you.

You, not some remnant, not some picture, not someone similar. You. He knew it was you. A little older, a little taller. You’d switched the high school uniform for a blouse and a pencil skirt. Suguru stares. He’s tempted to say your name, seek you out, as though you’re old friends-

He reels himself back in.

You disappear through a frosted glass door, completely unaware of his gawking. You hadn’t seen him. Good. The firm’s director didn’t notice his pause, carrying on as though nothing happened. Suguru smiles and laughs at the horrible ice breakers, but he also steals a glance at the name of the door you went through.

Later, Suguru looks up Higuruma Hiromi. A well-established lawyer. Worked at the firm for nearly a decade.

You are his sole paralegal.

Law. He had never considered it for you. Now, he thinks it’s a little fitting. He can’t help it. He looks you up. You have no social media, most likely from a remnant fear, but he finds where you went to college, what your area of study was, where else you’d worked, your life. Questions he’d had for nearly a decade he finally has an answer.

Honestly, Suguru was a little mad it was all so easy.

He can’t see the entire scope of your life, but he knows you were happy after high school, away from Satoru. You seemed happy when he caught that glimpse of you. There was a slight smile on your face, you never did that with Satoru around.

Satoru’s a little pathetic, a thought he has to concede to. He’s still hung over you, while you clearly hadn’t thought of him in years.

Suguru stares at your picture a little more.

The burning feeling comes back again. Hotter, melting.

Oh.

Suguru is disgusted by you.

You, that bitch loitering in Satoru’s bedroom, that greedy firm director. Disgust, that sick feeling crawling down his stomach, seeping into his bones. He’s disgusted by the weak.

He’s even more disgusted when they think they can defeat the strong. Decieve them.

You always thought you were better than Satoru, better than Suguru, even from the beginning. Even when you rejected him. Even when Satoru’s goons were torturing you, you still thought you could get out of it somehow. Even when Satoru had his hand on your shoulder, claws sinking into your flesh, you were still looking for a way out. It was like watching a rat trapped in a cage, pathetically sniffing around for an exit.

The weak could never escape the whims of the strong. It was a truth of the world, something he’d always known and yet it’d take a decade for him to put the words together. The weak could never make a fool of the strong.

You are weak. A mere satellite floating along, before getting trapped in the Earth’s gravitational force. Suguru could crush you with one fist. Satoru could evisirate you to atoms.

Does the Earth ever wonder if it can turn the Sun?

“I’ve put together a legal team that will represent you.”

Suguru places the neat stack of documents onto Satoru’s desk. The white-haired man barely gives them a glance. Suguru knows Satoru won’t ever look at them, even when your name is hidden somewhere within the sheets, along with Higuruma’s. Suguru wonders how long it’d take for Satoru to figure it out. It’s a shame he won’t be there to see it unfold in real-time, but perhaps, once Satoru puts the pieces together, he’ll thank him.

Here, in the present, Satoru types away at his computer, barely paying attention to Suguru’s words.

“Oh, great,” Satoru says off handedly, “thanks, man.”

Suguru sighs.

“Uh, I love you?” Satoru tries again.

“Never repeat those words to me ever again,” Suguru responds, “I wish you’d be a bit more interested in this, considering it’s your fault the company is in this mess in the first place.”

Satoru gives a hushed hum of agreement. Suguru smiles.

“In other news: I won’t be here next week.”

That catches his best friend’s attention. Satoru gapes at him.

“You’re quitting?”

“No, idiot. I’m taking your advice. I’m taking a few weeks off. I already put it in the calendar that you never check so why did I even bother.”

“A vacation? You never take vacations, even when I beg you to,” Satoru squints at him, “What’s the occasion?”

Eventually, Satoru will figure it out. For now, Suguru wants to enjoy this.

“I worked hard this year. I should reward myself, shouldn’t I?” He reasons, “oh, and I have a surprise for you showing up in a week or so. Let me know what you think of it.”

“A gift? For me?” Satoru beams. “You really do love me.”

“Don’t push it.”

The Earth is the only planet capable of sustaining life within this cold solar system. It's close enough to the sun to feel the warmth, yet far enough so it doesn't burn. It's strong, too. A powerful magnetic forcefield, capable of shutting down the sun's cosmic radiation. Thus, the Earth spins happily around the Sun, surrounded by a sea of dead planets. 

If Satoru was the Sun, then Suguru supposed he would be the Earth. Close enough to receive the star's radiance, but with a strong enough magnetitic field to shield from solar winds. 

If Suguru was the Earth, then Suguru supposed you would be the Moon. A tiny cratered satellite he tugs along with him, forever in sight of the burning sun. 

I got news for you baby, you're looking at the man!

pairing: john price x fem!reader

wc: 7.2k...sorry lmao plz read…

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, fluff, established relationship, oral (m. receiving), road head, porn w so much plot, hair pulling, angst, emotional conflict, complicated family dynamics, dysfunctional family, i.e., ongoing conflict, reader having familial issues (mostly maternal), age-gap, secret relationship & marriage, & john being a protector.

author's note: this was brought to fruition by a singular barry sloan edit that had me salivating and @sai-int's fic 'a ticket to play', which single-handedly re-sparked my love for price! so, yeah, anyways, enjoy this horny mess!

dividers by @/saradikagraphics!

John Price is a man...

“John, you didn’t,” you hiss, eyes wide as you set down the groceries on the counter, your wrists aching from the heavy load.

“Didn’t know it was your mother, sweetheart,” he replies, his tone sincere. He quickly grabs the bags and begins unpacking the groceries.

You glance at the house phone positioned beside the fridge, then peel off the old sticky note attached there. You read it aloud, “Don’t answer calls from the 406 area code. I’m talking to you, John,” before pausing to think, lips pursed in contemplation.

He opens the fridge, sliding the milk jug inside before carefully shutting the door. When he turns back to see your knowing smile, his eyebrows lift in a silent acknowledgment, a quiet ‘ah’ escaping his lips.

“Well,” you urge, grabbing the aromatics from the counter to put up. “What did she say when you picked up?” You ask, attempting to sound as casual and disinterested as possible.

“Oh. Nothin’ you’d find interestin,’” he hums with a knowing smile as he tears open a pack of paper towels.

You press your lips together. “Well…yeah,” you mutter, picking up a few grapefruits. “I mean, it doesn’t matter to me,” you defend, emphasizing the ‘doesn’t.’ “I just want to know what she thought,” you shrug, trying to remain nonchalant.

“Mhm,” he hums thoughtfully as he gathers the now-empty reusable bags, hanging them on the hook next to the cabinet.

“I’m serious,” you say, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. “I really don’t care.”

"I know you don't, hon." He turns to wash the fresh berries in a colander, the water splashing against the metal steadily.

"You don't believe me," you exasperate.

He lets out a low laugh as he washes the berries. "Didn't say that."

You lean against the kitchen island, your body language betraying your frustration. "You were thinking it," you accuse, with a dramatic sigh.

He sets the berries back into the colander and turns his head toward you, a playful half-smile on his lips. “No, I wasn't,” he replies, clearly amused.

You poke your tongue into your cheek, mentally cursing yourself for marrying someone so adept at reading your emotions, your inner conflict laid bare.

“But,” he says, tearing a paper towel to dry his hands. “Now, I’m starting to feel that you do care.”

You don’t respond, trying to avert your gaze as heat creeps into your cheeks like he’s caught you sneaking a cookie from the cookie jar.

“Baby,” he moves closer, wrapping his strong arms around your shoulders and pulling you into him. “It’s okay to care,” he whispers softly into your hair, a hint of vulnerability in his voice.

You gently shut your eyes, pressing your face into his warm abdomen, finding comfort in his presence.

“Damn it,” you mumble, your words muffled against him. He chuckles softly in response. “Alright, fine,” you pull back slightly, locking your eyes onto his as his hands cradle your cheeks. “I do care. Now, spill the juicy details.”

He lets out a hearty laugh. “Well, she started by checkin’ in on you.”

You release a dry laugh, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, right. She always has ulterior motives," you grumble. "I swear that woman is always up to—"

"Shh," he squishes your cheeks together as both thumbs rest over your lips to silence you. "Will you let me finish?" He prompts, quipping a brow.

"Sorry, yeah," you apologize, your voice coming out muffled and nasal. 

He nods with a smile, moves his thumbs off your mouth, and drops his hands to massage your shoulders. "Said your sister is gettin' married, and she thought it would be nice if you came down for her engagement party this weekend," he supplies. 

Correction remarried.

She's on her fifth? No, her sixth husband now.

Guess she thinks six will be the lucky number.

Who’s gonna tell her?

However, that’s beside the point; you care about something much more…pathetic.

You feel frustrated because all you really want is to know how your mother reacted to the deep, gruff voice of the Englishman who answered the phone.

You wait with a bated breath, eyes wide with anticipation, but his expression remains flat, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What else?" You finally question, unable to contain your curiosity.

"That's all," he plainly says, his words hanging in the air.

You scoff. "She didn't ask about the random guy answering my phone?" You voice with disbelief.

Your mother is a shallow woman, but surely you getting what she’s constantly pressured you into getting would have her jumping for joy.

A sly smirk grows on his lips. "Am I just some random guy?" He jokes.

You smile yourself before pressing a kiss to his lips, arms coming to wrap around his torso. "You’re my husband, so not to me," you begin. "But to her, yes," your hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him down to peck his lips again. "You know that," you say matter-of-factly.

His hands drift to your waist. "Mhm, I'm your dirty little secret," he hums softly.

"John," you frown, guilt flooding your brain. "You know I would, but—"

"Just jokes, baby," he interjects, pressing a light kiss on your temple as his eyes light up. "I love you in any way you’ll have me," he murmurs softly.

"God, you’re perfect," you reply with a smile. 

"She did question who I was," he starts. "Had no idea she was so southern," he remarks casually before continuing. "She thought I was the plumber," he quips, trying to lighten the mood slightly.

He tried, but he could feel the tension in the air.

