#west side district

[eastsidepapi]

P A R T Y N E X T D O O R - T H I R S T Y

#mine #partynextdoor #ovo #sauga city #west side district #toronto

[mortiferumsomnum]

Soup Kitchens and Runaway Ghosts (Part 2)

Part 1 could be read here! Part 3 could be read here!

ASDGLHKASLGKHSDGK

thank you for liking my other post 👉👈 

 ***

It was night outside, with the owls hooting and bats flying under the light of the moon.

Jason had a hand on Dani’s shoulder as they sat in the (illegal) Doctor’s kitchen. Although she was putting on a brave face, she was trembling and pulling at the ends of her sweater. Her eyes never left the open door to the room Danny was getting medical help from. They couldn’t see his body, but they could see the Doctor walking to and fro’ the bed Danny was placed on.

“Hey,” Jason whispered, soothingly, hoping it’s the same comforting way Dick does.

Slowly, her gaze turns to him. Her chin was trembling, and she looked like she was on the verge of crying. Shit. What would Dick do? Jason didn’t think this far in the comforting thing.

So, he tugged the little girl closer, hugging her with his arm. “It’ll be okay,” he whispered to her. “He’s in good hands.”

She sniffed, and huffed through the sob that tore through her lips. “I... I don’t know how I could keep Danny safe...”

Jason glanced to her, but she was looking back to the open door. ‘What do you mean?’ he wanted to ask. ‘It’s not your job to take care of him,’ he wanted to say.

Instead, he whispered, “You did your best.” Because she did. She did her best to get food from his soup kitchen for both her and Danny, not at all stopping to eat in the cafeteria, only thinking to have her containers filled. She stole from drug stores. She tried bandaging Danny even if she didn’t know how to do it properly. She took care of him with everything she could.

(A passing memory of his mom, Catherine, flashes in his mind.)

That only made her chin tremble more, which prompted Jason to hug her closer. 

Finally, the Doctor stepped out.

***

- The Doctor tells Dani that Danny’s okay now, and that he’ll be telling the Red Hood everything that needs to be done to keep up with the treatment. Then, he tells Dani that she could go and see him. She didn’t need to be told twice and ran into the room.

- The Doctor closes the door, then grunted at the Red Hood. “Look, man. I know I said I would help you for anything medical-related, but I think I need to draw the line at freaky supernatural shit. His blood literally had green where the plasma was supposed to be.”

- Jason removed the safety of his gun.

- The Doctor was unfazed. “I’m not going to tell anyone, but men in white managing to track these kids down because they’re, what, ghosts???? Which is weird because that kid’s heart was beating????? And he’s alive??? In fact, the green stuff does a better job than regular human plasma, it’s unreal, man. Since it replaced the plasma the kid was supposed to HAVE, I’m calling it green plasma, for simplicity, yeah.”

- Jason’s not worried about that. “Tell me about the kid,” he said. “How is he, moving forward?”

- The Doctor’s face pinched. “It’s... not bad... anymore...”

- “Anymore?”

- “Look, when you brought the kid in, it’s exactly as you told me: Vivisection wounds, 3rd degree burns from laser guns, infection...” 

- The Red Hood was getting impatient with the way he was loosely fidgeting with his gun. 

- “Bottom line is, once everything was cleaned and properly stitched, he started... healing? On his own?? I took blood samples, and the green plasma has something to do with it. You know how plasma literally moves the blood cells? It seems to enhance their functions as well. The enhanced white blood cells were fighting against the infection that was also enhanced by the plasma. Once the infection was removed, it was smooth sailing for his body. Now, all the kid needs is rest, food and water.”

- Jason hummed. “I’m burning this house down.” There was a chance that the kids would be leaving some kind of bio-signature in this place, and the Doctor was one of the most competent people he knew after Leslie. He was also really easy to intimidate, but despite the fear, he does his job well. Works well under pressure, like what he wrote in his resume. “Change your clothes and pack your bags, Doc. I’m going to lend you one of my safehouses.”

- The Doctor was quick to nod his head. “I assume that you’re destroying the blood samples as well?”

- Jason pointed his gun towards him. “Did you take a sample?”

- The Doctor was fast to shake his head. “Like I said, I want nothing to do with the supernatural, man. I’m already knees deep in crime, and I really don’t want to be making contracts with beings more demonic than you are.”

- Jason huffed, putting his gun away. “The demon is my brother.” The Doctor squeaked. “After changing, leave your clothes here. It’s burning with the rest of the house.”

- “You got it, man,” said the Doctor, leaving the room with a brisk pace.

- Jason then went in where Danny and Dani were, and it seems like the kid was finally sleeping peacefully on the bed he was in. He was changed into a loose pajama that the Doctor probably had, and was tucked under a clean, beige blanket. Just as the Doctor said, he was looking a hundred times better. 

- Dani was smiling. Once she saw him, she jumped out of her seat and ran up to him, hugging his middle while laughing. “He’s okay!” she said. “Thank you thank you thank you so much!!”

- Jason chuckled, patting her head. “No problem, kid.” Even if the Doctor did most of the job.

- “Uh, yes problem?” The Doctor came into the room, clothes changed and face white. “There’s... there’s people... white suits... outside... secret police?? Government agents?? Oh god...”

- Unconsciously, Jason tugged Dani closer.

- Then, Jason took out a domino mask from his leather jacket and an extra rebreather, throwing it to the Doctor. “Put that on, Doc. We can’t have them knowing your face when we make our escape.”

- The Doctor scrambled to put it on. 

- Jason turned to Dani. “Get Danny and turn invisible like you did before.”

- “Uh, I can turn all of us invisible and get us to the car if you guys hold on to me,” she said.

- Jason blinked beneath his Red Hood helmet. “You... could do that?”

- Dani blushed in embarrassment while nodding. “I was panicking when they first showed up, okay?! I could fly us to the car as fast as I can, but they’ll still be able to track us...”

- Jason nodded. He turned to Danny, who was now being carried by the Doctor. “I got ‘im,” he whispered, eyes wide in fear and knees trembling. Jason really doesn’t want him carrying Danny since Dani did just fine earlier, but he also didn’t know how much concentration she needs to bring all of them out.

- Jason went into the kitchen and opened the gas tank connected to the stove. Then, he and the Doctor walked close to Dani.

- She grabbed onto the back of their shirts, and turned them invisible. Thankfully, he could make out the outline of Dani floating them in the room.

- Also, the Doctor was screaming like a banshee. A panicking banshee.

- “WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP?!?!?” Dani yelled.

- “I’M TRYING!!!”

- “Would my gun work through the invisibility?”

- “We’re not intangible yet, so... I think so?”

- That shut the Doctor up.

- The smell of gas was getting strong.

- “Let’s get outta here,” said Dani. And tuned them intangible, and---- holy shit. Jason couldn’t feel his insides... or his outsides... or anything from his body. He felt... nothing. Not even floaty or light. It was as if he didn’t exist. They fazed through so many walls until they made it out of the house.

- But just as they made it out, the men in white’s gadget started beeping like crazy again.

- “They’re close!”

- “Find them!”

- Thank God the Doctor was quiet.

- Jason watched as they were floated into the car. Jason lost his intangibility and invisibility first, being dropped into the driver’s seat. The Doctor was dropped in the backseat with Danny, and Dani sat in the passenger’s.

- “Put your seatbelt on.”

- Dani looked incredulously at him.

- The Doctor did as Jason told, wrapping one around Danny as well as he laid in the back with them.

- “They’re over there!!” one of the men in white yelled.

- Some blasters were shooting at them now, and the Doctor rightfully screamed again.

- Jason started the car, then took out his gun and shot at one of the blasters.

- The blaster was about to go off, and its shot was redirected to the window of the house.

BOOM!

- While the men in white ducked for cover, away from the explosion, Jason drove away, increasing his speed.

- But no matter how fast he was going, trying to get away, the men in white were chasing after them again in their vans, installed blasters getting out and ready to shoot them again. God, they’re annoying.

- “I... I could blast them too!”

- There’s too many of them. 5 vans, plowing through the trees with their comically giant blasters. One was moving forward.

- He turned to Dani. “Try to make the one in front turn around just as they’re about to launch a blast. It’ll hit the other vans.”

- Dani nodded and fazed through the top of the car, hands glowing green. Just as she left, Jason could see form the rearview mirror how Dani transforms. Although the dark of the night made it unclear in a few places, he could clearly see her hair turning white and clothes changing. He couldn’t see her face as she was faced towards their pursuers. 

- Her hands then let out a long green blast towards the van. Just as Jason said, the van flipped, it’s blasters hitting the other two vans behind it. Dani then sent another blast to the other vans, but it was unsuccessful, learning immediately from the first van that was attacked.

- Dani came back into the Hoodmobile (Jason still hates the name, but there really isn’t other name to call it), sitting in the passenger seat and buckling up once more. “What do we do now?”

- They were heading towards Brown Bridge, just past that is China Town, into GCPD territory. If he could just get into the abandoned sections, he’ll be able to get into Red Robin’s patrol route. The techy Robin would be able to fry their devices just as well as Oracle. 

- Only a few Gothamites brave travelling at night, but the streets are mostly empty, thankfully. No civilian will be involved in this crazy chase.

- “We’re heading into one of my brothers’ territories,” he said.

- The Doctor squeaked. “The Demon one???”

- “No,” said Jason.

- “You have a Demon for a brother?” Dani asked, eyes looking excited.

- “He might as well be one,” said Jason, increasing his speed once more. 

- He passed by a GCPD patrol car, but the driver didn’t chase after him after seeing two vans with massive weapons of mass destruction driving past him. Like the good, corrupt officer he was, he deleted the footage of what he had just seen from his police cameras attached to his person and car.

- Finally, Jason was driving through the abandoned warehouse district of Chinatown. Then, Jason activated his comms. “Red Hood to Red Robin, where the fuck are you?”

- “Red Robin to Red Hood, fuck you, too.”

- “Listen kid, there are some shitheads in white chasing after me. Have you heard from O?”

- “We tried hacking into their systems once they fixed it. No progress. Need me to fry their systems again?”

- “As much as possible. Where’s your nearest safehouse? One that could cover the biological-traces of someone.”

- “Including the post-mortem traces of someone?”

- “Fuck, Replacement, you got something like that? Should I be worried? How many bodies are you hiding??”

- “Hardy-har-har, Hood,” said Red Robin. “They upgraded their coding to avoid being hacked and frying their servers again. Can you hold out for 5 minutes?”

- “3 minutes, Double-R. They brought more of their buddies-- SHIT!!” Jason swerved the car to avoid hitting a pole, entering a warehouse and breaking through the old, wooden walls. “Make it 1 minute! They’re fucking multiplying!”

- “Oh shit! Hood! Look out!” the Doctor screamed, pointing to the biggest blaster Jason’s ever seen.

- Fucking hell. Jason turned to Dani, who was looking at the blaster with wide eyes and a panicked look on her face. “I... I can..” She was panicking, trying to think up of things to do to make the situation better, but Jason is NOT going to let her to anything. She did enough. It’s Jason’s job to take care of her and her brother/cousin right now. (And the Doctor, but that man is the least of his priorities. Sorry, Doc.)

- “I’m almost done, Hood!”

- A stray blast hit the already, severely dented hood of Jason’s car, knocking it off to show its engine. Shitshitshit... He unbuckled his seatbelt, to which Dani and the Doctor followed. ”Red! You done yet?!” he yelled into the comms.

- Red Robin didn’t answer. 

- Instead, Jason watched as the vans exploded. 

- Jason leaned towards Dani, covering her view before she could see the guts and limbs fly.

- “Shit... I didn’t mean to do that...” Red Robin said on the comms, voice trembling. “I didn’t...”

- Turning to Dani, her face was frozen. “They... they’re...”

- “Hey, hey, hey... it’s okay... it’s alright,” whispered Jason, taking her into his arms. He thought he managed to hide her from the deaths.

- She shook her head. “I... I could feel their souls leaving... I could feel... they’re scared... others are angry... They’re...”

- Well, shit.

- “Let’s get somewhere safe, yeah?” said Jason. 

- Dani only nodded, most likely numb and dissociating. Great. Trauma. Okay. Fantastic. Fuck.

- “Red Robin, you still there?” asked Jason.

- “I... yeah. I’m here.”

- Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Okay, Jason. You need to be the voice of reason for a whole bunch of traumatized kids right now. Okay. 

- “Double R? Where’s the safehouse and how far is it?” Jason asked.

- “It’s in Upper West Side, right along Schnapp Avenue. There’s an abandoned bookstore there. It’s right above there. The walls are covered with everything you need to cover you.”

- “Okay, we’ll meet up with you there.”

- “I... I’m going, too?”

- Jason wanted to sigh, run a hand down his face, or even punch one of the dead guys that were chasing after them. But he answered, “Yeah, kid. You have any chocolate in there?”

- “Agent A stocks up my safehouses himself.”

- “Good. I really do have everything I need there, then. I’m also bringing along some guests, ‘cause I’m not the only one these bastards are after.”

- Red Robin was quiet.

- “Kids, one who looks younger than the Demon Brat, and the other looks younger than you... and some Doctor that got involved in all this.”

- “Shit...” Red Robin whispered. “Did they...”

- “See? No.” Jason’s not going to tell him that Dani felt the deaths, tho. “I’ll be there in 15 minutes, Red.”

- It was quiet.

- “Red?”

- “Y-yeah... okay. I’ll... I’ll be there, Hood.” Click. Red Robin was no longer on the comms.

- Well... Shit.

*****

<<PREVIOUS (Masterlist) NEXT>>

#dc x dp #dp x dc #jason todd #tim drake #dani fenton #danny fenton #danny phantom #I AM SO SORRY TIM I LOVE YOU I PROMISE #I have no idea what to name the Doctor #or how he looks like #But he sounds like a Teddy #Like his name would be Theodore and they end up calling him Doctor Teddy or something #What do you guys think?? #DID YOU GUYS CATCH MY BULLSHIT ON PLASMA?! #Biology is one of my worst subjects fam #I only know that the mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell and that's IT FOR BIOLOGY FOR ME HAHAHAHAHAHA #Brown Bridge is an actual thing in gotham #right after brown bridge there's the west upper side and chinatown #after chinatown there's old gotham... financial district and city hall district which are all part of the GCPD territory #Old Gotham is where the Clocktower that Barbara/Oracle is located in #In Upper West Side there is an actual Schnapp Avenue eyyyyyyy #The bookstore was made-up tho <3 #I'm sorry Tim for pushing your first kill here <3 I love you uwu <3 #Jason is going to make everything better with hot chocolate and a good meal for the kids (and the Doctor) #Jason won't let Tim get in trouble over this and he's not going to let Dani feel guilty for bringing him in this shit #IF he's not going to feel guilty for bringing in Doctor Teddy into this supernatural shit he's not going to let her feel guilty either #I should probably change the name of this thing cuz it's not about the soup kitchens anymore :((((

[we-re-always-alright]

absolutely SEETHING reading comments about pizza and delivery in the city (Chicago) on tumblr dot com I cannot handle it

#I literally ordered pizza from my fav place today and it got here in 40 minutes #it’s in River north and I’m on the west side so I don’t mind #BUT DUDE YOU LIVE IN SOUTH LOOP/PRINTER’S ROW #a: most drivers are from the burbs or Indiana so don’t know the city #b: you are ordering from chain restaurants in Chicago (a notorious pizza city) #c: this is not related/related but you suggested POTBELLYS as a place to get ‘good food’ in Chicago #all your food recs are insane and limited to the most expensive part of the city #also it’s now personal because they said Chicago is a ‘trash city for pizza’ #ALSO NEWSFLASH: MORE PEOPLE DONT LIVE IN THE LOOP #there are more people because of tourists but not residents #west loop is 54k #the whole loop is 54k #south loop is 54k #literally how the population maps are drawn for aldermen and districts #this city is MASSIVE and a VERY small percentage (less than a %) live in the loop #I have like nearly pinpointed where they live based on food clues because they make me so mad #‘good pizza is within walking distance of me’ I bet it’s fucking Aurelio’s which is notoriously bad #and I bet it’s not just ANY Aurelio’s but the one on Michigan Ave and Roosevelt Rd #you are literally 500ft from Flo and Santos and people choose Aurelio’s #victory tavern!!!! it’s right there!!! #I’m fucking fuming #99% of the city: lives outside of the loop #people living the loop: but EvErYoNe LiVeS hErE #also they’ve lived here…10 years???? but not very enmeshed in the city outside of the loop #which is a shame #not to pull street cred but like #my family has been here since the 1800s #my relatives helped build this city #I have a LOT of civic pride #thoughts? thoughts

[wine-porn]

Western Front

Extremely young-smelling, a churlish baby-fruit-basket of hi-spice airing out to youthful earth with smudges of sulphite and bottling angst. A blue rim frames distinct purple medium-body where dirty raspberry and pointed rhubarb lives with smoky aplomb. Cool-climate of nose: mountainous and stony, distict worn leather a distillation of fruit, tapenade and all things considered. This would be a…

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#Adelaida District #Best Paso Robles wineries #Colburn Vineyard #Detente #Detente Wines #Graciano #Grenache #GSM #Paso Robles #Rhone blend #Rhone rangers #Soif Wine Blog #Stephen McConnell #Stephen McConnell Wine Blog #Steve McConnell Wine Blog #Syrah #West Side Paso #Western Block #wine1percent

[indizombie]

Under Illinois’s new policy, after students have a second mental health-related absence, district officials are required to refer them to the “appropriate school support personnel.” But many schools can’t afford the types of services Plainfield is offering, education officials say, and in rural areas they sometimes have trouble finding people to fill those jobs. Chicago isn’t scheduled to have a social worker in each of its more than 600 schools until 2024. School social workers there often devote most of their time to students who receive special education services dictated by an individualized education program, or IEP. “My door gets knocked on all day long. And I have to choose — am I going to reschedule my IEP services, or am I going to help a student who’s experiencing a crisis like right now?” said Mary Difino, a social worker at Brian Piccolo Elementary Specialty School on Chicago’s West Side. “The neighborhood I work in, there’s a lot of trauma, there’s a lot of community violence, there’s a lot of death and hardship.”