Sees the disappointment and anger in your eyes.

In your posture.

You're fucking pissed.

"Typical," you remark, stepping away from him, arms flailing around. "She—she thinks I'm so incapable of finding someone that she would resort to thinking you're a person I pay before actually thinking you're with me." Your voice is filled with frustration.

"Hon—" John begins, voice soft as his hand reaches for you.

"And she wonders why I never visit," you release a dry laugh. "Never reach out."

"Come ere,'" he coos, hand pulling you by your wrist, so he can engulf you in a hug.

"It's not fair," your voice is once again muffled by the fabric of his shirt, but he can hear the tightness in it and the sniffle against him, a clear sign of your emotional distress.

"No, it's not," he affirms, fingers easing through your hair.

"Nothing is ever good enough for her," you exhale into his abdomen, fueled more by anger than by despair.

John gently kisses your hair while his fingers soothe your back with a gentle massage.

"I’ll never be good enough for her," you mumble absentmindedly, your voice lacking emotion.

"Sweetheart," he begins, his voice low as your hair muffles the sound. "Don't take offense, but you're mother is a real nasty woman. You're fuckin' perfect, and if she can't see that, it's her God-damn loss," his tone rough yet sincere.

You chuckled, a smile spreading across your face as the corners of your eyes crinkled. "I love you."

"Love you so much," he whispers, gently planting another kiss on your head.

He leans back slightly to look into your eyes. "Want me to run you a hot bath?" He asks, gently massaging your shoulders.

"That sounds really nice," you reply, taking a deep breath. "Thanks."

"Course. That's what I'm here for," he says effortlessly, leaning down to kiss your lips tenderly. "I'll let you know when it's ready."

You nod quietly as he moves to draw the warm bath.

The thought of sinking into steamy water and enveloping bubbles soothes your mind.

Honestly, to hell with your mother's opinions.

They just weren't worth the headache.

And there was no way you were going back to that house.

The promise of the bath, with its comforting warmth and enticing bubbles, would wash away your worries and quiet the thoughts swirling in your head.

Visions of your mother and that place would fade, never to resurface again.

"Can't believe she thought I would actually come down," you sigh contentedly, feeling the warmth of your husband, John, as he works shampoo through your hair, creating rich suds.

So much for the visions of your mother fading. 

It had been a whole day since your mother's call, and the weight of her words still lingered, stirring up a storm of conflicting emotions within you.

"Still on your mind?" John asks, eyes hyperfocusing on ensuring the shampoo coats every strand of your hair.

"I just—I don't understand why she thought I would come," you suspire, turning to massage the loofah against John's chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the tension in his muscles.

"Must have gone mad, I suppose," he jests, his fingers massaging the shampoo into your scalp, adding a touch of humor to the heavy conversation.

Your lip quips at his joke, eyes lighting at the sight of him taking such good care of you, ensuring your scalp is tantalizingly clean. "Maybe," you murmur. "Because all she ever does is ridicule me and constantly ask if I've found a man.” You gently move the loofah over his chest to ensure he is squeaky clean.

"Close your eyes," he murmurs, his hands coming to massage your facial cleanser into your face before returning to the issue at hand.

"Wouldn't let tryin' to examine your mother's psyche take your day, hon," his hands move with familiar ease as he massages the liquid into your cheeks. "You'll never know why. Can't change that,” he says.

"I hate how logical you are," you sigh, finding yourself relaxing at his touch.

He lets out a gruff laugh. "Would you rather me be some git?"

Your eyebrow quips, eyes remaining closed. "What does that mean?"

His lip quips. "Sweetheart, how long have you lived with me here, in England?" He enunciates the last word as he moves you under the faucet to wash away the cleanser's remnants. 

"Not long enough, I guess," you smile cheekily, wiping your eyes free of water to open them. "Honestly, forever isn't even long enough," you add, trying to shift the focus, though it's true; you can't quite remember how long you've been living together  

"Oh," he tuts softly. "Nice save. Can't argue with that," he replies, smirking before leaning in to kiss your lips.

After a stretch of silence, you turn around so he can wash your back with the loofah. Your mind is still swirling with thoughts. "I kind of miss seeing my niece," you find yourself reminiscing.

"Even though my sister and I don't get along too well, her daughter and I have always had a special bond," you say with a sigh.

"What else do you miss?" Since you never really talk about where you grew up, John prods, he's curious.

"Well, in the spring, my cousins and I would go flower picking in the field behind my grandfather's house," you find yourself getting more excited.

"He also had an old peach tree, Mindy, he called it, that we would pick dozens of peaches from and just lay in the shade under the tree and eat them till he thought we might become peaches ourselves," you snicker, turning around to face him, eyes light.

"They were fucking good peaches."

"Sounds like you miss it," he grins.

Your hand turns the lever off, and the water stops, leaving a lingering warmth on your skin. "I do," you confess, stepping out of the shower to grab you and him fresh towels.

"But, my mother knows how to ruin the best of memories," your voice is monotone. "I want those great ones to stay intact, you know?" You shrug, wrapping the towel around yourself, offering comfort.

He wraps the towel low around his waist. "Course I get it, sweetheart," his voice soft yet gruff. "Let's get you all nice and dry, and we'll order some takeout. Yeah?" He asks, reaching for your hand to lead you into your shared bedroom to get dressed.

"Sounds perfect," you voice, the thoughts of going home almost completely absolving. 

A few misses wouldn't make you completely switch gears and go.

It just wasn't worth it.

Only your mother could figure out how to make the enjoyment and amazing things crumble up and burn. 

But you won't let her. 

So, you've made up your mind. 

You will not be going.

That's final.

It's two days to Saturday.

You've been manically counting down the days.

And so, naturally, instead of basking in the serene morning, with birds chirping and the gentle glow of the sun filtering through your kitchen window, you're perched on a barstool, computer propped up, as your breakfast grows cold, hand hesitating over a plane ticket that will whisk you away tomorrow morning to your hometown. 

Just one click, and you'll have solidified yourself as going.

You're only feeling so impulsive because your impulse control, aka your husband, is at work.

Your finger hovers over the 'confirm' button for about twenty minutes.

You know what's holding you back.

The anxieties claw up about your mother and what ifs that could happen.

And then, in a sudden moment of clarity, it all becomes clear.

'Could.'

It's not a promise, just a possibility.

You had spontaneously decided that you wouldn't let the could control your decisions.

Yes, one thing was holding you back, but what about the multitude of things that you wanted to see or the many people who loved and cared about and desperately wanted to see after so long?

You were not going to let the 'could' control your decisions.

You were going to overcome this worry and take the leap.

You sit up tall in your chair, turning your head with a wince as you click "confirm."

"Oh," you murmur. "That was dramatic for no reason," you say monotonously.

But, now you can't help but feel a surge of excitement.

You would get to see your niece after so long.

And the flower field and, of course, Mindy the peach tree.

Who could forget your childhood room full of posters and knick-knacks you collected throughout your teenage years.

You find yourself smiling as you get that familiar chime from your email confirming your flight ticket.

Can't get cold feet now.

You take a swig of your tea, which has long since gone cold, but your throat is parched from the anxiety that grips you, a knot tightening in your stomach.

The mug was a gift from your husband for your birthday last year.

It featured your favorite flowers made into it and even had your birthday engraved on the bottom.

John was always so thoughtful.

You pause your movements, lips hovering over the clay mug, a moment of hesitation freezing your actions.

John.

Your husband.

Of course, he didn't care that you bought the ticket or wanted to go, but he would be pissed if you just left.

Sure, you could wait until he returned home, but the urgency to communicate your decision gnaws at you, compelling you to act now.

You hurriedly reach for your phone, fidgeting to press his number.

He's at the top of your contacts.

You tap your fingers against the cool granite countertop, waiting until he picks up.

It rings.

And rings.

...and rings again.

Until the line picks up, you sit up, ready to unload on him, only for it to be his voicemail line.

"Shit," you curse, hanging up as your foot bounces on the metal footstep on the barstool.

As you sit there, unable to wait until he gets home, you can't help but feel a surge of dramatic emotion. This internal conflict, this emotional turmoil, is what drives you to act impulsively.

But this is a big deal.

You never go home.

Rarely mention it.

So your next actions feel rationalized to you.

Without a second thought, you spring up, grab your keys from the hook by the door, slip your shoes and coat on, and speed to your car, most likely looking like a mad woman. 

But at this moment, who cares about appearances? 

The urgency of the situation overrides any concern for normalcy.

Normalcy is overrated, anyway.

You throw the car into gear, and though you are in a rush, you don't speed there. 

Carefully, you make your way, chewing on your lips nearly the entire drive.

Despite your earlier determination not to return, you find yourself on the way, a plane ticket already in your possession.

The anticipation of what your husband has to say fills you with a slight unease.

He wouldn't be mad.

More surprised than anything.

And honestly, you shamelessly loved seeing him at work.

His professional demeanor, always in control, never fails to impress you.

You can't help but oogle him.

It secretly really got you going.

But, this time, it was a purely innocent visit, of course.

You find a parking spot, ease into the front part, giving the officer guarding the gate your name.

She quickly lets you through.

You are the captain's wife, after all.

Walking, you head straight through a door and through another one.

So many God-damn doors in this place.

Until you reach the middle portion of the base, grass surrounds you, and various equipment is placed orderly around.

Sandbags, wooden ladders, and weights are among the items you see. 

Your eyes sweep the area until they land on the man you're looking for. 

He stands tall, his broad shoulders filling out his uniform, a few strands of hair escaping his signature hat.

His eyes are focused on the recruits, his expression a mix of determination and frustration.

From the looks of it, he's training new recruits, something he doesn't often do, but it's a real treat when he does.

His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his veiny arms. 

His arms, usually strong and steady, now appear more veiny than usual, a sign of his apparent frustration with the recruits. His jaw is set, and you can see the tension in his muscles as he barks orders.

"Runnin' like a fuckin' slug," he reprimands. "Pick up the pace."

You hate how hearing that makes you feel butterflies in your stomach.

"Get your head out of your ass," he grunts outs, clearly annoyed. "The hell are you lookin' at," he asks a recruit who, along with a few others, seems to be on another planet, eyes wandering behind him.

John turns to his side to see you in a cute dress, waving to him sweetly. "Course," he lets out a dry laugh, giving you a small wave.

He turns back to the recruits, his authority palpable.

"Eyes off my wife, or you'll be doin' extra laps," he scolds, his tone low but intimidating, before yelling to move to the ladders with Soap.

He makes his way over to you, a warm smile on his face. "Nice surprise, hon," he greets, kissing your cheek.

"I'm gonna go," you murmur.

His brows furrow in confusion. "Go where?" 

You raise a brow at his confusion. "To...see my family."

His eyes bore into your intently. "By yourself?"

"I didn't think you'd want to go," you say honestly. 

"I'm going with you," his tone final, with no room to argue. "You bought a plane ticket?" He questions.

"I did...sorry, I just thought—" you begin before he cuts in, his hand pressing against your cheek. 

"No worries," he says. "I'll get the ticket when I get back to my office," his tone casual. "You're sure about this?"

"I think so," you say. "Plus, if I cancel the ticket, we'll be out six hundred dollars," you laugh out.

"Screw the money, okay? You tell me if you don't want to go," he tells you, face serious.

"If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know," you lean up, pressing a short kiss to his lips. "Also, you should always wear your shirt like that."

His eyes narrow as he lets out a laugh. "You like it?"

"Looks sexy," you purr quietly, teeth coming to bite your lip.

His face warms slightly. "Should see what it looks like off."

"Are you flirting with me, captain?" You say, hand coming to your heart in false surprise. 

"Just givin' you a preview for later," his tone is husky. 

"I'll be waiting," you begin, beckoning him to lower his head so your lips can hover over his ear. "Already so wet just thinking about it."

He releases a low grunt as you press a kiss to his cheek.

"See you at home," you say sweetly as if you didn't just give him a hard-on at the thought of you all wet and needy for him.

"See you, sweetheart," he almost chokes out as you turn to go away, your ass swaying in the dress you wear.

He's going to make you pay later.

And honestly, you can't wait.

You need something to take your mind off tomorrow's morning flight. 

Though it was going to take a lot more than sex to ease your mind.

A horse tranquilizer may help.

No. Too dangerous.

Whatever, you'll take your chances with John's hand all over and in you to have you sleeping and at ease.

Maybe you'll get lucky, and you two can sneak off to the airport bathroom and finally join the mile-high club.

That would definitely keep your mind off things.

For now, you’ll wear a smile, and excitement will radiate from your being.

Everything will be fine.

Nothing bad will happen.

Even so, what’s the worst that could possibly happen?

Statement retracted.

Your trip thus far has been a shitshow, and you haven't even seen your family yet.

Your flight got delayed three hours because of fog.

That was understandable, annoying, but understandable. 

What wasn't was the lady who insisted on sitting between you and John on your flight in the seat you paid for.

An older lady, maybe in her late forties or so, with a determined look in her eyes and a set to her jaw that said she wasn't going to let a little thing like a seat assignment get in her way.

She was nice at first.

She became insufferable rather quickly.

Very persistent.

You deduce she did that so she could sit next to your man. 

It didn't bother you so much, plus you knew if you showed it did, John would make a scene, and you just wanted to close your eyes and sleep, so you let her have your seat and sat by the window instead.

But every time you got settled, eyes closing gently, the soft lull of the plane helping you drift off.

"Going off to college?" She piped next to you, oblivious or noncaring about your eyes shut.

Your eyes open rapidly, and you look at her, awaiting a response. "Uh, no. I graduated a couple of years ago," your voice is drowsy. 

"Oh. You two must be going on a father-daughter trip, then?" She poses.

Your wide eyes drift to John's; a smile etched on his face. "Such a kind father you are," she compliments without missing a beat.

The sheer absurdity of her assumption leaves you speechless, and John can't help but let out a quiet laugh.

"Thas' actually my wife," he says, trying to contain another laugh. 

"Oh," her eyes widen in shock and apparent envy. "Well, aren't you a lucky one," her tone is dry as she eyes you.

That was funny.

But not when she did it about five hundred times on the eight hour flight.

It was like a broken record, playing the same tune over and over again, and you were the unwilling participant. 

Over and over again like clockwork.

Drove you bat shit crazy.

Sure, maybe you could have just told her to shut the hell up, but you kept telling yourself it wasn't worth the fight, and you didn't have the energy to make the effort.

Also, since the lady was sitting in the seat between you, formally yours, you didn't feel comfortable asking John about the bathroom sex.

She would have most likely dropped dead or asked to join.

You didn't want either.

So, it is safe to say that when the plane landed, you sat up excitedly to escape the stuffy plane.

The lady tried to follow you and John out, but you grabbed John by the wrist, dragging him behind you as your legs gained more momentum to try and escape her.

It was like a horror movie.

"Oh my God. She was so weird," you laugh out to John as you manage to get away from her, stepping out of the airport to collect your rental truck. 

"I know. Kept lookin' at me the whole flight," he says with unease as he places your suitcases into the backseat of the truck, shooing away your hands from the bags so he could lift them himself.

"Do we need to get you a counselor?" You half-joke as he opens the car door for you to get in as he moves to the driver's seat.

"Think so," he gruffs before his eyes fixate on you. "You okay?"

You had put the address into the truck's maps system, settling back into the leather seat, eyes now on his. "I'm nervous," you confess.

"Nothin' to be nervous about. I'm here for you, okay? If you need to leave, just tell me," his voice is soft as his hand caresses your thigh in comfort. 

You give him a nod, turning to look out the window at the passing buildings, a flurry of butterflies in your stomach.

You had already texted your niece you were coming, so you're sure your mother and sister know. 

It's not like you'd be staying with them.

That's too much too soon.

Plus, you and John could have sex anytime in the hotel with no fears of your estranged mother walking and seeing John balls-deep in you.

It was really better for all parties.

Once you pull up to the house, you swear you could hurl.

"Was this a bad idea?" You ask John nervously as he pulls your suitcases out of the backseat.

He gently sets them on the dirt. "It's just nerves," he says, locking the truck. "Let's scope it out, and if you want to leave, we'll go. No questions," his hand rests gently on your shoulder.

"Promise?" You prod, tilting your head towards him. 

He smiles at you. "You have my word, sweetheart."

You release a deep breath. "I think I'm going to pass out."

He chuckles deeply, hand snaking around your waist to lead you to the front door. "I'll catch you if you do."

You feel your nerves subside with John by your side as you flip up the familiar peach-shaped doorbell cover to ring the bell.

Stomping feet approach, the voice growing nearer and nearer until the front door pulls open to reveal your sister.

Flawless as ever. 

Her eyes light up. "Thought my daughter was tellin' fibs," she jokes, pulling you into a warm, tight hug. "Missed you." Her genuine affection wraps around you like a comforting blanket.

You reciprocate the hug with equal tightness. 

Although you may not have gotten along well, she was still your sister, and you could feel the love a million miles away. 

She pulls away, eyes falling onto the mysterious, hot, stoic man to your side. "Who's this good-lookin' hunk?" She coos, smacking her gun.

"This is my, um, my husband, John," you say, fumbling your words a little.

"Nice to meet you," his voice is low and most shockingly British, as he sticks his hand out.

Cordial as ever. 

"Oh, come on. That's just not even fair, sis," she jests, taking his hand fast and tight.

Her playful banter adds a lightness to the moment that almost absolves your nerves entirely.

"Where's...mom?" You ask, your heart pounding in your chest, the unease apparent in your tone.

She looks back at you. "Kitchen," she says before offering a reason. "She's makin' peach cobbler. Come on in," she steps aside so you and John can enter the door.

The familiar scent of the old wooden floors, the sound of the creaking stairs, and the sight of the family photos on the wall all bring back a flood of memories.

Warm smiles and familiar voices greet you as you step inside.

Cousins, aunts, uncles.

They approach you one by one, their surprise at your arrival evident, but even more so at hearing that you're married to the burly man at your side. 

Your aunts keep him occupied as you wander into the kitchen.

They keep him engaged in their lively banter, shamelessly flirting with him while their husbands sit in the living room, engrossed in their own discussions. 

You feel a little bad for leaving him to fend with the wolves, but he assured you he was alright and all but pushed you into the kitchen.

Sure enough, your mother was busy rolling out some dough on the countertop for the crust for the top of the peach cobbler. 

"Mom," your voice is quiet as you move around the island to where she is.

She turns. "Well, I'll be," she begins, eyes wide and full of surprises. "Ya came."

"I did," you amend with a smile. "And I brought someone I'd like you to meet."

"Some city guy?" Her head moves back to the dough, no longer on you.

"He, yes, he's from the city," your voice is outwardly confused.

"Thought so," her tone is snarky as she delicately lays the dough over the cobbler filling. 

"What is that supposed to mean?" It comes out more defensive than you intend. 

"Nothin,'" she says flatly. "Enjoyen' your fancy life in the city?"

You roll your eyes, already anticipating the direction this conversation is about to take. "Mom," you urge, your frustration palpable.

"No, hon. I get it," she looks up at you, shrugging. "Honestly, surprised you came. Wouldn't wanna dim your new sparkly life," her tone is condescending. "That is why it's been so long, right?"

"It's not like that," you try to justify, but you know it will do no good.

She completely disregards that, instead changing the subject. "Supper's ready," she bussies herself with stirring the gravy. "Better snag yourself a seat quick," her tone is dry. "Table hasn't grown none."

You release a shallow breath, turning around to escape this stupid God-damned kitchen and moving to find John. 

It's a familiar feeling, this resignation. 

Guess some things never change. 

You approach him, and before you say a word, his eyes are already locked on you, body language now stiff. "What's the matter?" His hands are on you in an instant.