Giles Bruce, ‘For Students Struggling With Mental Health, Schools Try Time Off’, Kaiser Health News

#Kaiser Health News #Giles Bruce #United States #Illinois #mental health-related absence #school support personnel #Plainfield Community Consolidated School District 202 #education officials #Chicago #social workers #special education services #individualized education program #IEP #Mary Difino #Brian Piccolo Elementary Specialty School #West Side #community violence #trauma #death #hardship

[richardswiftmdnyc]

BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL IN NYC

When discussing aesthetic enhancement, and more specifically surgical enhancement procedures, there are countless different procedures out there these days. And as plastic surgery has become more popular, and mainstream – more men and women are willing to openly discuss having work done than ever before. Procedures like the Brazilian butt lift or BBL, and breast augmentation for women are common topics on beauty forums and across social media these days. And men are openly discussing things like gynecomastia surgery to help improve issues they might have with their bodies online too. However, when it comes to facial plastic surgery and anything having to do with altering your facial appearance using surgery, people are still a lot more tight lipped, and while the conversation has certainly expanded and become less of an issue, it still isn’t as openly talked about. Because of this, procedures like with procedures like the facelift and Buccal Specialist Queens experts like Dr. Richard Swift, the top surgeon for buccal fat removal Queens has in practice must do a lot more to educate patients on these types of procedures than others. 

#BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL NEW YORK #BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL IN NEW YORK #BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL BROOKLYN #BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL SPECIALIST NYC #BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL MANHATTAN #BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL UPPER EAST SIDE #BUCCAL FAT REMOVAL UPPER WEST SIDE #Buccal Fat Removal SoHo #Buccal Fat Removal Nolita #Buccal Fat Removal Little Italy #Buccal Fat Removal Chinatown #Buccal Fat Removal Financial District #Buccal Fat Removal Five Points #Buccal Fat Removal Two Bridges #Buccal Fat Removal Tribeca

[wausaupilot]

Wausau School Board joins feasibility study for west side redevelopment plan, indoor ice arena

Under the Westside Master Plan, which the Marathon County Board of Supervisors approved in February 2023, there will be a new indoor ice arena at a different location outside Marathon Park.

Damakant Jayshi The Wausau School Board on Monday approved the district’s contribution of $5,000 towards a feasibility study for recreation facilities as part of Marathon County’s west side redevelopment plan. Under the Westside Master Plan, which the Marathon County Board of Supervisors approved in February 2023, there will be a new indoor ice arena at a different location outside Marathon…

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#afternoon update #indoor ice arena #Jamie Polley #Marathon County Parks Recreation &amp; Forestry Department #Marathon County Westside Master Plan #Wausau Parks and Recreation Committee #Wausau School Board #Wausau School District #west side redevelopment plan

[web-real-estate]

ALANYA

#Alanya is a tourism district of Antalya province in Turkey's Mediterranean Region. Its distance from the city center is 154 kilometers. It i #with the Taurus Mountains in the north and the Mediterranean Sea in the south #within the borders of the Turkish Riviera #with an area of ​​70 kilometers along the coastline.[33] It is surrounded by Manavgat district along the coastline from west to east #Gündoğmuş district with a mountainous terrain in the northwest #Hadim in the north #Taşkent and Sarıveliler in the east #and Gazipaşa in the southeast.[34] It is home to old cities such as Manavagat #Side and Selge. Alanya is a historical city of rare beauty #which hosted pirates in ancient times

[roguelov]

Let Me Help

Summary: On a mission with Miguel to stop a variant of Doc Ock, you accidentally inhale something you shouldn’t have. You actively try to ignore these burning desires raging through you. However when Miguel notices your odd behavior, he finally confronts you. A confrontation that leads to this thing you need most: him.

Word Count: ~6.6k

Reader: Afab (no fem pronouns used)

Warnings: SMUT (sex pollen, fem!masturbation, fingering, unprotected sex, riding, oral (fem!receiving), doggy style, multiple orgasms, slight praise kink, voyeurism, cockwarming, switch!reader, switch!Miguel), smut with some feelings, unestablished relationship, mutual pining

MINORS DNI/ 18+ ONLY

The salty harbor water splashed against the algae covered docks of the warehouse district. Smog of the city filtered into the already cloudy night sky. The sea and city - cars and boat horns - clashed together in an odd cacophony. Your nose wrinkled as the sting of salt mixed with newly poured asphalt.

On top of a warehouse, you and Miguel stood side by side overlooking the massive, old and rundown, area. Another anomaly was plucked and dropped off in a universe where they shouldn’t be. The Spider-Man, Peter W. Parker, of this world was unfortunately and temporarily subdued by the anomaly, a variant of Doc Ock. Peter was completely paralyzed from his encounter and was resting back at HQ as a team tirelessly tried to work on an antidote for him.

“Be careful,” Miguel warned.

“Always am,” you smirked under your mask, before leaping off the building to search the west end of the docks.

Miguel scoffed. Yet, his eyes watched you intently as you landed on another building. You slipped inside one of the broken windows and disappeared from view.

He paused, hesitating for a second, then turned away.

Searching through your area, the anomaly wasn’t in the first building. Or the second. You hoped, sending out a small prayer to the universe he was in the last building. If not, maybe Miguel had more luck than you.

The last warehouse was filled with wrecked boats strewn up on lifts, scattered repair parts, and half broken shipping crates. Moving around, your footsteps were light, and unheard. Nothing creaked, and dust barely moved. You tried a few office doors only to find them locked, or rusted shut. Sighing, you knew of another way to enter and luckily they all lined the edge of the warehouse.

Outside once again, you carefully scaled the building approaching the first set of windows. Brown paper covered most of the dirty glass, yet one window had no covers. The paper was luckily torn back. Peering inside, it was a packed room.

A manager's office was reinvented. The desk was pushed to the far wall. Crates piled into the room, acting as other workstations. Old and battered scientific equipment, some even haphazardly thrown together, filled the desk and crates. Cracked glass - cups, beakers, and vials - were scattered about. Scraps of tarp were laid across the floor and hung from the walls as if for protection. A harsh pungent smell soon assaulted your nose. Your face scrunched up in disgust. Chemicals, any and all so it seemed, were carefully placed into rows on the floor and on top of crates. While vials lined a chipped wooden shelf, poorly screwed into the wall. Each one a different color, and labeled with a system you didn’t comprehend or care to understand.

It was crowded, an office turned into a makeshift lab.

Yet, your eyes fell back to the obvious man taking up the cramped space.

If you could call him that.

He was an experiment, a genetic splicing, gone wrong. He was a human on top while stormy blue grey tentacles were his legs. Strangely, he moved so easily. The appendages carried him with perfect posture, and also effortlessly reached for material around the homemade lab. As a tentacle slithered past your view, you quickly noted the tips had black barbs.

You carefully pushed on the window to thankfully find it unlocked. You crawled through and softly dropped in. But, he was somehow alerted to you.

He whipped around, beakers and vials with unknown liquid swayed in his hands. Massive goggles were strapped around his bulging inky black eyes. Tubes of water wrapped around the side of his neck over gills. A torn, stained lab coat hung off his bare torso. Yet, despite his somewhat menacing appearance, he cowarded at your presence. A whine, a bubbling of water, erupted from him.

You raised your hands, hoping to calm him, “Hey, hey, there’s no need to be scared. We’re just going to get you back home, okay?”

As if proving your point, he glitched. He groaned, leaning into a wooden crate. His massive eyes locked with yours. He violently shook his head. “No, I’m not going back.”

“I’m sorry, but you have to. If you don’t you’ll destroy yourself and possibly this universe.”

“No!” He immediately threw whatever vial he had in his hand.

You easily dodged it, but it splattered into the wall behind your head. A sickly sweet aroma filled your nose. You coughed, waving it away. While you were distracted, he fled. He moved with surprising agility, and squeezed through a small air vent.

“Shit.” You coughed one last time. You pressed your watch, calling Miguel. Clearing your throat, you said, “Miguel, I found him. Far west end of the docks, and he’s on the move.”

“Understood.”

You stepped forward and the world tilted. You quickly stumbled into the crates. You grunted as a dull ache rolled through you. Clenching your jaw, you shoved down the pain.

Not now. We will deal with this later.

You dove through the window to catch Doc Ock who was scrambling down an alleyway. His tentacles made a distinct ‘thwap’ as he ran away. For a moment, your vision blurred. Your grip loosened as you slid down a few inches down the brick wall. Gritting your teeth, you shook your head. Everything cleared again. Ignoring the obvious signs, you fired a web and swung down into the alley.

Miguel, however, beat you to it.

Landing in the alleyway, Miguel stood over the now unconscious Doc Ock. The red glowing webs secured around his torso and tentacles. You let out a silent thanks.

Miguel turned around, and approached you. “Are you okay?”

His voice reverberated throughout your body. Your heart leapt into your throat. You let out a shaky breath, trying to calm yourself. “Yeah, I’m good.”

His eyes trailed over you. You were breathing heavily, why? Did the two of you fight? How did this anomaly slip past you?

“Ready?” You asked, already opening up a portal.

“Yeah,” he muttered, grabbing the anomaly.

After dropping off the anomaly at HQ, you said your quickest farewells and practically ran back home to your universe, to your apartment. Your chest started to constrict horribly when Miguel was nearby. It wasn’t the giddy childhood crush you were already accustomed too, but this deep heart wrenching ache of desire.

It frightened you.

You had to get away from him.

Returning home, you found your city basking in the moonlight. Neon signs and billboards flickered in the distance. And the usual rush of cars quieted down just enough for most of the city to fall asleep. However, sleep would not come tonight for you.

You tossed and turned endlessly. Your heart raced, like a hummingbird in flight trapped in a cage. Sweat beaded over your forehead. The dull ache from before started to move farther south of your body. You groaned and arched your back.

What … what the hell is this?

You rolled over, burying your face into the pillow.

We’re fine. It’s fine. It’ll pass.

It didn’t.

The moon, with its siblings of stars, fell and the soon burning and bright sun rose over the horizon. Yet, these sensations never wavered. Dare you say, they intensified. Your sheets were kicked off the bed, pillows tossed across the floor in fits of rage, and your clothes skewed and damped with sweat.

Fuck.

Your body ached horribly.

Hot flashes surged through you in intense waves. You groaned, curling into a tight ball. However, it was the growing heat between your legs that was becoming unbearable. You unconsciously rubbed your thighs together. The minimal friction, basically nothing, caused you to moan.

“Fuck,” you whimpered.

Shower. A cold shower might help.

Dragging yourself out of bed, you shuffled into the bathroom and slammed the door behind you. You turned on the show to the coolest, and still comfortable, temperature. This should help, hopefully. Stripping out of your sweaty clothes, you hopped in. You hissed slightly. The water was a shock to your overheated, clammy skin. Pressing your palms into the shower wall, you dunked your head under the water like a poorly done baptism. You needed to cleanse yourself and your unholy thoughts.

You forced yourself to stay there. You gritted your teeth, and squeezed your eyes shut. The water pounded over you. Each drop were needles: sharp, quick, and irksome. But, standing under the water, you were still unbelievably hot, still painfully aroused.

Screw it.

One hand skimmed down your body between your legs. One swipe over your soaking folds and your knees nearly buckled. Still holding yourself up with one hand, and hunched under the running water, you slowly dipped your fingers inside yourself.

And immediately, his face appeared behind your closed eyes.

You could easily conjure up a scenario, and you happily indulged in your fantasy.

He was in the shower with you. Still bent over, his arm wrapped around your waist, holding you up. His chest pressed firmly into your back. His skin was so warm compared to the cool water. His lips brushed over the shell of your ear. His thick fingers were inside you, it was his fingers bringing you to your release.

You moaned, pumping yourself faster.

“That’s it,” his voice whispered in your ear. “Just like that.”

“Shit,” you hissed.

“Come on,” he encouraged with a light chuckle. His hand brushed up your sides to your breasts. He gently pinched and played with your nipples. “Come on, cum around my fingers.”

You curled your fingers, making your walls flatter. You whimpered. The sinfully wet sounds mixed with the water rushing over you. You were close, far closer than you expected.

His lips skimmed down your neck. “That’s it, almost there.”

You bit your lip. You quickly flipped yourself around, supporting yourself with your back to the shower wall. Your other hand played with your clit, swirling around, as your fingers worked faster. It was messy, it was desperate. A whine rumbled in the back of your throat.

“Oh, please, cum for me. You’re so close, I can feel it.” His fingers curled, beckoning you towards your end.

It built and built, then it all snapped so suddenly and forcibly. You came hard around your fingers. “Fuck,” you hissed out.

He hummed, working you through your orgasm. “There it is.”

You leaned heavily into the wall, panting and dizzy from your rapid orgasm. You closed your eyes for a second, and let the water wash everything away.

Meanwhile, a familiar looking portal opened up in your bedroom. Miguel stepped out with a tension wrought into his shoulders. His mask retracted and his crimson eyes slid over your room, your messy room. He raised an eyebrow, surveying your room. The one thing that concerned him the most was you weren’t here.

Where were you?

“Fuck.”

Miguel’s head whipped over to the closed bathroom door. He heard you so clearly. He almost moved, almost burst through the door, but he stayed rooted in place.

Why couldn’t he move? What if you were in trouble, what if -

The shower turned off. He heard you move around, and he saw your shadow flash under the door. If you were moving, then maybe nothing was wrong. Then without warning, the bathroom door swung open with a resounding bang.

Miguel flinched, startled by the sudden noise.

Water still dripped down from your hair and down your face. Hunched forward, you propped yourself up with one hand on the doorframe. Your chest heaved. You gulped down air as if you ran a marathon. You wore only a baggy shirt which clung to your still wet skin. Your eyes swiveled over, instantly clocking Miguel’s unexpected presence.

Miguel’s eyebrows furrowed. “Are you okay?”