You should have known.

He can read you like one of those mission reports he reads daily.

"Nothing," you mutter, forcing a smile, but the words feel heavy with the things you're hiding.

His eyes narrow. "Can't lie to me," he voices.

You'd just about rather crawl in a hole and die than re-account. 

What was supposed to be a happy recount turned sour rather quickly.

"Tell me," he urges, sensing your inner turmoil. 

"Drop it," your tone is more icey than usual. "Please." 

He gives you a light nod, eyes full of concern.

"Let's go eat, okay?" Your hand moves to his, intertwining your fingers, and guilt claws up your throat.

He gives you a nod as you drag him into the dining room to snag a seat at the main table.

Mom was right. The table is still too small to accommodate a family of this size, so another table sits outside and another in the living room. 

Others crowd around the breakfast nook and sit on barstool at the kitchen island. 

This house has never known loneliness. 

Your mother, father, sister, sister's daughter, and your sister's fiance are at the table with you and John. 

Your niece opts to sit next to you, gushing about her new boyfriend, the son of the florist downtown, and asking questions about the city.

"Hush now, darlin.' She gets all fussy about that," your mother chides your niece, referring to your early conversation about you living in the city.

"Mom," you quip, eyes wide at her sheer audacity.

She hadn't even addressed John, just jumping straight into a fight.

Typical.

"I'm just sayin.' Ya jumped all over me for talkin' about it," she says, trying to sound innocent. 

Seems her memory is slipping.

"That's not why I got upset," your tone is teetering between desperation and frustration, the weight of your words hanging heavily in the air.

She plops some mashed potatoes on her plate before passing the bowl along. "Then what was it ya were so hurt about earlier, huh?"

You're sure steam is rolling out of your ears.

"You hold a, a vendetta against me for leaving," you spew without much thought, anger taking over. "Because you never got to leave, you take it out on me," you finish, and you're sure you're shaking. 

If all eyes weren't on you before, they are now.

John is leaning back in his chair, eyes wide.

He's kind of scared if he touches you, you'll punch him, so he instead crosses his arm over his chest.

"I think the city is cool," your niece randomly chimes in, clearly trying to ease the tension. "Would love to visit someday."

You give her a smile before your mother starts up again.

"Didn't your mother teach ya about city girls," she snaps to your niece. "Nothin' good ever came from any of em.'" 

You can taste the metallic taste of blood on your tongue; you had bitten your cheek so hard you bled.

"Ain't that right," your mother says, eyes shifting to your sister.

Your sister is great.

Just not in the presence of your mother.

She takes on her personality and thoughts.

Agreeing with her without a second thought

That includes her fights.

"It's true," she snickers. "City girls can't tell a pencil from a pecker."

You find yourself standing abruptly, and your sister matches your action, spewing more garbage. 

And for some reason, her fiance stands up, which makes John stand up, matching his movements.

He's easily a foot taller than her fiance, and he's much more muscular, too.

"Enough," John's low, commanding voice is fitting for a military captain. It splices through the room, the commotion dying as he speaks. "I will not sit here and let you treat my wife like this," his head tilts towards your sister and then to your mother. "Now or ever."

He doesn't even need to yell to get any attention. 

His voice just demands attention already. 

Your sister, usually so quick with a retort, is silent.

The fear in her eyes is unmistakable, adding to the intensity of the confrontation.

She’s scared.

Hell, everyone is.

Well, except your niece, whose lip quips secretly, a small smirk playing on her lips despite the tension in the room. 

"Your daughter came down on her own merit to see you," he points to your mother. "Could have done so many other things, but she wanted to see you," he enunciates the last word.

"Well, she—" Your mother begins, her face bright red with anger, her hands clenched into fists at her sides.

"Tired of hearin' the excuses," his voice cuts through hers. She quickly shuts up, a surprising silence falling over her. "Can't even believe your daughter turned out as amazing as she did growing up with this," he gestures towards you.

He stands with his hands on his hips, disappointment is evident on his face. 

"My wife is a God-damn saint," his voice is rough.

You find your lip quipping at the praise and how much he appreciates you.

He worships the ground you walk on.

That was made abundantly clear. 

His hands reach to rest on your lower back. "Appreciate the food, but we'll be leavin' now," he mutters, stepping back to push his chair in.

You don't argue with him.

Hell, how could you?

He said everything you couldn't

Laid all your thoughts on the table and even added some extra.

He did what he was born to do: protect.

You step away, push your chair in, and turn around, not bothering to say goodbye as you walk to the front door.

You'll text your niece later. 

The chill in the air, carrying the scent of magnolia trees and damp earth, hits you like a slap to the face.

John's hand is still on your lower back, guiding you back to the truck.

He opens the door so you can slip inside as he makes his way around the driver's seat.

The heater is blasting as he shoves the key into the keyhole, and the engine is stirring alive as he easily backs out and pulls onto the road. 

The silence is heavy as he drives down a straight, desolate road.

It's silent for a moment before he starts to comment, apologizing profusely about how he overstepped and saying sorry that this trip turned out bad.

You're tuning him out and instead focusing on how he stood up for you.

He was just such a man.

He always knew how to be what you needed him to be.

Protector.

Listener.

Talker.

He always knew which role to take on to support you, to be your anchor in the storm of emotions. 

Just that thought alone made you incredibly wet. 

You don't know why.

You should be crying from the way things unfolded with your family.

But you're not sad, not even remotely.

Just incredibly horny.

You find yourself slipping the rubberband off your wrist and quickly tying your hair in a messy ponytail.

"Hon," John says, noting your unusual silence. "I'm so sorry," he quickly glances your way before looking back at the road.

You don't speak, opting to brush your hand against his cargo pants as your fingers fumble with his zipper.

He makes a noise of surprise. "What're you doin?'" He asks, his voice breathy.

"You took care of me," you mumble, shimming your fingers under the waistband of his boxers to release his erect cock, to which he grunts. "Want to do the same," your voice is lazy, as your lips brush against the sensitive head.

"Me yellin' at your mother got you all hot?" He jokes though it dies halfway on his tongue as your lips spread open to accommodate his size.

His knuckles are white as he tightly grips the steering wheel so as not to crash.

Your mouth makes a pop noise before you speak. "You're just so sexy. All manly like that," you mutter against his cock, the tingle of your words sending goosebumps throughout his entire body.

"Am I?" He chokes out as your lips move back to encase his cock.

"So hot," your voice is muffled as you take in more of his cock.

"Oh—Christ, thas' it, hon," he groans as you bob your head up and down.

His mind has gone fuzzy at the feeling of your tight throat, taking him so good, even swerving a little, before quickly straightening the wheels.

"So fuckin' good," he grunts, as one hand moves to gather your ponytail in a loose fist. 

Your tongue works in tandem, rubbing against the underside of his cock, sending more pleasure through him. "Such a good girl, babe," he praises, and you just know that your underwear will be soaked. 

"So good." Your moan against him at the next praise, making him sputter his hips up, his cock slipping in your mouth entirely. 

He chokes out some incoherent words you can't make out; taking note of his body going taut, you can presume he's close.

"Gonna," he strains out as you continue bobbing up and down, his hand tightening around the fistful of your hair. “Come."

You bring your hand to pump the base as your tongue flicks across the tip.

He groans with anguish, legs shaking as he comes in your mouth.

You pull your head up, your eyes boring into his so he can watch you swallow out every last drop, even using your fingers to clean up the residue in the corners of your mouth.

His eyes stay glued to your mouth before you yell at him to watch the road.

"Christ," he shouts, gripping the wheel tight to stay in his lane. 

You laugh as you lean, pressing a sideways kiss on his lips.

He can taste himself on your lips.

He almost comes again.

But the high lasts just as short as when you look in the review to see police sirens hot on your tale, the siren invading your eardrums. 

John curses but pulls off to the shoulder, sneakily grabbing his military badge in his pocket.

"You always just carry that on you?" You smile slyly, the body still warm from your escapades. 

"Will come in handy," he assures, rolling his window down as the officer makes his way to his window.

"Evenin', folks. Gotta call from a concerned driver sayin' you were swervin' out of your lane," he says.

"No, sir. Not us," you answer, John glancing towards you.

"That right?" The officer prods. "I'm going to need to see your license and registration, sir," his monotone voice says. 

"Yes, sir," John says, slyly flashing his military badge as he "looks" for his license. 

"You're military?" John nods. "Hell," the officer laughs, tucking his notepad back in his pocket. "I know you aren't some juveniles."

John laughs as he glances over to you, glancing down to see a little remnant of his come on your shirt.

He almost feels guilty.

Almost.

He lets out a cough.

"You alright, sir?" The officer asks, brows furrowed.

"Yeah. Fine," his voice is strained.

You shoot him a look before the officer starts again.

"Well, I'll let ya'll get on your way," he pats the top of the car.

You both issue a heartfelt thanks before John pulls back out onto the road, a palpable sense of relief in your voices.

"Can't believe he just let you off," you groan, hand coming to intertwine his. 

"Thought you'd be happy?" He laughs. "Can get to the hotel in record time now."

You raise a knowing eyebrow. "For what?"

"Saw you squirmin' in that seat," he teases, his affectionate tone wrapping around you. "I need to take care of my girl," he adds, his voice filled with warmth and love. 

You release a shallow breath.

His girl.

You.

Just you.

That's what you loved about loving him. 

You didn't have to keep up with his expectations.

You could simply exist, and he would kiss the ground you walk on.

The thought lit up your brain.

John Price was your man.

And in his eyes, you'd always be his girl.

mini author's note: i'd have to be surgically removed from him...

Kinktober: Monster Fucking

Fandom: Dungeons and Dragons

After months of adventuring with your party, you can't help but be curious about a certain dragon born....

cw: cisfem reader, Monster fucking, OC x reader, fantasy racism (someone is not nice to dragonborn), biting, slight mention of bleeding, fingers in holes

PART ONE OF TWO

a/n: A very special thanks to @tyga-lily, who talked with me about her little dragonborn and made me fall in love with this concept and to @saetyrn9 who came up with his name :)

"The bath is free, Obi."