“What are you doing here?” You asked, ignoring his initial question.

“You haven’t responded to my calls.”

You glanced over to your watch, blinking on your nightstand. “Sorry, I was busy.”

His eyes trailed over your body. Concern filled him. He repeated, “Are you okay?”

“Just dandy.”

His lips thinned. Why were you like this? So goddamn stubborn sometimes. “You don’t seem fine, especially since our mission last night.”

“I’m just tired,” you huffed. “And a little sore.”

God, even now your body was still aroused. And with Miguel being here, it was making everything so much worse. Your fantasy from only moments ago was seared heavily into your mind.

He needed to leave before you did something you regretted.

Miguel sighed, crossing his arms. “Are you sure? Did -“

“I said I’m fine.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever.” So be it. He pressed a button on his watch, opening up a portal back to HQ. He paused. He clearly wanted to say something, but didn’t. He stepped through without uttering another word.

You wanted to call him back, you wanted to shove him onto the bed, you wanted to him and happily bounce on his -

You groaned loudly, rubbing your hands over your face.

Dear god - universe, whatever - just someone save me from myself.

You reluctantly crawled back into bed. Maybe, the shower helped. Maybe, with Miguel gone you could rest. Maybe, this was all over.

Maybe, you were just delusional.

Tonight was no better than last night. In fact, it was probably worse. Fantasies of Miguel flooded your mind, and you couldn’t satisfy yourself no matter what you did.

You will find a solution tomorrow.

There had to be one.

The next morning, before the sun properly greeted the world, you pushed yourself up and out of bed. You had an idea on where to start. Not bothering with your suit, you kept your baggy shirt and pulled on an old pair of sweatpants. You slipped on your watch and opened up a portal to HQ. You marched directly towards the area where all the anomalies were being contained. Containers lined the area as their chorus of voices begged to be released. Your eyes swiveled around, trying to locate the one anomaly who had any possible explanation to your current endeavor. But, you couldn’t find him in the sea of people. Getting frustrated, you turned your attention towards the person operating the ‘Go Home’ machine.

“Spider-Byte.”

Margo, the purple holographic girl, whirled around. She smiled only for it to falter given your appearance. You were obviously and very plainly pissed. You glared icily, unable to calm yourself. Worst of all, every time you moved, pain and pleasure rolled through you.

“Whoa, are you -“

You cut her off, “The Doc Ock, the one Miguel and I brought in yesterday, is he still here?”

“Uh.” She brought up a screen and tapped on it. “Yeah, he’s still here but not for long. I’ll have him back home in a few hours.”

“I only need a few minutes. Just point me in the direction where he is.”

Margo did so without question, she gestured down a row of anomalies. Mumbling your thanks, you spun around weaving down the aisle until you finally saw him. You stomped over and pounded on the container.

“What the hell did you do to me,” you gritted your teeth.

The man blinked owlishly. “I’m sorry - oh, oh! You! Oh, this is fantastic! I’ve been hoping to see -“

You slammed your fist again. “Answer me! What the hell did I inhale!”

He shrank, and squeaked. “Oh, uh, that’s … that’s complicated.”

“How so?” You sneered.

“Well,” he fidgeted, his tentacles squirming around. “I don’t know exactly what I gave you.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I … I was experimenting with my toxin and - and I was constantly adding new compounds to it or trying to rewrite it.”

You clicked your tongue, and raised an eyebrow.

“And well, I was trying to make it stronger, more of a deadly venom than a paralyzing agent.”

“And so you don’t know what you gave me or what was in it?”

“… no … I needed more time to study it.”

“Fantastic.”

“Well, what are your symptoms? Tell me, what are you feeling? Any discomfort? Any pain? What about hallucinations?”

He was like a giddy child.

“Oh, yeah definitely some discomforts,” you sarcastically replied. You shook your head and turned away. He shouted after you, but you simply ignored him. It took all of your strength and willpower to not break through the containment and pummel him.

Taking calming breaths, you swiftly left the area. Passing by all the anomalies, each of them shouted at you as you tried to think of a way to make this suffering end. Peter W. Parker apparently was still in the medical wing dealing with his paralysis. So, time seemed to be the only reasonable solution you could think of. And it had been a day, surely it would wear off by now.

Even if you felt worse every hour.

“(Y/N).”

A hand curled around your wrist.

A fire unfurled in the pit of your stomach by such a delicate touch. You shuddered. You kept your head trained forward, and your back to the last person you wanted to see. He couldn’t see you like this.

Not now, not after yesterday.

“What’s wrong?” Miguel asked, then took in your disgruntled appearance. “You look like …”

Horrible? Like shit?

“It’s nothing, I’m fine,” you quickly answered, tugging your wrist out of his grasp.

“Clearly,” he sarcastically replied.

You bit your tongue. Dear god, his voice. So smooth, so rich. “I’m tired, okay? So, I’m just going home.”

“Wait -“

“Good day, Miguel.” You pressed a button and stepped through the portal.

Miguel clenched his fists. He was about to chase after you when Lyla appeared saying others needed him. Begrudgingly, he left. But, this wasn’t the end for him. He will get a proper answer from you.

You sighed deeply, standing back in your room alone. You collapsed forward onto the bed. A muffled groan erupted from you.

I can get through this, I’ll be fine.

An hour passed.

An ice pack, barely cold anymore, laid across your forehead. Your pants and underwear were discarded. You constantly tugged on the collar of your shirt and fanned yourself. Your body ached. You wanted to claw at your skin, you wanted to rip your hair out, you wanted -

You wanted Miguel. God, you wanted him terribly. You wanted him to bend you over.

“Just like that,” you imagined he would coo as he slipped his cock inside of you.

You tried pleasuring yourself, but nothing helped. Nothing satiated you. This swelling sensation only became more and more intense.

You hissed and curled up onto your side. The ice pack slid off your forehead. You lazily picked it up, tossing it onto your nightstand. Your eyes blinked slowly. You stared blankly at the wall, trying to focus on something - anything. Anything but the dampness between your legs, anything but your spiraling perverted thoughts.

Move.

Do something.

Call for help.

You languidly pushed yourself up, and hunched forward. Your head fell into your hands. Your chest continued to heave and tighten. Your heart pounded and rang in your ears. “Fuck me,” you muttered under your breath.

“Only if you ask nicely,” Miguel chuckled.

You shivered.

Almost summoned by your thoughts, yellow and orange lights burst to life behind you. You twisted around. A portal opened up, and a familiar hulking figure walked through: Miguel. Seeing his face, your heart sank. You whipped back around, unable and unwilling to face him.

Why? Why the hell was he here?

He squinted, seeing your decrepit posture on the edge of your bed. “Still fine I see.”

You rolled your eyes. “What do you want? I’m trying to rest.”

Miguel shuffled over. “I came here to see why you’ve been acting weird.”

“It’s nothing.”

He sighed, a short disappointed sigh. He lowered himself onto your bed. A notable gap was between the two of you. Yet, you could feel the heat roll off of him. You unconsciously leaned slightly towards him, desperately seeking him out.

“Talk to me.”

I’m worried about you, he thought.

He hadn’t stopped worrying. You were constantly on the forefront of his mind. Most of all, he wondered why you were avoiding him. Why were you locking yourself away in your room? What happened?

You stayed silent.

Miguel gently rested his hand on your shoulder. “Look -“

You flinched. You leapt away and hastily took a few steps away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

One touch and your body nearly crumbled.

His hand fell. Shock evident on his typically stoic face. His fist clenched. Anger was now getting the better part of him. “I’m trying to help you.”

You hugged yourself, keeping your back to him. “I’m - I'm fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He stood up. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you repeated harshly.

Miguel clicked his tongue. He had enough of your constant dismissal. He grabbed your shoulders and whirled you around to finally face him. You gasped. He stared intently down at you, dissecting and analyzing you. You were panting, your skin glistened with sweat, and notably your pupils were completely dilated.

“What -“

You jerked away from him. And you unconsciously rubbed your thighs together.

Oh. Oh.

Miguel’s cheeks darkened faintly. He placed his hands on his hips, and glanced away. He cleared his throat, “How … how long have you been like … like that?”

You crossed your arms, and sighed. There was no use hiding it anymore. “Since our encounter with Doc Ock.”

His eyes flickered up. “So, he did do something to you.”

“… yes.”

“Which was?”

“He … he threw some substance at me and I accidentally inhaled it.”

He rubbed the spot between his brows, a common place for his headaches to start. “And why did you tell me?”

You tsked and sneered, “Oh sorry, boss, I can’t come in today. I can’t focus or do anything because I am unbelievably and painfully horny.”

God, this is humiliating.

Miguel sighed deeply, dropped his shoulders. “Well, maybe Doc Ock can -“

“He can’t help. I already confronted him, he was just a mad scientist who didn’t know what he created.”

He shifted his weight side to side. “Well, have you … you know …”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Miguel, we are not having this conversation.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. His eyes scanned over you again. God, he couldn’t deny that you were absolutely delectable right now. His mind ran rampant with impure thoughts. It was the way your lips parted as you breathed heavily, it was the way your body squirmed, it was the way you desperately tried to bury the noises ready to jump out, it was the way you adamantly avoided his gaze, it was the way your hardened nipples poke through your shirt, it was the way how he could smell you and your arousal.

He wasn’t blind to your beauty. He was simply ignorant to his feelings and attraction. He buried it deep within him, unwilling to acknowledge any of it. But, seeing you now, seeing the discomfort you were in, seeing you in such a needy state, he wanted to help. He took a cautious step forward, “Maybe I can help.”

You snapped your head up, staring wide eyed at him. “What?”

“I said maybe I can -“

You shook your head and backed yourself away from him until your back bumped into the wall. “No, no, what needs to happen is that you need to leave.” Swallowing down such desire, you closed your eyes and muttered, “Just go.”

“I’m not leaving.”

Fucking hell.

You shouted, “Just get the hell out of here!”

Miguel didn’t respond. Cracking open your eyes, his gaze bore directly into you. It was a searing gaze. Your knees nearly buckled under the intensity. He stepped closer.

“Please,” you whispered, practically begging. “I - I … just … just not like this, not because of my dumb mistake.”

He froze, and his eyebrows knitted together.

Your gaze dropped to the ground. You couldn’t - and wouldn’t - look at him.

He slowly continued to walk towards you. You forced down a whimper. Sandwiched between the wall and him, he gently grabbed your chin. You flinched and squeezed your eyes shut. It pained you immensely to fight so fiercely against your desires and needs. He tipped your chin up. “Look at me.”

You kept your eyes closed, and your face scrunched up.

“Por favor, cariño. Please, look at me.”

Your heart flipped at his unusually sweet tone. You opened up your eyes, and was immediately greeted by his strangely, endearing, rosy crimson eyes.

“Good,” he murmured.

Oh, fuck.

Biting down on your tongue, you forced down any noises that almost dared to crawl out. You dug your nails into your palms. You wouldn’t dare touch him because if you did you wouldn’t let go.

“If I didn’t care for you in this way, I wouldn’t be here. I would be back at HQ working on a cure, on some antidote.” His other hand reached out and rested on your hip. He drew you close, flushing you to his chest. “But, am I at HQ right now?”

You didn’t trust your voice. You simply shook your head, a small twitch.

“You’re right, I’m not. I’m right here asking - begging - to let me help you.” He bent his head down, brushing his lips over yours. “Please, I want to help … I’ve … I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Miguel.”

“Please.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I don’t … I don’t know what’ll do. I don’t know if I can control myself.”

He slowly pulled up the hem of your shirt. His hand skimmed across your lower back. He laughed once, “I can handle it. Please, let me help.”

His fingers lightly touched your skin. A groan rumbled in the back of your throat. “I don’t want you to think differently of me,” you whispered as your eyes dropped to his lips.

Your excuses were hollow now.

He moved his head, letting his lips brush over your neck. His hands snaked further up your back, and his talons gently scraped down. You moaned, arching your back into his touch. Your hands latched onto his biceps, squeezing them.

“My opinion of you won’t change,” he muttered into your neck. His leg slid between yours. Your swollen clit rubbed against his massive thigh.

“Fuck,” you hissed, clinging onto him.

“Just say yes, cariño.” He nuzzled his face into your neck. “I want to help.”

You cupped his face, looking directly into his eyes. His eyes were begging, pleading, for you. You brought him down, giving him a sweet, loving kiss. He hummed, wrapping his arms around you. However, you quickly broke the kiss before he could truly enjoy it.

Miguel didn’t understand. How would he know? He inadvertently poured gasoline over the already raging fire inside of you. Your eyes darkened. You pushed Miguel backwards until his knees hit the edge of the bed and he flopped backward. He held himself up on his forearms, stunned by your sudden change.

A smirk curled over your lips. A beast, one you had been holding back for more than a day, was finally unleashed. Locking eyes with him, you slowly stripped out of your shirt - your only article of clothing - letting it dramatically drop to the floor.

Miguel’s eyes greedily drank in your naked figure.

You crawled onto his lap, straddling him. You pushed him down so he laid flat against the bed. His hands instantly rested on your waist. You hovered over him, planting your hands on either side of his head.

He looked up at you with absolute adoration. He could not describe how thrilled he was right now.

You bent down, kissing him passionately. As you took the lead, you opened your mouth, deepening the kiss. Miguel hummed. He brought your hips down, making you grind down on him. You moaned into the kiss. Breaking apart, you muttered, “Fuck.”

You peppered kisses all over his face, and across his jaw. You desperately wanted to trail your lips all over him. It was such a ravenous feeling. You needed to mark him, to bite him, to taste him.

“Take the suit off,” you murmured, kissing the corner of his jaw.

He let out a pleased sigh. The digital suit retracted with a whirl of colors, revealing himself to you. You bit the inside of your cheek as you felt the tip of his cock brush against your inner thigh. Your lips brushed down his neck. He tilted his head, allowing you better access to do whatever you wished. Your heart soared. You slowly - teasingly so - kissed the crook of his neck. His grip on your hips tightened. Like a switch, you attacked his neck. Your teeth scraped across his sensitive skin. You nipped all along his neck needing to mark his skin. Oh, it excited you to know that these bruises would be under his suit tomorrow. Your tongue swirled over soothing any pains.

Miguel moaned.

What a beautiful sound.

Stopping your attack on his now blemished neck, your lips trailed further down his body. You kissed over his chest, occasionally biting his skin. Your eyes flickered up, seeing his head tilt back. You ran your teeth over his nipples. He groaned. You licked up his chest, tasting the saltiness of his sweat. You kissed up his jaw to his ear, and gently nibbled on his lope.

Miguel clenched his jaw. His heart flipped in his chest. He didn’t expect this, he didn’t expect to ever be here like this with you. He surely didn’t expect the control you quickly had over him.

And oh, he loved it.

Lifting yourself up, you teasingly rubbed his tip across your dripping folds. He groaned, almost whimpering.

“Fuck, Miguel,” you moaned.

At such a simple movement, you were seeing stars. You weren’t sure how long you would last. You wanted to draw this out longer, you wanted to have more fun with him, but you couldn’t.

You needed him. And you were nearly insatiable.

You slowly sank down on his cock. Miguel hissed. You placed your hands on his chest, panting. Miguel soothingly rubbed his thumbs over your hips. You moaned, feeling how he stretched and filled you. No one made you feel this full or good. As you bottomed out, you swore under your breath.

Miguel chuckled to himself.

But, his amusement was cut short when you started to move. Lust flooded back into his veins. He moaned out your name. His talons popped out and dug into your hips.

You set the pace, a nearly brutal but wondrous pace.

And Miguel thought you looked divine.

Your head tilted back to the heavens. Your lips parted as you whispered his name like a prayer. Your body arched like an angel soaring up, like a renaissance painting. Your hands traced up your hypnotic body, playing with your breasts. He wanted to draw you back down, he wanted to shower you in kisses, he wanted to flip you over and pound into you. But, this was all for you. You were the one who was affected by something strange, you were the one to take the lead. You rolled your head, glancing down at him. A soft smile tugged on your lips.

Oh, the way you looked at him, the way you bounced on his cock, the way your eyes softened with affection, he felt his heart was going to explode.

His cock twitched inside of you.

You hummed.

You rolled your hips, and he swore in Spanish. Smirking, you changed the pace. It was slow and easy - just to have your fun, no matter how short lived it might be - then flipped to hard and fast - desperate to reach your end. And your end was coming quickly.

You happily split yourself and continuously moaned out his name. “Miguel,” you moaned, dropping your hands back on his chest. “I - I won’t last much longer.”

Miguel felt your walls clench around you. He gritted his teeth, and moaned. “That’s okay, that’s okay,” he whispered.

He helped you, lifting your hips along with your movements. He slammed you back down right as he bucked his hips up, grinding you further onto him. You gasped and swore.

“Fuck, Miguel, keep doing that,” you whimpered.

He smirked, enjoying your sounds. Moving you faster, you pounded on his cock. Your nails scratched across his chest in red ribbons. The coil tightened and tightened in the pit of your stomach.

You whined.

Miguel wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and lose himself in the feeling of you. But, he also wanted to watch you come undone. So, he watched hungrily.

It was getting sloppy and erratic.

You closed your eyes. You dropped your head, tucking your chin to your chest. But, fingers gently guided your chin back up. “Eyes on me,” Miguel murmured. “Please, I want to see it.”

You melted into his touch, then he bucked his hips right as you went down. The coil snapped. Your walls clamped down around him as your orgasm crashed through you. You moaned out his name as you stared down at him with hooded eyes.

Miguel clenched his jaw. Oh, what a sight. His cock jumped.

Your movements, however, didn’t slow down. You wanted Miguel to cum, you wanted to feel it. You grabbed Miguel’s face and forced him to sit up. You kissed him heatedly as you still rode him. Miguel hummed. Your fingers threaded into his dark curls, and yanked on them.

He whined.

Your eyes sparkled. “Come on, Miguel. Cum for me.”

Miguel shivered. Your words, your body, it was so wondrous. He bucked his hips up, cumming inside of you.

Finally stopping your relentless movement, you dropped your head onto his shoulder. Both of you were gasping for air. Your eyes flickered down, seeing the mess you both created.

You shivered.

Miguel, however, surprised you. He flipped you over, landing you on your back. You gasped. Before you could do or say anything, Miguel dropped to his knees onto the floor, yanked your body down the bed, then nestled his face between your legs.

He devoured you like a starved man.

Your lips parted in a silent moan as your eyes rolled back. You arched your back, and tangled your fingers into his hair.

He wanted to taste you. God, he dreamt of this so many times. Although, he didn’t dare admit it out loud. He groaned. He lifted one of your legs, tossing it over his shoulder. His hands fiercely grabbed your thighs. His talons scraped along your inner thigh. He buried his face deeper. His nose brushed over your already sensitive clit and you cried out. He growled, the taste of you and him on his tongue was divine.

“Miguel,” you gasped.

He forcibly pulled himself away, panting. His chin and lips were covered in mixed juices. His eyes were lit with primal desires. He smirked, flashing his fangs. You scrambled up. You grabbed the back of his neck, smashing your lips to his. You easily slipped your tongue inside his mouth, swirling it around. You hummed in delight, tasting him and yourself.

You still wanted more.

Needed more.

The residual of whatever affected you still lingered.

You pulled away from him. Your combined hot breaths filled the minimal space between the two of you. With you still on the bed on your knees, you finally had some height over Miguel. You cupped his face, and tilted his chin up. His arms wrapped around your waist, pressing you into him. You smiled then brushed your thumb over his lip. Without hesitation, he parted his lips and you slipped your thumb into his mouth. His tongue ran over the pad of your thumb, and the tip of his fang grazed over it.

You shivered, causing him to smirk.

You removed your thumb. You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned down, kissing him sweetly again. It was a confession, and a thank you. He sighed into the kiss. You slowly parted, lingering for a second. It was so tender, despite the cum and saliva coating his chin and your lips. And your following words reminded Miguel how and why he got into this bizarre, surreal situation.

“I want you to fuck me from behind,” you whispered.

Miguel’s eyebrows shot up for a moment, then he chuckled. “Of course,” he purred. Whatever you wanted, he was happy to do. “Can you get on your hands and knees for me?”

You bit back a smile. Your fingers skimmed along his jaw as you backed away and got into position. Miguel watched, transfixed. His eyes trailed down. Seeing your soaking folds, he moaned softly. He can still taste you on his tongue. He licked his lips. Crawling onto the bed, he carefully grabbed your hips.

“You’re too good for me,” he confessed quietly.

You sighed under the simple praise.

He lined himself up, just teasing your entrance. You began to fist the sheets in anticipation. He leaned down. His broad chest pressed firmly into your back, and he whispered in your ear, “But now, let me be good for you.”

He easily pushed himself in.

You moaned unabashedly.

“That’s it, let me hear you,” he grunted.

This round was hot and fast. There wasn’t adoration or love this time, this was solely desires and sins. This was using each other’s bodies.

And Miguel was animalistic. God, it was utter bliss.

You grinded back, meeting his thrusts. You dropped down onto your forearms unable to support yourself fully. Your face buried into the sheets as you cried out. His cock was kissing spots you didn’t think was possible.

Miguel smiled, enjoying your muffled sounds and how you squirmed. His fingers reached around and began to play with your clit. You swore as your body shuddered. Your walls fluttered around him.

He rolled his head back at the sensation. It was as if you were made perfectly for him.

“Miguel,” you whined.

You wanted this so badly. You moved your hips feverishly in tune with his. Skin slapped together, wet noises echoed, and voices cried out. Miguel gasped. His talons buried into your hips, drawing out small specs of blood. He gritted his teeth, almost baring his fangs.

“Ay dios mío,” he grumbled.

Neither of you would last long.

You were begging under your breath. You needed it, you needed him. “Fuck, Miguel, please.”

“I know, I got you,” he groaned, pounding into you. “Let go, cum for me.”

You moaned.

With his fingers, his pace, and your already stimulated body, you came. You gushed around his cock, and slumped heavily into the bed. As your walls clamped down again, Miguel hissed as he spilled himself inside of you. He continued to gently rocked his hips as you both came back down to reality.

The air buzzed with the aftermath.

Your grip on the sheets loosened. You turned your head, glancing back at him: his chest covered in new bruises, his sweat covered forehead, and his fangs and talons were still out. You shivered at the sight. His eyes flickered over, connecting with yours. He gave you a tired smile. He bent down and kissed the spot between your shoulder blades.

You hummed softly.

Miguel rolled onto the bed. His arms wrapped around your waist as flushed your back to his chest. His now softened cock still buried inside.

“Better?” He murmured into your ear.

You nodded.

“Good,” he sighed. “Just … just stay like this with me, please.”

To be fair, you had no energy to argue or care. A day of exhaustion finally caught up to you. You relaxed into his embrace, enjoying the comfort as well as the fullness of him still inside of you. You placed a hand over top of his and intertwined your fingers with his. You squeezed his hand.

“Thank you,” you muttered.

He kissed your shoulder. “You’re welcome. Now rest, cariño, I got you.”

I always will, he thought as you drifted off in his arms completely satisfied.

#across the spiderverse #spiderverse #atsv #miguel spiderverse #miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o’hara smut #miguel o’hara x afab!reader #miguel x reader #miguel x afab!reader #afab!reader #smut

[qcomicsy]

Convos between civilians and vigilantes that I bet that happened Part ll

Gothamite: Honey why don't you come here so I can blow your mind?

Nightwing: You're very kind lady but I have to decline, I mean you're really pretty and nothing against your job but I don't usually pay for these stuff

Gothamite: For you baby I do it for free~

Nightwing:

Batman: Nightwing.

Nightwing: Alright, alright jesus.

---

Gothamite, squinting: Wasn't you who broke that tug arm that one time?

Robin (Tim), enjoying Damian is out town: It was my evil twin (lying)

---

Gothamite, who's also a stripper: You look like a guy who used to work here

Nightwing:

Red Hood (looking at him):

Red Hood: Nightwing–

Nightwing: So about the bodies found on Upper West Side–

---

Henchmen: Yo Bruce–

Henchmen: Bruce Wayne?

Henchmen: Man– he's hot!

Henchmen: Naah

Henchmen: C'mon you telling me you would't ride him until–

Henchmen: Naaaaah

Henchmen: It becomes a core memory.

Red Robin (on the top of the warehouse): I wonder if this fall will kill me.

Spoiler: I'll be right after you.

---

Robin (Damian): Don't be stupid that route will take forever

Red Robin: Not if we go around Fashion District.

Robin: Yeah, dumbass and it's a turn. We should go through Fashion District.

Red Robin: I'm sorry do you really want to throw Penguin's territory Right Now?

Robin: I always knew you were a fucking coward– Yes, obviously.

Gothamite: Not to interrupt or anything, but I'm still pretty much tied up right now.

Robin and Red Robin at the same time: Shut up

Gothamite: Okay–

---

Batman: Robin call the ambulance.

Gothamite: Please no I really don't have any money.

Batman:

Gothamite bleeding out on the Batmobile in his way to the Wayne Clinic: What does this button do.

Batman: You touch, you go walking.

Gothamite: Alright.

---

Gothamite: Ask the gay one–

Red Robin: The fuck you just said to me?

Gothamite:

Gothamite: I was talking about Nightwing

Red Robin:

Nightwing:

Nightwing really trying not to laugh: I don't even have the words for this one hold on.

The other gothamite immediately turning to Red Robin: You're GAY???

---

Nightwing doing his acrobatics on stores rooftop's:

Drag Queens from Bludhaven: Heeeeere he comes, *starts snapping their fingers in rhythm* work, work, work

Nightwing *goes along with it*:

---

The same Drag Queen later: Ever tried to add vogue to your crime fighting?

Dick, seriously considering:

---

Dick after implementing vogue in his crime fighting having the time of his life:

Red Robin: This is getting ridiculous I will have to kill you

Gothamite: Oh my god he's homophobic-

---

Gothamite: Do you think that Wayne kid is on Grindr?

Gothamite: Doesn't he have like a boyfriend?

Gothamite: Like that ever stopped you–

Gothamite: Stoooop~~

Red Robin unfortunately in a stake out:

Spoiler: Well are you?

Red Robin: Shut up

Spoiler: I mean it wouldn't be the first time you–

#batfamily shenaningans #Nightwing #Red Robin #Spoiler #Robin #Batman #yes I did open Gotham map in my notebook just for that joke thank you very much

[lokischocolatefountain]

Holdout || Fraternize

Congressman!Javier Peña AU

Fandom: Narcos

Pairing: Javier Peña x Reader

Rating: 18+

Warnings: smut, fingering, arguments, period typical misogyny, American politics, inappropriate workplace behavior, office sex, kinda fem!dom, discussions of healthcare policy, inaccuracies regarding American politics

Word count: 4.5k

Summary: Sometimes it was better to talk face to face than to send his lackeys to speak for him. And who knows? Maybe he’ll get a sweet deal out of it. If nothing else, she was at least a good time.

A/N: I know Javi has nothing but disdain for politics and politicians. He would’ve pushed those DC guys out of the helicopter in season 3 if they’d asked more stupid questions. But it’s the same season 3 Javi who put in all those suits and ties and combed his hair neatly and walked around looking like a WHORE. So it’s actually his fault that I’m writing him as a politician. As usual, give your girl some comments and reblogs 🥹🥹🥹

Tagging: @art-estrange

“How many holdouts, Donna?”

“Thirteen.”

“Fuck,” he whispered, knowing instantly from the number which faction of congresspeople had refused to agree to vote for the bill. He also knew who the ringleader of this group of thirteen was. Without her approval, the other twelve wouldn’t even breathe let alone vote yes. An abstinence, maybe. But a yes? Impossible. She was also one of the few who could reach across the aisle to get them the votes he and Murphy needed to pass the bill in Congress.

“What exactly does she want?”

“Bunch of stuff,” said Donna, flipping open the binder that contained the draft of the Child Health Assistance Program bill. From his seat, Javier could see the color coded remarks that decorated the pages. Only when it went to her office did it come back with the fucking rainbow splattered in the pages. When he was a freshman to congress, the outgoing congressman from his district had warned him about her.

Difficult. Nerdy. Pretentious. A fucking bitch. An absolute cunt.

He would never say the last two things about her, of course. If he so much as thought them, his mama would fly to DC and slap him.

“The premium increase on Medicaid for one. She thinks it’s too much. Did some math on the side, too,” she said, unfolding a sticky note that contained some scribbled out numbers. “She accounted for the average household income nationally and in her district and adjusted for projected inflation and arrived at an increase by 3% on the financial burden on families. She made a calculation for our district, too. And by Stoddard’s calculations, her estimate is accurate.”

“Right, right,” he said, taking a puff of his cigarette and blowing the smoke out towards the open window. “Has anyone told her that healthcare expenses have increased and we cannot afford to keep the Part B premiums at forty four fucking dollars?”

His staffer simply shrugged before beginning to explain all the other demands the congresswoman from West Virginia had. By the time they were through with the major issues, it was time for lunch.

“Try to get Barrett and Kilpatrick on board,” he said, getting up from his seat at the head of the table. He heard her grumble, but didn’t take it too personally. It would be easier to move a boulder up a hill than to convince anyone in the congresswoman’s faction to vote for something she didn’t vote for. He pressed the stub harder into his glass ashtray, his anger towards her manifesting in the present she got him.

“Yes, sir,” she said, marking the page they’d last discussed. His staffers shuffled out of their seats and out of the office, leaving him with just Donna.

“I hear she’s back in the building. Returned from her district last night. Maybe you can convince her?” She said expectantly. Out of all the people in his office, she was the only one who knew that he had a shot. No matter how narrow the possibilities. Fair’s fair, he thought. Since he tasked her with talking to Kilpatrick and Barrett.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “No harm in trying.” He would’ve laughed had someone else said that. There definitely was harm in trying. His sanity was at stake. He had a hard enough time just seeing her at the committee meetings. But if he couldn’t get members of his own party on board, he could bid goodbye to the dream of passing the bill.

He picked up the binder and sped through the hallways to her office, anxious she might leave for lunch. She usually didn’t, but made exceptions for when she met with her campaign team. Something about it being unethical to do campaign business in facilities paid for by the taxpayer. And illegal. Like him, she was a workaholic. If she wasn’t in her office, she was in her congressional district.

He stopped outside the double doors to her office, American flags on either side and a nameplate with her name and state written in gold. Right as he rose his fist to knock for courtesy’s sake, the door opened and a lanky young boy stepped out of her office, sandwich in hand. Intern.

“Is the congresswoman in?” He asked, making the boy jump back in surprise.

“Uhh…” the boy trailed, looking back at the door with wide eyes. So she was in. And the kid didn’t know whether he was one of the people to whom he should lie about his boss’ availability.

“She’s…busy?”

Javi snorted before putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder and gently nudging him away from the door. “Enjoy lunch, kid,” he said before slipping into her office. The boy said something in an effort to stop him, but the door thankfully muffled the sounds. He kicked the door with the deadbolt, eager to not get caught. Nothing interesting ever happened in congress. So the first wisp of smoke would be enough for gossips to start a fire. He walked past the front office with the plush couches for guests and right into the inside where the magic happened.

Sure enough, he found her hunched over her desk, punching numbers into a calculator with her left hand as her right scribbled them out on her notebook. The black high heeled shoes she wore pushed her ass out invitingly. His eyes trailed up the shoes, following the black lines of her stockings. He took a deep breath and turned away, his eyes landing on one of her staffers’ desks.

A carton box with sandwiches from the nearby cafeteria sat open, mostly empty but for three sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil. He wasn’t planning on lunch, but he wouldn’t decline after seeing some perfectly good sandwiches laid out in front of him.

“Get your own, Peña,” came a cold, stern voice right as he touched one.

“I would, but you owe me sustenance for making me read through all your notes. I need more nutrients to keep up with your shit,” he said, unwrapping the foil. He took a bite, nodding appreciatively as the well seasoned meat and garlic mayonnaise touched his tongue.