For how much a night costs, the room is nothing special, but any inn with running water is heaven sent. It’s been almost two months since anyone in your party has slept in a proper bed and your body can feel it. Simply wearing the silk of your nightgown feels luxurious at this point; sleeping on down is going to feel obscene.

"I'll be quick." Your party mate stands with a grunt, the day heavy on his joints. You almost want to tease him, but after this adventure, your knees are screaming too. It's hard enough for you to throw yourself on to the bed

Despite knowing him for the greater part of a year, you always forget how large the dragonborn is until he’s next to you. Towering over you with delicate horns and ridged crest, Obsidian Vyke -Obi, to his friends- is all black scales and teeth. The air crackles around him the way it crackles around all sorcerers, subtle yet wild, so it’s unfair that he’s also built wide. Thick biceps and a barrel chest: no magic user should be that muscular.

"Take your time." You watch him as he moves around the room, dipping around the singular bed and pulling his sleeping clothes from his travel sack.

"I'm sorry about this," Obi says, peering over his shoulder, "I know I'm not as nice to room with as Kiri."

The two other members in your party had been fast friends-- unfortunately, they were also quick to become lovers. Usually, that did not pose any issues to the group, but tonight, the inn only has two rooms available. It seemed cruel to separate the lovebirds, so you and Obi agreed to cohabitate for the night.

"I don’t mind sharing a bed with you." The idea gives you butterflies, this flitting, nervous energy. You trust the man with your life-- fuck, he’s saved your life in battle -- but something about sleeping next to him makes your skin goosepimple. "As long as you don't snore."

His eyes narrow in a smile. "I'll try my best."

The dragonborn undoes the lacings of his leather outerwear using the sharpened tips of his claws, delicately catching them under and pulling. The motion is careful and patient, repeated until he can toss the garment into the room's only chair.

It’s not that you don’t want to share a room with him. In fact, you think you want this a little too much. You're absorbed with all of his movements as he primps a bit, adjusting the hem of his shirt so it sits properly, running a palm over his crest, sliding off his traveler's boots. If you're lucky, his shirt will be next and you can catch a peek of the toned spance of his stomach.

"My lady," His teeth flash in the fire light, pearls against the deep, dark opalescent hues of his scales, "You're staring."

"Ah, I'm sorry!" He’s one to talk; you’ve felt his gaze following you for weeks now. That's the only reason you're thinking about him and his body.

And, using that logic, he's the only reason you bought that bodice ripper last week, the one starring a pretty red dragonborn and his human lover--

"Is there something in my teeth?" Obi teases. That earns him a giggle, but, when you don't respond, he exhales through his nose and moves closer. "We're rooming together tonight, so if there's any tension between us, I'd rather-"

"I heard a rumor," you blurt out.

He goes pale. "About me? What did Thyrll tell you?"

"No, about dragonborns in general."

Relief relaxes his features.

"And you just want to know if it's true?" There's a click in his voice as he laughs, something strange and inhumane, "It's okay. You can ask. Let me guess- I eat poor little gnomes? I enchant humans with my-"

"Is it... inside of you?"

The dragonborn pauses at that, eyes wide. "Excuse me?"

"Your..." You cannot believe you're about to say this, "Cock."

"Oh."

You scramble up, hands over your face as you head towards the door. You aren't sure where you're going to go in a nightgown, but anywhere else has to be better than here.

"Oh, I'm sorry! That was so rude of me."

A wall of muscle suddenly blocks your way. Those dexterous hands that you were admiring moments ago are now touching your shoulders, rubbing up and down affectionately.

"It's alright, my lady, I'm just... surprised." He smells like petrichor, something strangely earthy and yet unnatural clinging to his scales, and laughs like summer rain, "I think it's natural to wonder about different races, I just didn't think..."

His sharp eyes are dilated a bit, the pupils closer to almonds than slits as they bounce up and down your body.

"I've had my own... curiosities about others as well," he admits, "So, who am I to judge?"

Your spine prickles at that. Who exactly was he curious about? One of the elves in your party? The barmaid downstairs? Or is it you that the thinks about at night, cock in fist?

The dragonborn misreads the upset look on your face. "I promise that I am not cross with you. How about I answer your questions and you'll answer mine? No judgments."

You settle a bit. "If you're sure."

He smiles a draconic smile, all teeth and the smallest flick of his tongue.

"Of course I'm sure. I'm not embarrassed because my species is a bit different than yours."

You watch him for a long moment. He’s kind. A scoundrel at times, but kind. It's etched into his face, always reflected in his wide, chartreuse eyes.

"So, it is different,” you say carefully.

"It is."

“Very different?”

“When my cock is hard?” He says it so easily. Always proper, it makes you squirm to hear him curse, “No. But when I’m not, it is, in fact inside.”

"It's just... flat down there?"

"Yes- give me your hand."

You weave your fingers in between his without a second thought, but he just shakes his head and pulls away. Then, he takes your still open palm in his and brings it to his torso. The muscle there is just as firmed as you imagined and it's hard not to linger in once spot to appreciate it, Slowly, Obi guides your hand down, running it over the linen of his pants. Underneath, you can feel how it's slightly ridged with larger scales than the rest of his body and, subsequently, larger gaps form in between. It's just skin-- well, it's just scales. You're touching nothing technically intimate, but your heart races anyway, caught in your throat.

"See?" His voice has the edge of a tremble and, when you look up, you realize just how close you two have become. Practically chest to chest, his snout is only inches from your face, close enough that you can see how each individual scale slightly shifts in color as the fire dances. He seems to have realized too; dragonborn expressions are hard to read, but you don't miss how deep his breathing has become.

"It's nothing like touching a human, is it?" he mumbles, hand squeezing yours ever so slightly, “Not intimate at all.”

"Well." You curl your fingers up, clumsily feeling through the fabric, "Maybe a bit.”

The fire crackles in the fireplace. He breathes again, on the brink of a sigh, and you think he’s just as caught up in this as you are.

"Just a bit?" Heat radiates from him. If he were human, it'd be alarming, but instead there's a comfort to it. You're still warm from the bath, and yet you chase that heat, slipping your hand from his just to bring it under the waistline of his pants.

"More than a bit."

He's hot underneath it all, almost uncomfortable to the touch as you explore the space blindly. His eyes haven't left yours, his lids getting heavy with every prod and poke of your fingers.

A vertical line of soft, exposed skin catches your ring finger and his body jumps reflexively as you accidentally dip inside of him. It’s strangely dry, yet much softer than the rest of his scaled body. Despite yourself, you explore it a bit more, pressing in the same way you’ll be playing with your own pussy tonight.

"A-ahh--" The dragonborn sucks in a deep breath and you can feel his abdomen crunch under your touch, "Be careful."

"Did I hurt you?" you ask as you pull away.

His chittering laugh returns. His hands rest on the small of your back, not pushing, but not entirely platonic either. When he talks, the air tastes like distant embers, just far enough away, yet not close enough, "You didn’t hurt me, don’t worry."

“Are you sure?” you press, “You made a weird noise.”

“Very sure,” He dips low enough to press his lips against the shell of your ear, "You’d do the same if I put my fingers inside of you."

This time, the heat is coming from inside you, twisting and pulling with want.

"With your claws?" You manage to joke through your suddenly dry throat, "I might cry."

"I could cut them," His voice is rolling and low as his hands explore, one traveling up your spine and the other dipping the smooth over your ass. When they both reach their zeniths, they switch directions. The silk of your dress catches against his skin, pulling it up and revealing the fat of your ass to the air. "Nice and short."

His nails dig gently into your skin, nothing more than a nip, a test.

"You’re so soft, all over. Your body just gives when I touch it,” There’s a distant tone to his voice as he speaks into the curve of your neck, “Too delicate for me, aren’t you?”

You hum in disagreement and his teeth prove you otherwise. It’s barely a graze, but the nip against your pulse point drags a whimper from deep within you. Your companion chuckles, then coos with pity as he does it again, much, much kinder this time.

“Oh, you’re knock kneed and sweet for me,” The already blossoming bruises are soothed by a warm, textured flash of wet. His tongue is rougher than a humans, longer too, and it leaves behind a string of spit that is more viscous than any human’s. “Like a fawn. My sweet fawn.”

The hand that once explored him is trapped in between your bodies, unable to move, but you can feel something against your stomach: something hard, something thick. Too much cock for your human body, but, fuck, you’re going to try.

“Bet you’re even softer down here.” A singular clawed drags over your bare ass, searching for underwear that isn't there and your body trembles with want, “Oh, look at that, shaking like a leaf. I bet you’d melt if I-”

A sharp knock at the door scrambles you two apart. A moment passes and the sound almost feels imaginary, but then it happens again. You smooth your still wet hair and try to gather yourself, heading to the door in a hurry. Somehow, the dragonborn is more flustered than you. His scales are physically ruffled and his usually stoney brow is creased. He can’t blush, but you swear you can see his face alight as you swing the door open.

There stands a familiar elvish figure, with dark straight hair and the prettiest of smiles.

“Kiri!” you exclaim. She’s a natural beauty, like most elves. All legs and sharp angles, she’s a good head taller than you, leaning over with almost a condescending grin. She’s so beautiful that you almost hate her for it.

“I am sorry to be a bother, rogue.” She speaks in Elvish and the dragonborn’s head tilts slightly side to side, like a dog who hears his name, as he tries to listen. “I came to thank you and the sorcerer.”

“Oh, yeah, no worries,” Your Elvish is unnatural on your human tongue, “We are fine here.”

“My lover thanks you too,” she winks and giggles. She’s over a hundred years older than you, and yet still head over heels like a schoolgirl. Elves might live for thousands of years, but they take hundreds to mature. “We will not be sleeping much tonight.”

You roll your eyes and pretend to gag, biting back a smile, but then Kiri grows serious.