She put her pen down and turned around to finally face him. She looked well put together as she always did. A navy blue pinstriped skirt that clung to her beautifully, matching the jacket draped over her chair. Her white blouse was tucked in, her hair up in a neat bun to show off her pearl earrings. She placed a hand on her hip, crossed one leg in front of the other and narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s not my fault that your diet of whiskey and cigarettes doesn’t nourish you enough to read some notes on your poorly drafted bill.”

“It’s called a draft for a reason, Glitter,” he scoffed, his lips curving up in a smirk as he used her nickname against her. He knew she hated it. He wasn’t even in congress for the origin of the nickname, but it took only days for him to learn that the Congresswoman from West Virginia had “accidentally” used a glitter pen to write notes on the final draft of a bill. Sure she changed the pen after she realized. Only one word was in the imbecilic ink, but the name stuck.

“I forgot that your standards are low.” She rolled her eyes and folded her arms over her chest. “What do you want now, Peña? Is it just the sandwich? I knew you had a tight budget over in the 23rd district of Texas, but I didn’t know the situation was so dire even the congressman had to mooch off someone else.”

“I already paid for it. With my soul.” He took another bite of the sandwich, unaffected by her jabs. As he chewed on his free lunch, he slapped a hand on the binder he abandoned on a staffer’s desk.

“We need to discuss your ridiculous demands.”

“I don’t see how asking to restore coverage for disabled children counts as ridiculous.” She leaned back against her desk and placed her palms flat against the surface. “Unless you hate children. Disabled children.”

“You’ve been in D.C. too long,” he said, annoyed by her spin. “And it’s not like I slashed the funding for disabled kids. They did. Don’t fight me for shit I didn’t do. And it’s not like they would’ve changed their minds by now. None of them have grown a conscience all of a sudden. They’ll just laugh us out of their office.”

“Peña, are you proposing the child health program for the children or the fucking pricks in the House who think it’s a waste of money to invest in healthcare?”

“To invest in healthcare, we need to get the bill passed. Would you rather get some coverage for kids or none?”

“Obviously, I would like some. But some or none aren’t the only options. If you’re going to cut out necessary things preemptively, we’ll get even less than what we need by the time we’re done negotiating with them.”

He darted his tongue out, licking his lips as he considered her words. They did not differ much ideologically. He too was an idealist like her. The people of his district voted him in for his ideals, for his promises. But D.C. had a way of making cynics out of optimists. It was easier for her to remain an idealist. There was no real threat to her seat.

“We don’t have an unlimited budget. It’s going to be a pain in the fucking ass trying to get this through. I put the shit you’re asking for and we can forget getting any coverage. Just like your demand to expand benefits for low income folks. If we do what you’re suggesting, it’ll be an expenditure of 3 Billion dollars over five years instead of the 1.5 billion we have available.”

She sighed and leapt up, sitting herself down on her desk. “Listen, Peña. I know you’re holding on to your seat by a thread because your margin of victory was thinner than said thread. You need to schmooze the conservatives back in Webb County. But I refuse to pay with the health of my people so you can keep your job.”

He fist clenched at the accusation and he let out a grunt. “Easy for you to say. Your district would vote for a fucking donkey if it had our party’s name slapped on it.”

It wasn’t so easy for him. Every move he made was like walking a tightrope between doing the right thing and what his constituents thought politically correct. One wrong move and they’d be out there on CNN calling him a fucking commie. Not that it bothered him. It just wasn’t good optics.

She held her pen up like it was a sword, like a threat. “They’ve tried to primary me multiple times, asshole. Never worked. I do the work and people vote me in for it.

“Listen. You wanna talk shit or actually work on this thing so we can get it passed?”

“I did my part, Peña. Thought you read through it since you’re claiming to be so exhausted.”

“It’s not gonna work sending it back and forth. Never does. We need to sit together and sort it out.”

“Right…” she drawled, her pink painted lips curling up in a smirk and her eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint. He huffed, knowing immediately what she was smirking about. He licked his lips and let himself think of what they did the last time they decided they would sit together and ‘sort it out’.

“You know I didn’t mean that,” he said, the words tasting bitter on his lips. He didn’t mean that. But he would never refuse an opportunity to do it again.

“Oh?” She teased, an eyebrow raised.

A carefully manicured fingernail dazzled under the light as she used her pointer finger to beckon him forward. He stepped towards her, his feet moving automatically like his cock remembered how he would be rewarded if he complied with her. Eyes connected to hers, he imagined what she looked like under her suit. If he would be able to catch even a glimpse of her body this time. If he would have to reach under her skirt, rip her stockings and push her panties aside to fuck her.

He loved knocking the smirk off her lips the last time, just the sight of her pliant against his chest giving him all the satisfaction he needed even before he came. She wasn’t arguing then. Just sweet little whimpers as she clutched onto his shirt and begged for release.

Just as he could deal with the smirk by reaching her and capturing her lips in a kiss, she lifted her high heel clad foot and placed it on his pants. Over his fucking cock to be exact. He raised his eyebrows at her, confused by her move. She put a gentle pressure on his cock with her foot, making him swallow.

“The fuck are you playing at, Glitter?”

“Nothing,” she drawled in a low, seductive voice. “Just testing if you have a foot thing.”

He huffed and rolled his eyes. “I don’t fucking have a foot thing.”

“Yeah? Must be an ass thing then,” she said, lifting her leg higher and caressing his face with the top of her shoes. “Maybe it’s a shoe thing…” His breaths got quicker and his heart beat faster, his body enticed by her daring when she was usually quite conservative and no-nonsense. “You didn’t want me to take my shoes off last time. It was fucking uncomfortable. I know you like how my ass looks when I wear these.”

She trailed the pointy end of the heel down his neck, just barely touching his skin, driving him mad with want for more. The hairs on his body stood to attention and his cock twitched in his pants. She hooked the heel under his tie and pulled. When it budged only a little, he tugged on it himself, taking the thing off completely and stuffing it into his pocket.

Before she could retreat, he caught her leg. Hand wrapped around her ankle he placed a kiss above the strap of her shoes. He looked up at her, relishing in watching her confidence chip away bit by bit as he left a trail of kisses up her leg. A silent gasp left her lips as he stopped at the edge of her desk and put her leg over his shoulder.

“You up for a meeting? To discuss,” he said, tilting her head up with a finger to her chin.

A soft smile played on her lips as she said, “We’ll see…”

“Yeah? What exactly do I have to do to get you in my office, Congresswoman?”

“Convince me. Give me something I’d want.”

“Everything’s a quid pro quo to you, isn’t it?”

“Such is politics, Peña.”

“If you say so,” he said, leaning close and kissing her neck right above the collar of her blouse. He felt her swallow, making him smile against her neck. The perfume he knew she spritzed on her neck seduced his senses and he licked her skin in a quest for his other senses to experience her delicious scent.

“Javier… Someone could come in at any time.”

Javier… It was always Peña for her. Except when they fucked. Then it was Javier, Javier, oh fuck please, harder! Once she fixed herself post fuck, it was back to Peña with a tinge of disdain. Like some crude separation of church and state.

“Everyone else knocks. I’m the only one who drops by without announcing myself,” he spoke into her skin, his voice a low drawl. “And I locked the door. Because I know you can’t resist me.” She snorted, but relaxed beneath his touch. Her hand came up to his hair, touching him oh so lightly in a way that she wouldn’t mess it up too much.

“Fucking caveman,” she chided, her voice too warm for him to believe she opposed his behavior. He trailed a hand up her skirt, stopping where her thighs met. He cupped her pussy, his eyes fixed on her face to read signs of displeasure.

“Congresswoman, I just kissed up your leg like you’re a delicate fucking princess. A caveman would rip your clothes up, hold you down and fuck you hard,” he said, feeling proud of himself when he felt her pussy react to it under his hand.

“Guess you have a caveman thing,” he mocked, leaving her no time to respond before grabbing her stockings and ripping it in his hand. She shrieked and grabbed on to his shoulders to steady herself.

“That’s the second pair you’ve ruined, asshole.”

“I wouldn’t have to ruin your stockings if you just took your clothes off and bent over the desk.”

“Oh fuck you,” she laughed, letting out a little whimper when he pushed her panties aside and found her clit.

“I will, Congresswoman,” he said in a soft voice as he rolled her nub under his thumb. Her hand traversed his back, feeling the fabric of his suit and making him wish they had the time and privacy for him to take his clothes off. Feel her bare hand on his back and let her leave scratches as he took his time to get her across the finish line.

“You address everyone by their designation when you fuck them, Javier?” She rocked up against him, her chest flush against his as she searched for her pleasure under his thumb.

It felt so fucking good though she wasn’t doing anything to him, to have his mouthy, disagreeable colleague in the palm of his hand. To play her like an instrument. Have her spinning in her head for a second longer before her snarky retorts left her lips.

“No, just the infuriating, fuckable Congresswomen,” he joked, getting a shove to his chest. He didn’t budge, having prepared himself for the attack since he anticipated it.

“You tease all the men you fuck in your office with your shoe?”

“No, only the ugly ones,” she said, laughing. He smiled, happy with her giving it to him as good as she got. They were close, so close he could feel her warm breath against his skin.

“Asshole,” he whispered against her lips before closing the gap between them. She looped one arm around his neck and allowed her other hand to play with his suit lapel. Her lips were soft, contrasting the sharp words they often spoke to him. A sense of calm settled in his chest as she slipped her hand under his jacket. He felt her hand now, caressing him up and down, making him long to know what she would feel like against his skin.

Spurred by the thought, his hand rubbed her more enthusiastically. She whimpered into the kiss and he took the chance to slip his tongue between her lips. Her hand traveled up his shirt and clutched his collar, her thumb slipping under his shirt and touching his neck. He moaned and quickly felt her smirk against his lips.

Unwilling to give her the upper hand, he grabbed her panties and tugged, making the frail fabric rip in his hand.

“What the fuck, Javier!?”

“Shh…”

Unobstructed by her panties, he was free to let his hand do two things at once. He parted her pussy lips and pushed a finger inside her, her warm wetness inviting him in easily. He added another finger and coated himself in her slick.

She gasped as he returned his thumb to her clit, making him smile smugly. He pulled away so she could see him. So she could see the power he wielded over her.

“You’re much nicer like this, Congresswoman.”

“And you are more of a dickhead somehow,” she said, grabbing his cock through his pants. When she began stroking his length, he drew a sharp breath.

“Why wouldn’t I? You get wetter when I’m a dick to you. You get like this when we’re talking business too?”

“Of course not, assface.” She gritted her teeth and grabbed him harder, making him grunt.

“Maybe I should check the next time we’re yelling at each other in the middle of the hallway. Reach under your skirt and find your wet panties.”

Her grip on him got harder and her eyes narrowed at him, but her pussy clenched around his fingers. “See, you like it.”

“You’ll see what I like and don’t like when I break your little prick, Peña.”

“Thought I was Javier when I’m fucking you.”

“You thought wrong,” she said, squeezing his cock again.

He yelped, the pressure getting too much even through his pants.

“Fuck!”

“Yeah. Fuck,” she snarked, releasing him only to snake around to his behind and grab a cheek.

“Get it done quick. Unlike you, I have things to do after this.”

“Oh yeah? Maybe I should go now. Can’t keep the Congresswoman from doing the best for her constituents,” he mocked, pulling away from her.

She wrapped her legs around him and pulled him back, trapping him in place with them. “Finish the fucking job,” she spoke, a serious expression overtaking her features.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he said, keeping up the pace of his thrust. He found her neck with his lips, placing sweet kisses on her skin. So close to her, he could feel the effect of every touch, every kiss. He locked the responses in his mind, ready to use the information for the next time he found himself with his hand up her skirt.

“The other side, Javier…” she breathed her command and he followed, eliciting a moan from her.

“Just like that… Keep going.” She thrusted back into his fingers, taking her pleasure from him eagerly. Every now and then, she issued a new command. When he obeyed, she rewarded him with sweet sounds of her pleasure.

As he brought her closer, she gripped his fingers tighter. Her eyes glazed over and she stopped giving instructions, only enjoying the fruits of his compliance with her earlier ones. She leaned against his shoulder, placing some of her weight on him. Being the sucker he was for beautiful women in the throes of pleasure, he placed a kiss on her head and cradled the back of her neck with his free hand.

“Come on, come for me…” he said softly when he felt her at the edge of the precipice.

“F-fucking make me, fucker,” she cursed, mewling when he changed the angle of his fingers to add a twist to his touches.

“Will you give me a meeting in exchange then? We could work it over together…” he negotiated with no shame whatsoever. It was a shameless business, politics.

She opened and closed her mouth several times, unable to let out anything other than a breath as he assaulted her senses mercilessly. She shook her head in denial, making him smile at her defiance.

She panted as he wore her out, her chest heaving and her eyes rolled back. The hand gripping his lapel grew weak and she went limp against him. With a low moan, she came around his fingers and collapsed against him. He kept his fingers inside her, not having the heart to kiss out on how her pussy spasmed around them as she recovered from the high he brought her.

She lifted her head off his chest and dropped her legs, freeing him from her prison.

“You’re not getting a meeting in exchange for fingering me, Peña.”

“What does a man have to do then? Fuck you in the ass? Cause I’ll do it,” he said, laughing when she shoved at his chest weakly. He pulled out finally and took a step back before grabbing his handkerchief and wiping his fingers clean of her release. She hopped off her desk and pulled out her handkerchief from her purse. She unfolded the white cloth embroidered with flowers and leaves and dipped a corner in her glass of water.

He raised an eyebrow at her when she turned back around to offer it to him.

“You have lipstick on your face.”

“Ah.”

“Where?” He asked, accepting the cloth from her.

“Right there. On your neck,” she said, pointing vaguely at his neck. He swiped where he guessed the lipstick mark was and looked up at her, asking silently if he got it.

She shook her head and reached back into her purse. She offered him a black circular box- a makeup thing he knew had a mirror in it.

“Thanks,” he said and pried it open.

“Who are you expecting to vote for this from the other side?” She asked as she adjusted her clothes and reapplied her lipstick. He wiped off the traces of her from his neck and lips. He closed the box, careful not to spill the powder inside.

“Hayworth, Calvert, Cunningham, Doolittle. Rohrabacher would do it, but it’ll require a lot of negotiation. Chenoweth would find the bill agreeable, but it’s unlikely that she’ll vote for it,” he said, a little disappointed that she was talking business even though that was why he came over.

“Yeah. She has a poor record on bipartisanship. Is Evans on board? Cause he’s pretty close to Porter and he can convince him to come aboard.”

“I think he will. Stoddard is talking to Evans’ people and it seems he’s content.”

“Alright,” she said, nodding. “I don’t have time for this shit, but it needs to be done. Surely your buddy on the other side can convince a lot more people to sign on. If he isn’t confident, there’s no point in us discussing this further.”

“Murphy’s got a list. He’s still in talks with them.”

“He’s still in talks? Motherfucker, why did you waste my time then? Could’ve waited for his chipped down draft before you sent a copy to my office.”

Because as much as I fucking hate you, I respect your intelligence. I respect that DC’s cynicism hasn’t turned you away from your ideologies.

But that wasn’t what he said. That wasn’t how this partnership worked. Political alliance didn’t equal friendship. Hell, Murphy wasn’t his political ally. He was on the other side. Yet they were friends.

“Mhmm. I had it sent to you so early on ‘cause I know you’re the hardest to please.”

“Well,” she said, mischief playing at the corners of her lips. She walked behind her desk and sat back down. “You pleased me okay today. I could do without all the yapping building up to the act, though. Really sucks the fun out of it, hearing your stupid voice.”

“Asshole,” he mumbled, as he pocketed her handkerchief and retrieved his tie. She laughed, the sound eliciting a smile from him. He pressed his lips into a thin line as he busied himself tying his tie, loath to have her see him enjoy something so trivial.

“I’ll see you at the committee meeting then,” he said when he got his tie back on.

“Yeah, see you there to watch them slash programs so they can give tax cuts to their buddies.”

He snorted, agreeing with her. It drained him to sit in on the budget committee meetings. It was a high honor when he got assigned to such an important committee. Felt like a pat on the back for his hard work. Until he had to do the hard work of arguing against the fucking worst suggestions futilely. Nothing fucking mattered when they didn’t have majority. Yet, he argued. So did she.

“Pass me a sandwich on your way out, Peña.”

He picked one of the two remaining sandwiches. “Here you go,” he said, making a throwing motion without tossing it. She reacted, throwing her hands up in the air to catch a sandwich that never came.

“Asshole,” she cursed, picking up her paperweight. Before she could throw it at him, he skipped away, another free sandwich in hand. As he closed the door to her office, he could’ve sworn he heard her giggle.

.

.

.

Main Masterlist

Guys, I’m so excited about how fun this could be. Javi in his suits. Angry Javi. Javi taking his tie off like in that one Narcos episode from season 3. Javi and reader having clandestine meetings under the guise of work. Maybe a sex scandal? Who know… Let me know what you think of Congressman!Javi and Congresswoman!Reader.

#javier peña x reader #javier peña fic #javier peña #javier peña x y/n #javier peña x you #javier peña x ofc #javier peña fanfic #javier peña fanfiction #javier peña smut #narcos fanfiction #narcos fic #narcos smut #javier pena fanfiction #javier pena fic #javier pena x reader #javier pena x you #javier pena smut #javier peña imagine #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character fanfic #all that i've inflicted on the world

[hellishjoel]

seven days, six nights

5.6k / pairing: joel miller x f!reader

← masterlist

summary: You get jumped in the QZ after a deal gone south and hide yourself from Joel to keep him safe. After eventually finding you and learning the truth behind your injuries, he heals you and promises revenge. 

warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), post-outbreak Joel, living in the Boston QZ, somewhat established relationship, mentions of falling ill, mentions of hunger/starvation, mentions of weapons, mentions of sleeplessness, descriptions of a fight/brief assault, descriptions of bodily injury, talking about medical shit (and I ain't no doctor, I used google, don't sue me) thoughts and descriptions of murder (… isn’t he just so dreamy?), angst, light fluff at the end, half-ass edited (apologies in advance)

A/N: So happy to practice some post-outbreak writing! Enjoy this angsty one shot (inspired by this lovely ask!) that I fuckin loved writing. Dedicating this to @macfrog, as I pictured this entire plot with pixel Joel. 

“Joel, I’m so sorry, I lost you the battery-” “Someone stole it from you.” He corrects, shaking his head as a sinking feeling washes over you. Your eyelashes flutter as you feel a droplet of water land on your nose. You glance up at the sky, seeing the clear summer day has turned into dark clouds overhead threatening to flood the city in rain. Joel doesn’t look up, he stays watching you. You can’t seem to meet his eye contact. “But the battery-” “Don’t care about the battery right now, care about you.” 

Joel doesn’t know where you’ve been. You haven’t returned to his apartment in the QZ for days. He keeps track. Every time the sun rises and shines blistering beams of light into the quiet apartment until the moon replaces it and casts light silver streaks between the torn-up pieces of newspaper taped to the windows. Another day gone.

You had a routine. Make the smaller drops or pickups on your own, return to Joel, and report back to him with anything you think he might find useful or interesting. Five days ago, he sent you off to negotiate a truck battery with that West End District piece of shit, Robert. He shouldn’t have let you go alone. Fucking smugglers, you couldn’t trust any of them. Hell, Joel was even surprised you trusted him at first. He regretted not insisting on being by your side, even if it was just as your personal attack dog to keep Robert  on his toes. 

Despite Boston being one of the more “well-managed” QZs to still exist, the black market that emerged from it was just as strong. That’s where Joel came in. He figured if he could smuggle himself into one of the most protected quarantine zones in the country, he could smuggle just about anything else. 

Drugs, weapons, ammunition, illegally forged paperwork, counterfeit ration cards, you name it, and Joel could work it in or out of the city.  Joel’s reputation was usually enough to keep you both out of imminent danger as he became popular with not only the inhabitants of the QZ, but also with fellow smugglers. You all needed each other to stay alive, in one way or another. 

Don’t be mistaken; the Boston QZ wasn’t perfect. It went through its fair share of scares. Food sources dwindled occasionally, leaving people angry, starving, and rebellious. Fireflies were a constant nag on depleting military resources. The fighting never truly stopped. This partially made Joel’s life easier. When times got tough, people searched for Joel to procure particular goods to help keep them afloat or, more importantly, alive. 

That’s the problem Joel ran into after spending a night in FEDRA lock up. He was the one in need of supplies. 

Joel was sick. Not infected sick, not cordyceps sick, some kind of infection he got from poor sanitation in the lock-up that attacked its way through an open wound Joel had gotten. He didn’t know if it was from work duty or from the recent street attacks, hence his stay in the FEDRA lockup. No matter where he got it from, an infection in the bloodstream wasn’t easily curable. 

The doctors, what very few the QZ had, were scarcely treating the sick due to a lack of supplies. And Joel was only getting worse. 

He was fighting a high fever, his breathing was fucked, as was his heart rate. Only a few days into his symptoms, he was crashing. He was damn near on the devil’s doorstep. He wasn’t made for heaven’s gates. 

Joel didn’t have friends in the QZ, but there were certain high-powered people who needed items smuggled, too. And the guards paid him well to keep his mouth shut about what he saw going in and out of those gates after curfew. That’s why when one of his more popular clients heard Joel was an inch from  death, they sent you. 

You burst through his apartment, the door nearly flying off its hinges as you fled to his bedside. He pushed you away with what little strength he had at first, the infection was making him lose his damn mind. His skin was scarlet red, and he was clammy with sweat. He didn’t know you, you didn’t know him. But you weren’t going to let him die. 

“Joel, I’m here to help you, hold still.” 

Then you started your search, tearing Joel’s clothes off one by one until you found the sizeable cut on his upper bicep near his shoulder, a huge scrape from a metal blade that had gotten infected. The man had tons of scars, all in varying sizes, shapes, and places on his body. You didn’t know his past, but his body told his story. He was a fighter. 

Your fear was how far into sepsis Joel was. Any further or even just a few hours later, you might have witnessed his organs begin shutting down. 

Despite his hazy state, Joel was struck by your amount of supplies. You weren’t a Boston QZ doctor, he would remember a face like yours. It took a smuggler to know a smuggler, and you dealt in medical supplies. 

Joel passed out not long after you got there. You caught him up in the morning, you never left his side. You monitored him, kept checking his vitals, pumped him with water, shoved antibiotics down his throat, cleaned his wound before it could fester anymore, and tried to regulate his body temperature. This could have been a lot worse. It should have been a lot worse. 

This was your first time experiencing Joel Miller’s tenacious stubbornness. He wouldn’t fucking die, not last night, and not today. 

A few weeks later, with Joel improving, he picked up on you around town. The way you blended in with just about everyone else. Not much slipped past Joel these days with his eyes like that of an eagle. But you slipped right through his fingers, didn’t even know you existed,  despite running the same territory. 

That’s when he decided he wanted someone like you on his team. Not just for your medical skills, but the type of supplies you ran was in high demand. You never did tell him where you got it, or how it was funded, all he had to know was that you were in. And you have been in ever since. 

Joel introduced you to heavier smuggling, like weapons and bundles of cash. Even people for the right price. He taught you how to make fake documents of verification and how to forge other paperwork. This was a lot bigger compared to your clean syringes and medicine. 

You learned a lot from each other. You taught Joel patience, and to thank you for saving his life, he taught you how to orgasm in less than five minutes. 

The relationship you shared, if you could even call it that, wasn’t strictly a romantic one. Both of you were too guarded for something like that. But also, life was too short and unpredictable right now not to crave pleasure to erase the pain from the past. 

It was hard to admit, considering how independent you’ve grown since being accepted into the Boston QZ, but you were thinking about Joel in ways far beyond a slightly romantic relationship. He had protected you and cared for you in the Joel sort of way that’s hard to read but you know exists. 

Joel worked extra hours to hand you off extra ration cards, shaking his head and not looking at you when he said it was no big deal, just take’em. Or when he didn’t want you to stay in spare housing, he offered to let you live with him in his nicer, non-shared apartment. It was a small slice of heaven in this fucked up world. You liked him, hell, maybe it was more than like. 

That’s why when you got jumped by Robert’s guys on the way back to Joel’s with the truck battery, they damn near killed you. They left you passed out in the alley. Robbed you of your ration cards, stole back the battery, smashed your head so hard into the brick wall you had passed out. All you wanted to do when you came to was crawl to Joel. So you did. You were outside his door, beaten and bruised, about to knock. Then you just stood there and spiraled. 

You listened from the other side of Joel’s door to the floorboards creaking as he paced the old wooden beams. You were late and left him worried. He was waiting for you to come home. 

The thought made your stomach twist. You looked like shit. You knew what Joel was capable of. One look at your bruised and bloodied face would send him flying down the street with a rifle in his hands and a pistol shoved in the back of his jeans.  You couldn’t bear the thought of him getting hurt in a war with Robert. 

Joel was smart, a hell of a lot smarter than Robert, but their smuggling operations varied greatly. Robert was an arms dealer, with henchmen all around the QZ. Joel only worked with a handful of people, he kept his circle small. If Joel went after Robert, you were more likely to find him dead in the street than anything else. And you couldn’t do that to Joel, not after all he’s done for you. 

If Joel saw you hurt, he would kill Robert. He’d kill anyone that laid a finger on you. No one touches what’s Joel’s. Not merchandise, not weapons, not the pills he smuggles in and out of the QZ, and certainly not you. 

So you tiptoe back down the stairs and run to the spare housing blocks just before the curfew alarm sounds. What Joel doesn’t know won’t get him killed. 

---

Joel stands in line during the heat of summer, ration cards stuffed in his back pocket as he waits with others in the queue for a tray and some food. The dining hall was packed, and by the looks of other people’s trays, the food was low again. All he can think about is how he worked extra shifts all last week to get more ration cards for both of you. Without these cards, you were going hungry. You were supposed to be by his side, where were you? 

By day six, Joel was restless. He didn’t realize how accustomed he had grown to having you in bed beside him. All he could picture during his sleepless nights was his body spooned in behind yours, the heavy weight of his arm curled around your waist, being able to sense even the tiniest of movements. You’d push off his arm in the middle of the night, telling him that you just needed to use the bathroom or get some water. 

It wasn’t always like that, though. Sometimes, you have nightmares. Ones that left you shooting up straight in the middle of the night, gasping for breath, crawling backward in bed like something or someone was chasing you. Joel didn’t know everything about your past and vice versa, but he knew wherever you came from before Boston was a different form of hell. He would hold you in his arms, console you, wipe your hot tears, lay your head on the warmth of his chest, and tell you to level out your breathing by listening to the beat of his heart. He held you in his arms until you eventually fell back asleep. Most of the time, you’d wake up and wouldn’t remember a thing. 

What if nothing was wrong with you, and you just realized you didn’t want to be with someone as broken and battered as Joel? He didn’t make being in his company easy. He gave you a lot of shit, pushed you to the limits, told you on more than a handful of occasions he just wanted to be left alone. You’d ask about his daughter, the one he sparsely spoke about, and he’d bark at you until you regretted even thinking about her. He didn’t make things easy on you, but Joel did care about you. Even if he was shit at showing it. 

He pushed you away, maybe you took the hint and left him. 

On day seven, he started asking around about you, something he saved as a last resort. The less you two were seen together, the better. You had him worried sick, and he was damn near ready to raid Robert’s warehouse to see if he had taken you, made you his girl against your will.  

That was until he caught a glimpse of you going past the market. It didn’t take much, he recognized your figure and trailed you with his eyes.  You were walking towards spare housing, with a heavy backpack and a sweatshirt on. Your arms were wrapped securely around you, and your head was down. 

He navigated through the crowds, jaw tight, putting down heavy steps on the broken gravel road as he pushed people out of his way with a guided hand on their shoulder. He followed you out of the crowd and down the street lined with stone barricades and rubble from a recent building that was raided by patrol on the hunt for Fireflies. You turned sharply down an alleyway, and Joel followed you, needing to see if you were okay, looking for answers. 

As soon as Joel took the alley, he was attacked and harshly shoved backward, his shoulder blades smacking the red brick wall behind him. A small switchblade was then shoved against the protruding vein in his neck, heated puffs of breath leaving him. He initially panicked in the moment, his hand tightening around the wrist that held him there.

“Why the hell are you following me?” You bark at him, head still lowered. Joel’s eyes narrow at the sound of your voice. 

He speaks your name.

Your strength relaxes, and you lift your head up to see you had pinned Joel. Shit, you thought one of Robert’s men was following you from town. You let out an exhausted breath of relief. 

“You’re really holdin’ me up with the knife I gave you?” Joel asks. He smacks the back of your hand, reflexes making your fist open up and lose the grip on your switchblade. Joel snags it with his free hand and glares at you. He takes the opportunity to shove your forearm off his chest, the one that was pinning him against the wall, and sending you a few paces back from the force he exerts. He hesitates but folds the blade back into the handle, and offers it back to you.

You let out a sigh of relief to see that it was just Joel. But this was still a problem. 

You retrieve the switchblade you accidentally surrendered to him and stuff it into your sweatshirt pocket. You cross your arms and look away to the entrance of the alley. “What the hell are you doing following me, Joel?”

He lets out a scoff through his nose and shoots daggers out of his eyes that you won’t meet. “What the hell am I doin’? Where the hell have you been?” He tries not to bark so loud. You won’t stop staring at the entrance of the alley, and Joel’s not sure if you’re thinking about running or thinking about being ambushed. 

He grabs your arm and drags you further into the alley, sunset on the horizon. He brings you to the back of an old school that was ready to collapse. He pushes you back against the wall and stands close, too close. 

“Answer me, what the hell happened to you?” His voice shoots goosebumps across your skin, low and growling for answers. 

The grip he has on your arm tightens and washes a flood of heat over your injured arm. Your mouth hisses with hurt, trying to breathe through the pain. You shake him off of you and clutch your arm lightly. “‘M fine, Joel, I can manage.” 

You’re speaking with a break in your voice that Joel can’t quite place. The hood you’re wearing is working overtime to shield your face. 

He pauses before he slowly looks over you. “Why are you wearin’ a sweatshirt in the middle of summer?” 

The silence he’s met with only leaves him more curious. What are you hiding? He swiftly pushes the hood off your head before you can stop him, and he’s not prepared for what he sees. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, his large hands delicately coming up and caressing your cheeks.

You sigh and roll your eyes. The skin around your right eye is blueish-purple. You lightly twinged at the contact, no matter how delicate he was being. “It’s not as bad as it seems, it doesn’t hurt-”

“Like hell it doesn’t,” Joel mutters, lightly taking your chin between his thumb and index finger as he angles your face from left to right, allowing him to get a full look at the damage done to you. You glance down at his broken watch for comfort, the band fraying and the glass shattered, but he still wore it. 

You can’t exactly explain why your lower lip starts to wobble. It was so hard to stay away from Joel, to distance yourself, but it was all for keeping him safe. Your small fists lightly clutch the button-up shirt he’s wearing around his abdomen, finally feeling a slight sense of security. 

“Joel, I’m so sorry, I lost you the battery.”

“Someone stole it from you.” He corrects, shaking his head as a sinking feeling washes over you. Your eyelashes flutter as you feel a droplet of water land on your nose. You glance up at the sky, seeing the clear summer day has turned into dark clouds overhead threatening to flood the city in rain. Joel doesn’t look up, he stays watching you. 

You can’t seem to meet his eye contact. “But the battery-”

“Don’t care about the battery right now, care about you.” His thumb gently examines the cut on your lip. You curl it inwards to stray from his touch. “Robert do this to you? His guys?” Joel’s asking accusingly, and you know better than to lie to him. You swallow the growing lump in your throat and gently nod, blinking back tears. 