“If he scares you, please let me know,” she continues.

“Obi?” you say, “He’s a sweetheart.”

“I’m sure he is, but those teeth! Like needles. Braver than me, sleeping next to a monster like that.”

You glance at your dragonborn and he looks away before you can meet his eye. A disappointment settles in your stomach. Monster is such an ugly word for a pretty man. Everything about him is charming and refined, from the way he speaks and the way he walks, to the way he shines his scales when he thinks no one is looking.

“That’s rude.” You’re quick to reply. Kiri grew up around only her own kind and their ideas-- she doesn’t always know what’s uncouth or offensive because of it, “Don’t say such awful things.”

“It seems like he’s already gotten hungry.” She jerks a chin to your shoulder. You reflexively reach to cover it, only to pull away when the spot feels wet. Blood speckles your fingers- not enough to warranty any worry, of course, just the slightest graze of the skin.

“That’s not--”

“I tease, I tease!” she continues, “I know it is just a scrape. Can you imagine? To lay with someone who is all claws, fire and untamed magics! I-”

The man in question stalks in between you two silently. With a towel in his arms and a chip on his shoulder, he stomps by with a snort of his nostrils.

“I’m going to bathe.” His Elvish is worse than yours, but it's enough to make Kiri’s face drop. The worst part is that he doesn’t sound angry-- you could deal with anger. Instead, he sounds heartbroken. “I don’t mean to be frightening.”

You both walk him stalk down the hall until he disappears around a corner. Kiri swivels to look at you, bewildered. “Since when does he speak Elvish?”

PART TWO

Can you do the whole of treasure as boyfriends 🥺🥺💞

hey hun! I’m going to have to ask you to send me three members you’d specifically like to see for this piece !!! sorry and thanks in advance !!!

Professor SUGURU with his student next! honestly idk what he would teach though

-uncreative anon

✤ PROFESSOR GETO ✤

Hahaha, I love how this has turned into a series. This university really needs to do better background checks or something because they've got an awful lot of scummy professors on their payroll.

I decided Suguru is gonna be a Philosophy/Ethics professor because of his whole moral dilemma in the show. I also really just wanted to use the Nietzche quote. I've gotta say this series excites me. What teacher will violate reader next?

CW: non-con, student/teacher relationship, PIV sex, drugging, choking, sugurus obsession with monkeys, professor gojo oml he's a menace someone lock him up

Nietzche once wrote “Man is more monkey than any monkey.”

A monkey can not think or act beyond primal instincts because they do not have the mental capacity to do so. Humans do, yet we choose to act on our urges anyway. In that way, humans are more monkeys than monkeys because we choose to be monkeys.

Suguru hated monkeys. 

Men who chased pleasure aimlessly, following their greed or lust like a dog on a leash. They were the reason humanity could never progress past its greatest challenges. No better than scum.

He thought that he was above them, once. 

But then he met you.

Suguru wasn’t terribly fond of the vast majority of his students. The college age demographic was full of monkeys. Entitled children who devoted their weekends to drinking and fucking each other like animals rather than studying, then come crawling to his office on Monday morning begging him to please change their grade. It made him sick.

You couldn’t be any less like them.

A brilliant young girl— one of the most promising he’s ever taught. You were leagues beyond your peers in your ability to grasp philosophical concepts. He rarely ever found a student whose arguments were even compelling, yours interested him.

He called you into his office after grading your first essay of the semester because he was almost certain you’d plagiarized it. He scoffed to himself as he read it, thinking it was a particularly poor effort at stealing. Most students at least knew to dumb down the work a little so it sounded like it was written by a college student. 

But when he called you in and began talking to you about the paper, it was clear that you actually had an incredibly firm grasp on the topic. What was supposed to be a 15 minute meeting turned into an hour long conversation about transcendental idealism. It only ended because he realized he was late for his next lecture. 

He let you out of his office with a newfound fascination. 

-✤✤✤-

It was you who approached him for your second meeting. He received an email from you about a week later:

Hello Professor,

I hope this finds you well. I wanted to say thank you again for the conversation we had the other day. I really enjoyed it. I was wondering if I could ask for a favor.

I’m working on my senior honors thesis this year and I’m in the process of looking for a thesis supervisor. I was wondering if I could speak to you about my topic and see if we’d be a good fit. Even if you could point me in the direction of someone else who could help me, I’d be incredibly appreciative. 

Thank you,

(Y/N)

It’s a bit embarrassing how quickly he responded to set up a time and date. The prospect of mentoring you for the whole year; of having a set chunk of one-on-one time every week where he could pick your perfect brain and stare at your pretty face was mortifyingly intoxicating. 

He laid in bed that night, mulling over the morality of his desire for you. There was no doubt in his mind that he shouldn’t feel this way about a student. He has the power advantage in the dynamic, not to mention the fact that he’s nearly 10 years your senior, it’s wrong in every conceivable way to look at you with anything other than platonic affection. He doesn’t need to be an Ethics professor to know that.

But as his hand travels past his boxer waistband that night, it’s your face he imagines.

The two of you meet and quickly decide that you’ll work well together. You fill out some form and discuss your topic which is, rather ironically, the ethics of love and sex.

He feels as though the universe must be teasing him.

Still, he persists. Anything for his favorite student. You submit your thesis proposal and the work begins.

You meet every Monday and Wednesday after lecture—though he encourages you to stop in whenever you’d like. You read through your work and he challenges your ideas, watching you carefully as you write and rewrite, completely oblivious to the depraved fantasies playing out in his head. He’s grateful that his boner is hidden by his desk as you look up at him with those lovely eyes of yours and talk about sexual desire as innocently as the weather.

The moment you leave his office he’s locking the door, closing the blinds and unzipping his pants. Thrusting erratically into his hand as your name tumbles from his lips.

As he wipes the mess off his hand he reminds himself that the need for intimacy is a sentient desire. It's human to crave deep connection.

 It’s a weak attempt at making himself feel better.

But he can’t stop. He’s enraptured by you. Your beauty, your personality, your mind—each time you laugh, speak, cry, he falls in love a little more. It’s maddening, his desire for you. It haunts him every time you open the door to his office.

-✤✤✤-

He was standing with Satoru one day outside of the biology building as he ranted about some kid named Yuji. He wasn't really paying attention, he was staring at you as you laughed with your friends across the quad.

Gojo huffed indignantly when he realized he wasn't listening. Nudging him to pay attention to him until he noticed what he was staring at.  

His blue eyes lit up mischievously.

“Oooooh, someones got a crush~” he sang, elbowing him playfully, “She’s awfully cute. How old is she? Sophomore? Junior? Senior?”

“What? No she’s-“

“ A freshman,” He gasps dramatically, “Suguru, I didn’t take you for a cradle robber-“

“Shut up.” he snaps as his friend cackles, “I’m supervising her senior honors thesis, freak. That’s all.”

Gojo scoffs, “I’ve known you too long to believe that bullshit. The last time I saw your eyes light up like that was when we read Allegedly of the Cave in high school.”

“It’s Allegory of the Cave-“

“Whatever,” he waves, “What I’m saying is she’s making you feel things.”

Suguru looks away with a frown, not wanting to dignify his claim but also incapable of denying it. Gojo sits back smugly.

“I know all that ethics stuff is important to you and I don’t pretend to know much about it, but I do know about biology and I know that science says it’s in our DNA to want to procreate.”

Geto squints, “Exactly what are you implying Satoru?”

He shrugs, “It’s not your fault if you have urges. It’s a basic principle of life—the sky is blue, the grass is green, and men want to fuck pretty women.” 

Geto scowls, “You’re disgusting.”

But his words stay with him.

-✤✤✤-

The year goes on. Before he knows it, the spring semester is ending and it’s time for you to present your thesis to the panel. 

He’s upset that he won’t be working one-on-one with you next semester, but you’ll be in grad school for another four years. He’ll still have you in his classes most likely, and you’ll do your dissertation at some point, there’s no doubt you’ll want to be mentored by your favorite professor again.

He leans back in his chair, smiling at you proudly at the end of your second to last meeting.

“You’ve done well (Y/N),” he says, scrolling through the lengthy document on his laptop, “This is an impressive piece of work. You should be proud of yourself.” 

A soft blush blooms on your face, “Thank you Professor, I couldn’t have done it without you.” 

He shakes his head “The pleasure was all mine. If this is your thesis I’m excited to read your dissertation in a few years.”

“Ah, about that…” you laugh sheepishly, “I’m actually transferring for grad school. I got a decent scholarship from another university near where I live, I wanted to be a little closer to home.”

Geto’s heart drops to his stomach, he has to take a moment to recover from his shock before he can manage an answer.

“I see…” he mumbles, swallowing thickly, “That’s…disappointing”

You offer him a sympathetic smile. “I’ll still keep in touch of course! I’ll give you updates on how I’m doing.”

He hums. There’s an awkward silence that feels like it lasts an eternity. When the silence becomes too painful to bear, Geto clears his throat and closes his laptop.

“I’ll see you on Monday for our final meeting. Please make sure you bring paper copies of your thesis. I’ll hand them out to the panel on the day of the presentation…” You nod and gather your things, clearly eager to get away from the tension-thick room. You wave goodbye before quickly scurrying off.

He doesn’t even remember the drive back to his apartment—he’s in his office one minute and the next he's on his bed staring at the ceiling. 

Changing schools? After a whole year with him you were just going to leave? Don’t you realize that he’s devoted all he had this year to making sure you reached your fullest potential? That’s what love is, isn’t it? The mutual sacrifice of one’s self for the other? 

What if you go to this new school and another Professor decides to covet you? A pathetic monkey who could never love you like he could. You’d be dirtied by their touch, their ideas. The thought makes him sick.

Never has he met a woman with a mind like yours, he likely never will again. Now that he’s seen heaven, how was he supposed to go back? 

He needs you like he needs oxygen in his lungs. He loves you in an instinctual, carnal way that can’t be explained. He wants to take you, claim you, and keep you away from any other man who may try to steal you away from him.