His face grows taut with anger, his brows furrowing and the creases in his forehead are set in stone. His jaw is clamped shut while he grits his teeth. Joel’s probably thinking of a million scenarios of how to put Robert down. Which way would last the longest, string out the torture, make him apologize to you, and beg for his life. Make him apologize to Joel for ever touching a hand on what was his. 

“Joel, you need to take a breath. Focus.” The last thing you wanted was for Joel to go on a rampage tonight in search of Robert. “I’m fine, this shit happens. We’ll get back on track and-”

“Can’t believe they let you live.” He murmurs, taking a look at the damage that he can visibly see before lightly sighing and releasing your face. You’re quick to pull the hood back up and cross your arms in front of you as some sort of shield. 

His eyes are sunken in, his chest is lightly heaving as he tries to sort through his muddled thoughts. The rain is starting to scatter more, hitting your muddy sneakers and Joel’s dark denim shirt. The setting sun meant curfew was just around the corner. 

“Come on. We’re goin’ home. Need to take a look at you in the light." You hesitate but his eyes are pleading for you to just let him take care of you.  So you let him. 

---

You travel up the same staircase you did just a week ago, limping and injured, broken and feeling guilty. Joel needed that battery for the truck. He was going to leave Boston and go to find his brother, Tommy. Neither of you had discussed if you would come with. For Joel, you think you might do just about anything for him if he asked. 

He stabs his key into the lock of his door. You hear a crying baby in a neighboring apartment, it was probably startled awake by the blaring of the curfew alarm. Lightning and thunder crack outside as Joel pushes open the door. You follow him inside and set down your backpack by the door like you usually do. Another strike of lightning makes his apartment flood itself with white-silver streaks of light, if only for a moment. Joel flips the lock back into place and hits the switch to the one overhead light in between the kitchen and the living room. You’re sweating up a storm in your sweatshirt. 

Though living in Boston’s QZ wasn’t great, you had to admit that not every quarantine zone had clean water and electricity. Joel had an old standing oscillating fan that was stationed at the foot of his bed during the summers since he ran so warm all the time. He said he traded about four or five meals worth of ration cards to get it, said that it was considered a steal. You shed the heavy material of your sweatshirt and sit tiredly down at the end of his bed, closing your eyes as the fan wicks away your sweat and cools your face. 

Living in spare housing the past week was hell. You barely slept. The homeless, sick, and injured all found their way to spare housing. You weren’t safe there. And you didn’t have any ration cards to your name. You had to trade one singular, perfectly clean syringe to afford four rolls of bread. It was all you could get at the time being. Everyone was fighting for work, knowing ration cards and food were low. Since you were still somewhat new to the QZ, you weren’t given privileges. You laid on a nasty, old cot for a week. Joel’s small apartment was heaven. The solitude was peaceful. 

Joel was standing at the sink, water running over a cloth as he stared down at the water circling the drain. He needed to take a breath, set his anger aside, and get you to talk. 

Joel wrings out the rag, loose droplets of water splattering in the sink before he sits down at his small wooden kitchen table. “C’mere.” He whispers, taking your attention away from the fan. You slowly stand up and make your way to the table under the central light in his living room, sighing softly as you slowly sink into the accompanying chair. Now in the light, he observes your injuries closer. 

Without your sweatshirt on, he can see bruises and scrapes along your arms, residual blood on your knuckles and under your nails. His little fighter. He notes that your tanktop is a bit shredded, and he fears the worst. 

You catch him staring and intervene. “Don’t worry. I didn’t let them get close enough to touch me like that.” You glance down at the sweaty tank top and lightly tug on the hole. “Just got this while I was running away, trying to hop a fence.” 

Joel frowns and slowly works his eyes over you. “‘S not like you to get caught. You’re pretty damn fast.”

You held down a bubble of laughter as your fingers played with the fraying material of your top. “Yeah, well, they already got one or two good hits on me, so I was a little hazy.” Your words don’t settle him. They infuriate him. 

He brings his attention to your face. Your eye must have been swollen at one point, but it wasn’t anymore. The puffiness had gone down, and the bruises were in their final stages of healing. You have another more prominent bruise on your cheekbone, black and blue, but it’s not broken. That’s good. The cut on your eyebrow and the matching one on your lip catches his attention. A man with a ring. 

“Red hair? Crooked nose, missing a front tooth?” 

You blink a few times rapidly, curious as to how the hell Joel knew the characteristics of one of your attackers. 

“How did you…” You start to say until your words trail off, shaking your head in confusion. 

Joel sneers lightly and brings the wet rag up to gently dab at the cut on your lip. “Not a lot of men are stupid enough to wear a ring that basically signs their name on whoever’s face they’re knocking in.” How he describes your fight makes you flinch and shift uncomfortably in your chair, evading his eye contact. “Sorry.” He mutters quietly. “His name is Chase, Jase, somethin’ stupid like that. One of Robert’s guys.” Joel’s words lightly flitter off as he shifts his attention to your lip once more. 

It was still swollen and angry. You probably tried to eat with it still agitated and delayed its healing. But you know this already. You ate because you didn’t have a choice. It was that, or starve. He hated knowing you were roaming the streets in a horrible hunger, especially when he had ration cards waiting for you at home. 

Your eyes twitch closed as Joel’s wet rag rinses the blood out of the cut on your lip, the old excess blood lightly trickling into your mouth. Your tastebuds catch the tang of metallic and salt. You did what you could with the medical supplies you had, but you didn’t want to waste on yourself what you could potentially sell. If you were avoiding Joel for a while, you needed to be able to make trades of your own. You did use some supplies to clean the cut on your head. You were lucky the wall you were thrown into didn’t leave you with a concussion. 

Joel is still wrestling with why the hell you didn’t come home, why he had to go out and find you. Why, why, why? Why did he let you go alone? Why did the deal go south? A terrible feeling soured his stomach.  Robert’s men were ruthless, they must have felt kind enough to let you live. Or it was a message to Joel from Robert. You’re next. 

Joel wasn’t scared of Robert, but for them to be scared of a young woman was a mystery for the masses. 

He tosses the rag down on the table and stands up. “I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em.” He grunts up, his lips snarling and his nostrils flaring in heated fury. 

He storms to the kitchen and impatiently fills up a glass of water. Joel was fantasizing about plunging his thumbs into Robert’s eye sockets and squeezing until his head turned into mush. Or maybe Joel could take him to the Eastern district, throw him in the Massachusetts Bay, and hold him underwater, only bringing him up from the brink of drowning before pushing him down again. And again. And again. 

Your sweet voice breaks Joel’s murderous thoughts. “Joel, I owe you the battery, and I promise I’ll find another one. Just give me a little time and-”

Joel slams the glass of water on the counter, the clatter of it echoing around the room. “Don’t care about the damn battery!” His back is to you, broad and strong shoulders heaving lightly as his head hangs low. His hands are gripping the edge of the counter. “Thought they fuckin’ kidnapped you! Or worse!”

You shift uncomfortably in your chair, your lower lip wobbling once more as he slowly starts shaking his head. 

“I almost lost you, and it’s my fault.” 

Your eyes soften at his words. He’s felt this way before, and he’s been haunted by the mistake ever since. His daughter, you think. 

His low, southern drawl makes you focus on him once more. “Tell me why you hid. Why didn’t you come to me? We could have figured things out, for fuck’s sake!” He shouts as he turns to face you, his body falling back into the counter as he crosses his arms. 

Your chest swells with heavy emotion. You stand up so fast from your chair that its sent scraping backward. “I did come here! I did! I heard you inside and I..” you pause and shake your head, still finding your voice. 

“I was scared you’d be upset with me letting someone steal the battery, I was afraid you’d go after Robert and get yourself fucking-- killed, Joel! I don’t want you to die, okay? I need you!” 

“And I need you!” He shouts back, lips parted with heavy breaths, both of you trying to settle with the newly shared revelation. 

You both stare at each other from across the room, watching as Joel’s jaw slowly begins to click loose. He shoves himself up off the counter and closes the distance between you two. You hesitantly take a step back, and he pauses his footsteps. His eyes soften, and he looks as broken as you do. 

“Please,” he pleads, gently shaking his head. “Would never hurt you, baby.” He puts his hand out, a gesture of kindness and warmth that you’d missed all week, yet you still hesitate. You almost wait too long, he’s already reeling his hand back into his side. 

“Joel,” you whisper with soft relief. You eagerly take a few steps forward, ignoring his hand, and gently settle your head on his chest as you tightly squeeze your arms around his lower back. You close your eyes and melt into him, finding solace in Joel’s embrace. 

Joel’s arms stay hovering in the air for a moment, lips parted as he looks down at the top of your head. He shames himself for even hesitating. He puts one hand on the side of your head and holds you to his chest, while the other settles low on your back. He breaths peacefully for the first time in a week. 

You stay like that for who knows how long. He’s warm, and you feel protected. You sink into his arms, he takes on your weight. He walks you backward to the foot of his bed once more, letting you delicately fall back into the mattress. You watch with tired eyes as he unties the laces of your sneakers, one after the other. He shucks down your jeans, making you giggle. 

“Joel, you don’t wanna fuck me right now, I smell like spare housing.” 

The right side of his mouth twitches up as he shakes his head at you. “I know you do. ‘M takin’ you to shower.” 

You sit up on your elbows as you smile a bit bashfully at him. “Good. Because I’m too sore to fool around anyway.” You whisper with a teasing smile as you grab the bottom of your tank top, peeling it up and off of your sticky skin. Joel tries not to stare. You’re not sure if he’s clocking your naked figure or the bruising around your ribs and legs. 

You’d need some time to heal. Joel knows you do. While you shower, he makes you as big of a feast he can muster up with the canned goods he has in his cupboards. You try to eat the first real meal you’ve had in a week slowly, to savor the taste, but you end up shoveling your spoon into the bowl and scraping it clean.  

Joel’s eyes are on you the whole time, watching you, observing you. He won’t let you out of his sight for a while, but maybe that’s what’s good for you. You meet his gaze and he speaks a silent vow. We’ll find Robert, steal the battery back, then kill him and anyone else who laid a finger on you. He nods. You nod too. 

Joel’s not sure how late it is by the time you two fall into bed together. He doesn’t know how to tell you how much you mean to him, but he says it in the way he holds you. Back in his arms, he’s more alert of how sore you are from your fight. He gently cups your face, watching your eyes slowly flutter closed with long blinks. You must be so tired. And he doesn’t want to keep you awake. He’s afraid to look away, like if he lets you out of his sight, you’ll disappear again. 

He speaks your name and gently stirs you awake. “Hm?” You softly murmur, bringing your hand up and gently feeling over the planes of Joel’s chest, fingers lightly grazing his chest hair. 

He looks down at you for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Don’t run away like that again.” His words are stern before he pauses again,  lightly pushing some hair behind your ear and touching you like a delicate flower. You watch him attentively. He cups your jawline and angles you to look up at him.  “We’re takin’ that battery back, and we’re gettin’ the hell out of here. You hear me?” 

Your heart swells at his words. We. You slowly nod in agreement. You feel Joel’s gentle kisses on your forehead and the tip of your nose. You lean up to capture his lips, but he falters by an inch. A confused expression crosses your face. 

“You’re hurt.” He mutters, referring to the cut on your lip. Don’t wanna hurt ya, sweet girl.

You roll your eyes and take his face in your small hands. “Don’t care.” You whisper before you pull him in, and the two of you share a featherlight kiss. You let it last, both of you soaking it in after a week apart. A week too long. 

Joel’s the first to pull away, giving you a playful little glare. The bruising on your face reminds him of the boxing movies he grew up watching. “Easy, Rocky.” 

You look at him confused and cock your head. “Who?”

He rolls his eyes at you and sighs, gently running his hand down your side. “Go to sleep. I’ll teach you about Rocky one through five tomorrow. D’you at least get a few good hits on Robert or his guys?”

You hum quietly and let your eyes dip closed. “Mhm.”

“Like I taught ya?”

“Just like you taught me. Gave ‘em the ole left, right, goodnight." You bring up your fists to demonstrate. "Made Robert’s nose bleed, think I broke it.”  

Your head falls into Joel’s chest, feeling it rumble with laughter and a sense of pride. “That’s my girl.”

His body shields you from the outside world. You sleep like a rock for the rest of the night. You live another day, and so does Joel. But with Joel’s promise, you know Robert’s days are numbered. You’ll be sure of it. 

---

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[valkyriesaga-if]

Built a few years after the Collapse, the city of Yggdrasil was meant to be a haven, a refuge. A utopia, where everyone could find their place and be equals.

But that’s the thing with utopias and ideals; they don’t last very long.

Yggdrasil was barely 20 years old when the Magi Council rose above their human brethren, firmly splitting society in two: the magi on one side, who wield privilege like a sword, and the humans on the other, whose only privilege was to stay alive and quiet.

After all, how can you deny Magi what they want, when they are the only thing protecting you from what’s outside the walls?

You’ve been living in the Helheim district for almost as long as you can remember, raised amongst crooks, conmen and criminals all your life. While this hardly seems like ideal conditions to raise a child, it was better than having the Council find out your secret. Helheim was the best place for secrets. You knew it, your mother knew it, everyone in Yggdrasil knew it.

You’re an undeclared Magi. In a city where showing the barest hint of magic can get a child taken away from their parents and chain them forever to the Council of Magi, raising a child under the watching eyes of kingpins, thieves and prostitutes was a shield, an armor. The best protection love could offer.

Every day, you live on the edge of the razor. One wrong move and your life could be upended entirely. But when your mother is on the verge of losing her house, her business, her entire life to Greed, you can’t just sit there and watch it happen.

Being hired to steal the Eyes of The Watcher, the most precious gems in all of Yggdrasil, located right in the heart of the Council Chamber, didn’t seem like such a bad idea, at the time.

Genre

Post apocalyptic, urban fantasy, heist

Content Warning

The story will be 18+ for violence, potential sexual themes, explicit content and gore.

Fully customizable MC: name, gender identity, sexuality, appearance, personality and demeanor

Interact with a varied cast of NPCs

Shape your relationships with your fellow gang members, from lovers to platonic besties, all the while keeping in mind that they are all criminals and liars, just like you.

Experience the Nightmares™

Engage in highly illegal, highly dangerous activities, and maybe some light rebellion and overthrow of authority on the side

Polish your skills such as stealth, combat or knowledge, and discover more about your magic

Spend some time in the luxurious streets of Asgard and other delightful places such as a Helheim fighting ring, the city sewers or a defunct meat factory

Hallucinate?

Pet the cat

The selfish mercenary - Lònan [M, he/him]

Money is the only thing that matters to Lònan. He has made that very clear since the beginning. Obviously, he doesn’t seem to care that much about his own life, otherwise he would have found another way to make a fortune. One that doesn’t involve going into the heart of the enemy territory to steal the most valuable and well guarded artifact in town, for example. Just a thought.

The disgraced Magi - Yugō [M, he/him]

Magi have virtually everything they might want. Money, luxury, and an unending hoard of lackeys to cater to their every need. So you can’t help but wonder what might lead one of them to hide amongst the rats in the dark alleys of Helheim, and Yugo is not inclined to answer your questions.

The unwelcome guest - Halloran [M, he/him]

No one really knows who Halloran is or what he wants, but he seems to keep inviting himself in your dreams, taking great pleasure in playing with you and your sanity. Only he is a cat playing with a mouse, and you can only hope that he won’t eat you whole.

The estranged friend - Mavis [F, she/her]

Back in the time you lived in Midgard West, you and Mavis used to be friends, practically joined by the hip. While she remained as kind and gentle as you remember her, there is a hard edge to her eyes that wasn’t there before.

The mysterious outsider - Koyal [F, she/her]

A courier from outside of town, you’re not sure why she joined your ragtag group of criminals. Calm and quiet, she mostly keeps to herself, but you can’t help but feel her watchful gaze on you every time you have your back turned.

The disembodied voice - Morgane [F, she/her]

You’ve never met her in person, your only contacts with her being over the phone, as she gives instructions to you and the rest of the group. She seems to be the only one in direct relation with the person who hired you for some trivial B&E in the most secure facility in Yggdrasil.