His mind drifts back to Satoru’s words:

“It’s just a basic principle of life…”

Maybe he was right. Maybe the way he felt went beyond the bounds of morality.

-✤✤✤-

You walk into his office that Monday for your final meeting. It’s late. Everyone has gone home for the night so the usually bustling building is eerily quiet. Your professor emailed you earlier asking if you could change the time of your meeting, said that he had a mountain of papers he had to finish grading and it would be a huge help if you could meet a little later. 

Of course you said yes. Anything for Professor Geto.

He smiles as he opens the door, guiding you in with a gentle hand on your lower back. 

You notice that the blinds are drawn. It’s odd. He never has the blinds drawn and it’s already dark outside, but you don’t question it too much. You’re just glad that the tension seems to have dissipated from the last time you saw him.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet a bit later with me. I really appreciate it.” he says as the two of you settle in, “Do you want something to drink?”

You smile, “No problem, and yeah. That would be great actually.” 

He hums, walking over to the kettle on the other side of his room to put water on. “Did you bring the paper copies?” He asks.

You nod, fishing through your bag and pulling them out.

“Perfect, could you put them in the bottom drawer of my desk please? I don’t want to lose them.”

You swiftly obey. When your back is turned he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the white pill he bought off a monkey in his ethics class who desperately needed a passing grade. He plops it in the cup with your tea bag, watching it fizz away in the hot water. 

He walks back to his desk and places the mug in front of you. 

“It’s hot, let it cool down a little before you drink.” 

You nod, thanking him as he takes his seat.

He walks you through some of the logistics of the presentation—where it will be, who will be on the panel, what you can expect before and after—all while keeping a careful eye on your cup. He starts to worry that you won't drink from it, but sure enough, just as he finishes you bring the mug to your lips. 

The drugs kick in almost immediately. He watches in awe as your eyes blow wide in fear, unsure of why your limbs have given out on you. He catches your head before it can hit his desk, fingers caressing the soft skin of your cheek, pants tightening around his growing erection.

A pang of guilt twists in his gut at the way you stare up at him, teary eyes blown wide in fear and confusion, silently pleading for him not to do this.

It’s almost enough to stop him.

Almost.

He lifts your body up and gently places you on top of his desk, your arm can only twitch weakly in protest as he lays you down on a pile of ungraded finals. It seemed like the monkey had made good on his promise and gotten him the right dose—just enough to make you pliant. He wanted you to be awake and conscious for this.

His eyes rake over your body as he works on taking off your shirt, revealing your soft torso inch by inch. Your body is sinfully perfect, even better than he’d imagined it would be. He’s gentle as he handles your smaller body, incredibly so. He refused to rape you like an animal. He was going to make love to you softly, reverently, until you lived and breathed him just as he did you.

A few whimpers fall from your mouth but he quickly shushes them with a kiss, wiping the tears from your droopy eyes with the pad of his thumb. His slender fingers toy with the waistband of your pants 

“You’re so lovely...” he breathes, ghosting his lips along your neck, “I’ve been waiting so long for you.”

Your jeans and panties are pulled down your thighs and calves until you’re completely naked and at his mercy. Your professor swallows thickly, dropping to his knees between your legs, holding them apart as he ghosts his lips over your cunt. 

“Oh (Y/N)...” he sighs, licking a languid swipe from the bottom of your slit to your clit and leaving a soft kiss over the little nub “You don’t have to cry, darling. I’m doing what’s best for you—for us.”

You whimper loudly. It seems like you’re trying to form a sentence but your lips and tongue are weighed down by the drugs. He smiles lazily and latches onto your clit, holding your hips steady as his tongue paints lazy circles over the delicate bud, sending shivers up your spine.

“I didn’t want to spring this on you, I thought that we’d have more time,” he mumbles into your now dripping pussy, “But when you told me you were to a school where I couldn’t protect you from all the filthy monkeys, I had no other choice.” 

Two of his fingers slide into your dripping cavern, thrusting back and forth slow and deep, exploring every nook and cranny of your tight cunt. Geto couldn’t wait to become familiar with it, to know by muscle memory where to touch to make you unravel. His hands travel to his own pants subconsciously as he thinks of all the ways he’ll have you—over his desk, on his bed, in the shower—he honestly didn’t care where it was as long as you were being worshiped by him and him alone.

He thinks of the students in his class—the boys who fucked different girls every night and then left without a word. Had those monkeys ever touched you? His heart sank at the thought. His poor, sweet girl, defiled by that scum. 

His blood boils as he thinks about it, fingers subconsciously pumping in and out of your cunt harder making you groan. In a way, this was the moral thing to do. Clearly you didn’t know what was right for yourself, he was just stepping in as an older, wiser man to protect you from harm. By taking you forcefully, he was saving you from the pain those other monkeys would inevitably cause you.

 He loved you. He’d cherish and take care of you until his dying breath. They wouldn’t. It might hurt you now, but eventually you’ll understand and be better off for it.

That’s what he tells himself as he lines up his cock.

You let out what he thinks is meant to be a scream, though it comes out as more of a loud groan. He smiles softly, kissing your tears away as he slowly pushes in, waiting patiently for you to adjust as he bottoms out.

“P-please…” he makes out in your cluster of mumbled whining. His heart hurts for you, it really does.

“This is good for you (Y/N). Don’t fight it. I’m gonna take care of you so well.” he groans, pulling his hips back slowly before sinking himself back into your warmth, establishing a steady, slow rhythm to get you used to the size. “You’re gonna drop out of that college for me and I’m gonna get you an even better scholarship here, alright? I know grad school is awfully expensive these days, and I can tell you from experience that untenured professors get paid nothing. It would be smart to start pinching pennies.”

He nuzzles into the crook of your neck, tangling a hand in your hair ever so gently, “Here, you have me. Your favorite Professor, right sweetheart? I want to see you succeed. I’ll give my all to you—as a teacher and a lover.” his thrusts quicken and his eyes light up with something between madness and delight as you clench around him.

“I’ll take care of everything. I have no doubt that your dissertation could be groundbreaking with the right direction. I’ll line up a nice job for you here once you graduate, and then…” his hips slow as he stares deep into your teary eyes, heart pounding in adoration, “...I think it would be cute to have two Dr. Geto’s in the Philosophy department, hm?”

Your stomach threatens to empty itself. You try to kick, scream, fight, anything but your limbs won’t work. Whatever he gave you was strong. You glare up at him, the man you once admired, and with the last of your energy, spit in his face.

Geto blinks a couple of times, hand traveling up slowly to touch the saliva dripping down his nose. As his fingers process the wetness his eyes darken, blood boiling hot at the triumphant look on your face.

“...You little bitch.”

You don’t have time to process his words before his hand is wrapped around your throat and he’s pounding into you with reckless abandon. No concern for your pleasure or comfort, only meaning to establish his control.

“You want to spit on me after I offer you everything? I could ruin your life if I wanted.” he snaps, ignoring your tears, “I’ll tell the panel tomorrow that I found out you’ve been cheating. You’re worried about grad school? You won’t even graduate.”

His lips curl up menacingly, picking up the pace as his orgasm approaches, “Don’t think you’ll sneak into another university either. The academic world is small. I have contacts just about everywhere and it would be easy for me to get them to blacklist you if I felt it was necessary.” he grunts, “Yeah, good luck paying your loans without a–fuck- job.” 

His thrusts become sporadic and he pulls out, turning your body around so that he’s jerking himself off right over your face. He lets out a low groan as he cums, face relaxed in euphoria as thick ropes spray all over your face and mix with your hot tears. 

He pants, looking down at your cum covered nose and lips. You look…pathetic. Absolutely defiled, like you’ve been bred by some kind of animal.

By a monkey.

Suguru feels a twist of guilt in his gut. Wasn’t this exactly what he promised himself he wouldn’t do? He let his emotions and desire control him—he hurt you. How was he better than any other rapist? 

It was for your own good he reminds himself. If the action is done with reason, then it’s a conscious decision. He’s not a monkey. He’s not a monkey.

He zips up his pants quietly and gathers his things.

“The drugs should wear off in about an hour, I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.” he says, unable to meet your eye, “If you show up for the presentation tomorrow I’ll take it as an acceptance of my offer. If not… well, I suppose you’ll be receiving an email from the university within the next few days.”

He leaves without another word.

-✤✤✤-

He didn’t expect you to show up the next day, he really thought that he’d have to start preparing evidence to show the dean and other proctors, but to his surprise, you walked into the room right on time.

You were frazzled and looked like you hadn’t slept but you were there. You were accepting his love. He watched you giddily as you presented—very well, he notes, considering what happened last night. One of the other panel members nudged him and asked what was making him so happy. He just smiled replying that he was just so proud of his student.

Suguru holds the door for you as you walk out, squeezing your shoulder and congratulating you on doing such a good job before following the rest of the panel to determine the results.

After you get the good news, Suguru takes you back to his office because he has a “special present” for you.

As he spears you on his cock he thinks back to Nietzsche's words.

…Perhaps he was more monkey than he thought.

TW: yandere, noncon/dubcon, angst, unwanted pregnancy, blackmail, ish-baby trapping

PART ONE only avaliable on AO3 due to Tumblr restrictions

fem reader

You went cold and forgot how to breathe.

When you got to the kindergarten, they told you his father had already come and collected him early. All looking at you as though you were crazy, assaulting the daycare workers with your hands in a bruising grip, shaking her by her shoulders—demanding she tell you where he took him. 

She spilled the name of some family restaurant down the road and said he’d wanted you to join them there. The poor thing was on the verge of tears when you let go.

Rushing out, you all but ran down the streets before pushing yourself through the doors—cold-sweating and swivel-eyed—in a panic, scanning faces with his name coming out weak under your breath. 

With your vision spinning, you felt faint before you heard it.

“Mommy! Mommy! You’re here! Look! I’m King of the castle!” he shouted, and your peeled eyes snapped to see him up high in a bright red plastic tower.

But before your shoes could hit the soft foam of the playground, you were intercepted by something larger.

“He’s fine,” he said under his breath, catching and stopping you in your beeline, holding you by the waist. “I need to talk to you.”

Something old and instinctive didn’t bother paying him heed—as if forgetting how to speak, you just ignored him in favor of pushing past him, eyes glued to the sight of your son blissfully unaware, playing with other kids with an oblivious smile on his face. But his grip was stronger than your instincts, firm enough to keep you still but not enough to hurt you, even when you tried twisting yourself free.

“Come on,” he urged.

You were about to sneer something, finally looking at his face—that face you hated—but the bark of curse words got held back.

“Look around you. Let’s not cause a scene.” The wild animal within went silent while your eyes flickered around at the surrounding picnic tables where families were having their dinner. “We can talk outside. My assistant will look after him.”

You didn’t feel much inclined to listen, but still, even though it made you hate to fold on his behest—reluctantly, you accepted the sense of what he was saying. Looking back at your son still laughing up in his tower with cinched brows. You didn’t want to scare him when he didn’t know what was going on, even though you felt the need to scream at the very top of your lungs.

You allowed him to lead you outside, but as soon as the fresh air welcomed your rigid state, you were at once whipping around and pushing him away. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” snarling at him. “How fucking dare you?!”

“Calm down. He might still see us,” he hushed, hands raised in halfhearted surrender, casting a nod to the glass walls separating you from the frivolity inside. “Let’s just talk rationally.”

“Rationally?!” you scoffed in a shout, eyes still manic. “You fucking kidnapped my son, you psycho-”

“You wouldn’t answer my texts or calls,” he snubbed. “He’s my son too-”

“Fuck you,” you interrupted to return the favor. “If you fuck with me on this, I swear I’ll ruin you.” You had a finger raised at him, breathing furiously—looking down-right mad—sweaty and disheveled from your run with your face twisted with such a state of frenzy. “I’ll tell everyone how I got him in the first place!”

Despite the threat, he didn’t seem all that fazed. 

“Think about it…” he said calmly, much in contrast to you. “Who do you think people will believe? A teenage mom abusing her son for a paycheck or his estranged father wanting to provide for him?”

You blanched, and before anything else made it out—whether it be more rage or something else, he was already further silencing you.

“Not to mention… the trial would be gruesome, and Junior would have to grow up with it always hanging over his head—is that really what you want?”

You look at him, and you still can't believe it. How could it have turned out like this? You’d been perfect only a month ago before he’d shown up at your apartment.

You thought you’d sent him on his way for good that day, but only now did you realize he had no plans to leave you alone.

“Come, let’s talk in the car. It’s cold, and you’re not dressed,” he ushered, taking your arm again where you stood, stunned and still, trying to wrap your head around his threats. Letting yourself be led into the black vehicle standing perfectly parked in its neat white rectangle.

You both got in the back with enough room to battle your homey sofa nook at home.

“I don’t want this to get ugly,” he started anew—his voice still so irritatingly calm, unfairly so. “I just want to see my son-”

“He’s not yours,” you croaked, feeling the situation slip from your fingers—battling a drumming heart, shifty breaths, and the mean sting of tears welling up in your eyes.

“If you try and keep him from me, I’ll sue for full custody. And given I’m the only one out of us who isn’t a pro-bono case and the only one with any future that isn’t managing a register, I’d say I have a pretty fair shot at winning.”

You can’t keep from bursting out crying then, overwhelmed by the fear of losing the only thing that mattered and the pure disgust of the man who’d given it to you. It felt like everything was tearing—your whole life—crumbling before your eyes.

“Don’t cry,” he soothed, his hand coming to drape your hunched shoulders where you held your tears. “I don’t want to take him away from you…” His attempt did little to comfort you, but the next words had your heart grasping for what little hope they offered. “And I’m not going to either.”

You looked at him through the hurt of swollen eyes, tears still falling while he wiped them away with the course pad of his thumb—rubbing your cheek affectionately. In any other circumstance, you’d surely slap him, but right now, all you could do was listen.

“I’m buying a house,” he revealed, still holding your cheek and gaze. “Fit for a family. Safe neighborhood, good school district, giant backyard.” The list went over your head—it was all too surreal to register. You couldn’t even fathom what he was getting at until, “I want the two of you to come live there with me.”

Stunned, you remained completely silent until the tears dried, and he let go of your face. 

“You don’t have to say anything right now.” He reaches across you and fetches the seatbelt before coming back over you to click it in place. “I’ll go get Junior and drive you home. Just stay here.”

You do as suggested and stay seated as he pops his door open and leaves—feeling all but cemented in place as your thoughts go tumbling around and around as if caught in a rip curl. When Junior jumps in beside you, a farfetched smile is all you can offer. Thankfully, he’s so enamored by a toy he’d gotten to notice much of your state.

When your door opens again, you’re led out and onto your neighborhood street. The fresh air does little to clear your mind. Feeling all but feverish as you hold Junior's small hand in yours while the man of your nightmares smiles all too fondly at the two of you.

“I’ll come pick you up after your shift on Monday.,” he says decidedly—cheerfully as he ruffles Junior’s hair enough to make him giggle. “Bring the rascal with you, and he can pick his room first.”

You weren’t planning on staying. You were never planning on staying—certain you would leave the second the opportunity to skip town arose—you just need to scramble the money together first. 

But the house was huge… nothing you could ever dream of, and while it made you desperate with grief, you couldn’t deny it either… Junior really loved having a dad.

It nearly brought sick to your throat to call him that. It was a shot through the heart every time you heard Junior’s boyish call, squealing with giggles, saying “Daddy, daddy, daddy-”

None of it seemed right to you. Seeing his bright smile, now at the age where a new tooth fell out every other week—looking so goofy as he proudly shows the two of you the new one he’d just knocked out playing soccer at school. “Mommy, Daddy, look!”

What’s worse is that you can't even deny how good the man you hate is at it all—spoiling him with gifts and making him laugh—giving piggyback ride after air-plane flight after tickle-fight and a game of tag and hide’n’seek. 

And it’s not just the easy stuff. He’s good at the shit that used to make you go crazy—putting him to bed, getting him dressed, making him eat the right stuff, and not just scuffle down candy. It’s as if the two of them have developed a secret language you’re not a part of. If Junior weren’t a toddler, you’d even suspect he’d been bribed and told to do his best to make you lose your mind. But no, it’s just reality.

The man you live with drives and picks your son up from school as if he’d done it since he was born, goes with you to meet the teacher if and when he gets into trouble and helps the two of you pick out the right shoes—shoes that you can now afford, thanks to him.

“I thought I might sleep in the master bedroom tonight.” He says, leaning against the frame in the doorway.

You’d been living there a month now. He’d been generous enough to sleep in the guest room up until now.

You don’t know how to deny him. It feels as if anything you might say would just be ignored or threatened until you eventually took it back. You didn’t want him in your bed—you didn’t want him in the same house—in fact, preferably, you’d want him to be six feet deep in the dirt.

You end up not answering. But he’s used to that by now. 

“I get it…” he says, taking steps into the room you’d wrongfully thought was your safe space. “You don’t trust me.” He sits down at the edge of the bed and reaches out across the sheets. You’re too late to pull your feet to yourself before he has one in his hand. He doesn’t do much but stroke it. “But you can.”

The sincerity in his eyes makes you want to gouge them out. It’s all been some cruel joke ever since you moved in—all the pleasantries and presents, as if trying to distract you from the past. Your wardrobe is chockfull of it, and so is Junior’s room—filled to the brim with lies.

“I’m never gon’ hurt you.” Another lie. “I did you wrong once, and I’ll spend the rest of my life makin’ up for it.” 

You want to shake your head, laugh in his face—anything to reject it. But you’re terrified of what he might do if you didn’t play along. The threat of losing Junior is enough to make you cooperative.

“I know I’ve not been fair—pushin’ you into all of this so fast.” He gets down on his knees on the floor as if praying, right down beside you. “I took advantage of a vulnerable situation ‘cause I’m an impatient asshole—but I promise you—” He takes your hand in both of his. “If you give me the chance, I’m gon’ make our lives together like somethin’ outa’ a fuckin’ fairytale—all that happily ever after shit and more, just like you always wanted.”

The kiss he presses upon your knuckles beckons goosebumps to rise all across you. All his words feel like a bad script read by an even worse actor—in fact, this whole thing feels like a prank. And still, it doesn’t surprise you—he’s been laughing at you ever since you were children.

And now, laughing still, only with a fucking ringbox in his hand.

“I want Junior to see us as a united front. I don’t want him askin’ question why we ain’t sleepin’ in the same bed, why we fight behind locked doors, why you cry in the bathroom.” 

He pops the black velvet lid and reveals something so outrages it almost looks tacky lying there in a plush bed of red silk.

“I want us to be happy.” He picks the little thing out and holds it up between his thumb and index, still holding your hand in the other. “I want us to be real.” You can almost see your life flash before your eyes as it threatens your ring finger. “Let’s make us real.”

You don’t say anything as he eases the tiny hoop on, sliding it all the way back until it sits snugly right at your knuckle—dazzling in the dark. A tiny tear slips down your cheek—equally dazzling.

He played some with the digit—a smile on his face. 

“Looks good on you, Mrs.” As he calls you by his last name you almost shake the ring off as if it burned to wear, but it all gets lost when he rushes forward and locks his lips with yours.

You yelp against his mouth, kept from turning away by the large hand holding your jaw, threatening to seize your throat and squeeze. You remember how it had felt. You don’t want more of a reminder, so you intercept his tongue with yours before he forced it down your throat.

He groans at the warm welcome, and your entire body shudders in memory.

You hadn’t let anyone touch you since that time five years ago. It had left a poor taste in your mouth, and the hunger for it had never come back.

You choke it down now as he climbs on top. 

BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks JJK – Sukuna, Geto, Gojo, Naoya, Toji

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