Lònan/Yugō and Koyal/Halloran are potential poly routes.

TBA

This is my first IF and English is not my first language, so feel free to send any constructive criticisms and corrections my way.

This is very early development, so many things are subject to change as i work on the story

Asks are welcome and reblogs appreciated!

#interactive fiction #interactive game #interactive novel #IF #twine #twine game #cyoa #if wip #no demo #wip intro #twine story #twine if #wip #the valkyries saga

[wine-porn]

Real Paso

My love for claret knows no bounds, and the shocking part about this particular bottle is: there is NO WAY you would ever guess it’s from Paso. But wait! I hear you say. Wine must be typicitous, and if you can’t place it in a region, it fails, right? WRONG. The thing here is: we have been so acclimated to the *Paso style*, this wine regains a standing only available on the world stage. Gone are…

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[shibaraki]

THE WHITE RABBIT ┊ GOJO SATORU

synopsis: you’ve been instructed to begin making appearances at the pleasure district. choosing the right man to flaunt was imperative for your family's image. who better to pick than the top courtesan?

tags: NSFT, AFAB reader (called ‘angel’ toward the end), strangers to lovers, courtesan gojo (no curses au), sex work, alcohol consumption, inspired by edo period japan, sexual tension, mutual attraction, reader is a customer from a well known family, feelings realisation, other characters present, fluff + angst, loss of virginity (reader), body worship, finger sucking, bathing, vaginal oral sex + fingering (reader receiving), unprotected vaginal sex (pull out method), hopeful ending 

wc: 14k+

The dense woodland that lies between the main city and the Pleasure district appeared unearthly in the late evening. If you looked up toward the capillaries of the canopy, you’d find the trees would breathe even on a windless night. East and West, spindling arms of cedar seemed to reach for you. 

It unsettled you. The atmosphere felt polarised, as if it were drawing your rickshaw in and manipulating your direction despite having entered willingly. You thought this might be what it’s like to cross from one plane to another, a coniferous bridge between worlds. 

Such a description was befitting of your destination. The Pleasure district truly was another world in its entirety — a place wherein the rules of the mainland could not reach. A creature that laid its own law and shaped you to its own customs. You could no longer put it off. You were of an appropriate age, and it was your turn to enter the beast. 

The maw is bright where the clearing breaks, illuminated by hues of orange and red. Carmine wood with slightly curved pillars, before you stands a grand archway nestled between two walls built to encase the district. 

Large hand painted lanterns light up the wide open road as you are carried through the swelling crowds. Patrons part around your intrusion as they turn to stare, curious about who you might be. You knew that both the private escort pulling your rickshaw and the expensive fabric fashioned elegantly around your shoulders would be enough to display your family's social standing.

Still, the attention and judgement is stifling. You distract yourself with focus on the establishments lining either side of the street; the air is imbued with an amalgam of sweet scents, thick enough to feel it on the roof of your tongue as you breathe. People with delicately painted faces adorned in jewels call out to you from the balconies, the distinct and striking pluck of a shamisen ringing in your ears.

Logically this place was a place of business, yet the innocent, naive part of you felt guilt simply for ignoring their greetings. But you could not stop to contemplate their suitability or good looks, for your family had already arranged a banquet with the finest house in the district — the Michizane house.

As the rickshaw comes to a slow stop you feel tension return to your chest, wrung tight like cloth. The teahouse appears to be two stories high and quite large when compared to its neighbouring buildings. Decorating the outer walls are intricate patterns of wood lattice, the wide open entrance lit up with an inviting glow. Waiting by the door is the owner, a striking man by the name of Nanami Kento.

He steps forward and bows deeply in greeting, peering up from behind the thin frame of his glasses to where you are perched as he straightens. Not a blonde hair out of place. “It is a pleasure to meet you, and an honour to host your banquet at my establishment,” he says. His words are dipped in a rich timbre that settles warm in your bones. 

Insecure of your inexperience, you try to steel yourself as you reply, “I’m grateful for your time, Nanami-san”.

If he senses your nervousness he doesn’t mention it, rather he extends his arm to assist you down from your seat. In doing so you take a moment to contemplate his garments — he wears a grey toned hakama over his pale blue kimono with a matching haori, embellished with the teahouse crest. 

You take his open hand, habitually tugging the silk of your own kimono closer to your skin. Nanami casts his eyes toward the floor as you descend out of respect for your modesty, and while you felt it wasn’t required it was appreciated all the same. 

“I’ll be waiting for your return,” your long employed escort, Norimitsu, lowers his head to bid you goodbye. Having known the man for most of your life, it comforted you that he wouldn’t stray too far. 

Nanami remains stoic as he leads you into the teahouse. There are various open rooms housing guests of all class and background, conversation and laughter easily heard through paper thin walls. You are beckoned through a teal-dyed curtain, through which you find a large sliding door. He smoothly pulls it open for you, revealing a large parlour. You take note of the hearth built into the floor, and the small alcove of hanging scrolls that houses a single sword stand, displaying a katana. At the further end of the room, three screen doors have been tucked away to connect the space to a modest pond garden. 

“I trust it is to your liking?” 

You startle, glancing back at Nanami to find him at respectable distance. “It’s wonderful,” you answer at the end of an exhale, feeling like you had stepped into a dream. There are already a few attendants present, one knelt by your assigned seat on one side of the low tea table in preparation. 

A delicate sound reverberates through the room, and your gaze is drawn to a young man draped in a green kimono so dark that it is almost black. There are subtle gold finishes along the square sleeves, and gold flowers embroidered into his obi. Laid out in front of him is a wooden koto. 

“Please take your seat. These young men will tend to you as you wait for the Courtesan to arrive,” Nanami startles you out of your reverie, inclining his head forward as another gentle strum of music dances through the quiet. You overturn your hand to clutch the inside of your sleeve, embarrassed to have been distracted. 

“Will they take long?” you ask. 

Nanami’s expression shifts with his exasperation, nudging the frame of his glasses back up the bridge of his nose as it wrinkles. “Courtesans of The Michizane House are skilled. Their beauty is venerated and they are praised country wide for trysts with virtue and vice,” he regards you with an almost apologetic look, “what they do not excel in is punctuality”. 

You can’t help but smile at his tone. It sounds like he knows them well, as if they are children he were lovingly admonishing. “You’re well acquainted with them?”

“Unfortunately,” he meets your eyes and when the light refracts in his irises, you notice they’re the colour of earth. “Though my personal relationship with them is no reflection on their ability to service you. They are regarded highly for a reason”. 

“As is expected. In a place like this, personal and business affairs are kept separate for a reason,” you muse softly. A sudden blanket of exhaustion rests itself on your shoulders, reminded that you were here for duty and not pleasure. “I’ll take my seat. Thank you for your hospitality, Nanami-san”. 

You take your seat in silence, knees sinking into the plush silk pillow as you greet the waiting attendant. On the opposite side of the table there are three other cushions lined up and equally distanced, indicating the number of Courtesan you would be meeting with. For a patron of high standing such as yourself, a banquet was custom. Money opened many doors and the House Managers knew that well — thus you were afforded much more freedom for choice, their top earners given to you on a silver platter.

But even so, the district was fickle for tradition and rules. During the banquet you weren’t to interact casually with the Courtesans, as it was their duty to appeal to you without bias. It could be through seduction, art, music and dance; each one given an equal chance to advertise themselves in whatever manner they saw fit. 

After deciding your final pick you would meet with them a second time at the Michizane house, only in the company of their personal attendants. An opportunity to get to know one another better and cautiously test the waters. If the chosen Courtesan was not to your liking you would still be able to send for another and there would be no quarrel. 

The third visit would be your consummation. Visiting with a Courtesan three times meant solidifying your relationship, and it would be forbidden to take another. You’d heard from many that taking a partner of the night was to be treated as seriously as a marriage, some even went as far as incorporating the exchange of nuptial cups. It was supposed to be romantic, if not slightly archaic. A beautiful lie. 

You knew too well that you were not here for pleasure, but still you yearned for love, just as any other person does.

Behind you is the gentle sound of running water in the gardens, but you are taken by the koto player's song, and the fluency at which he plays it. Three ivy picks adorn his right hand, plucking with plectra on the thumb, middle and index fingers. His left hand presses and pulls the silk string behind the bridge, adding enchanting bends and vibrato to the melody.  

“His name is Fushiguro Megumi,” the boy to your side murmurs, “here. This will help you relax”. You flinch as a ceramic sake cup is suddenly offered to you, reflexively taking it with a small bow that leaves your attendant bemused. 

Bringing it towards your lips, you inhale the slightly sweet aroma before tipping the cup into your mouth, finding it a little dry on your palate. “Thank you,” you tell him. “And what is your name?”

There's a minute tilt to his head as he answers, one of confusion. With the movement, his dark hair curtains his cheek and somehow it makes him look even younger. “My name is Yoshino Junpei. I am a trainee at the Michizane House,” he replies. 

“Oh?” you smile as his chest puffs with pride at your apparent surprise, “you must show a lot of promise then”. 

“Thank you!” you think he might start to shake with excitement, a glimmer in his eyes that was not there before. He bows deeply, fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his yukata. As his back straightens he continues, “But it is not just me. Fushiguro is also a Courtesan in training”. 

You glance towards the trainee in question. He too is dark haired and pale skinned. If he sat still you thought he might look like a porcelain doll. His eyes remain closed as his fingers spin a saccharine harmony, though you can see there are smatterings of red across his cheeks. He must’ve overheard you. 

“Then I would say The Michizane House has a keen eye,” you say. Junpei smiles, his mouth strained at the corners with careful hands reaching for your empty cup. 

“I just thought it important to let you know… as trainees we cannot be chosen to service you”. 

You nod sagely. Of course you had known that before your arrival, yet as you process his words and the implication hung between them, you feel your composure slip. “Oh—! Junpei, I never intended to pursue either of you. I was only appreciating his music”. 

Your voice is low, hushed as not to embarrass the other boy any further. Junpei’s eyes widened like a fawn faced with an arrow, the bottle of rice wine almost slipping from his grasp. “Forgive me, I misunderstood and spoke out of turn I— I understand if you’d like to request another—”

Irrespective of etiquette, you cover his hands with your own to still the trembling. “There is nothing to forgive. You were informing me so that I wouldn’t get hurt, were you not?”

He inhales deeply, the air bloating his lungs, exhaling the anxiety from his limbs. Junpei bows again once you release him. “You’re a truly kind person,” he rasps. 

“As are you,” you offer him a gentle smile, hoping he wouldn’t see the fraying edges. Seeing him so frightened at the thought of displeasing you was unsettling. You knew that it could be difficult for those working in the district, but having been sheltered most of your life you never quite understood the consequences. 

Realising the sudden silence, you meet Megumi’s pensive stare across the room. His arms are held in suspension, anticipating your anger. “I assure you everything is alright,” you steady your voice in hopes he’ll hear the sincerity, “please do continue”. 

His eyes narrow in fleeting suspicion. Gradually the melody bleeds back into the room, and Junpei returns to serving your drinks. This song is different, you note. It is light and hopeful yet poignant. 

Yes, to have these two young men punished for such meaningless offences would be abhorrent. 

There is movement in your periphery, low humming voices behind the screen door. You see multiple silhouettes through the lattice frames as Nanami moves into view, the pinch in his mouth smoothing when he sees you’re watching. 

“The Michizane House is at your service”. 

You knew to expect something unearthly, yet nothing could prepare you for the picture the Courtesans painted as they entered the parlour. 

The first is a kind faced man introduced as courtesan Okkotsu Yuta. His robe is a gold silk with a pale obi, over top he wears a moss coloured uchikake made of tulle that has been painstakingly dotted with camellia blooms. His hair is dark and neatly parted to loosely frame his face; the only jewels he wears are around his wrists and neck. At first glance he seems young, but his eyes tell otherwise. 

“Come, Rika,” he calls softly. 

A small girl trails behind him, timid as she greets you but confident in her given task; once Yuta is seated she hastily kneels beside him to straighten the fabric pooling around him and makes quick work of pouring his drink. 

As he introduces the next Courtesan — referred to as Choso, a name quite peculiar to you — Nanami is forced to move slightly back in order to make room for his frame. He’s broad, bigger than most men you had seen, though you could attribute that to the mountain of garments he wore. Light ripples on the sheen black kimono, glowing along the painted gold floral prints. Dotted across the fabric are embroidered chrysanthemum blooms; the obi is hefty where it is tied to his front, and you thought it looked as if he were holding a bouquet 

You have no doubt his hair is long. It must’ve taken an impressive amount of time to comb and style it — parted into two sections and held either side of his crown with black cloth, ornamental hairpins with cascading red beads passing through each bun. 

Forged from left cheek to right, curving seamlessly over the bridge of his nose, is a line of black paint. An innate part of you flares in alarm as he seeks out your furtive gaze in passing, like you were some sort of prey animal. 

What fractures his stoic demeanour are the children at his side in simple black robes, identical in height and appearance. The only thing setting them apart was the elaborate lines painted on one of the boys' faces to match with his elder. They press their small hands flat to their obi’s and bow in a deep but clumsy manner. 

“Hi, I’m Yuji! It’s nice to meet you!”

“I’m Sukuna, we’re honoured to join you”.

Their voices overlap yet their greetings are given out of sync. You clasp your sleeve against your palm to cover your mouth, repressing a grin as Sukuna’s eyes narrow towards his unassuming twin. Not wanting them to be scolded, you quickly incline your head forward. 

“Thank you for being in attendance,” you reply. Choso visibly softens, immediately understanding your show of kindness, and extends both arms to cradle the back of their heads. In doing so he encourages them forward toward his seat.  

It’s quite brotherly of him, you think. Children are sometimes abandoned or sold to houses in the district, so you wondered if he had mentored them himself. It would explain his fondness for them. 

Finally, a man in a cascading layer of pale blue over pink. Gojo Satoru approaches gracefully and you are reminded of a crane. Fine silks hug his body and ripple as he moves, slender and beautiful, wading through pond water and rain. The ornaments tucked into his moon white hair sway with every step, creating hypnotic little sounds that announce his presence to the path he is walking on. 

He regards you with bright mirth, as if he can hear your thoughts, and perches himself on the rouge cushion directly opposite. Again, you cannot help but compare him to a doll, held together by silk and string. You thought you might tap a finger to his porcelain cheek and find it hollow. 

With the best earners now present, the banquet finally begins. An opulent spread of food is set along the tables and bottles are replenished. Lower ranking Geisha are in attendance to provide entertainment as you gauge one another. While his own attendant is tasked with providing music, Satoru beckons one of the smaller pink haired boys to his side. Yuji, you remember. You can tell that he is much more free spirited than his twin brother. There’s a youthful air about him that makes you want to pinch his cheeks. 

Choso doesn’t seem angered by it, casting a glance toward the pair but making no move to rein him back to his side. With unspoken permission, Yuji shines under the responsibility of pouring Satoru’s drink. You can’t help but watch with an endeared smile as his tongue peaks out from the corner of his mouth in concentration, slowly tipping his elbow up to fill the cup. 

Amused by the boy, you almost miss the palpable shift in atmosphere. Looking up, you find Satoru scrutinising your reactions, haunted eyes filled with unexpected curiosity. Even at this distance, you feel it on your face like spring. 

Naturally, both in asking and in passing, you had heard much about Gojo Satoru. He was renowned for his services and heartbreak in the district, and has been permanently moored to the spot of best earner. Not only was he a perfect picture of decadence, he was also skilled in conversation and the arts — a beautiful man that wielded both sword and fan. 

Your family had personally suggested him to you, while still offering their approval for any of the top three; and you were more than qualified to choose any of them. Yet being in their presence now, choosing Gojo felt daunting. Quixotic. As if, despite all his previous conquests, your inexperienced hands might finally be the ones to sully him. 

Lost in thought, you have been staring back at him far too long. His lips are salmon pink, a reflective sheen to them. They curve into a pleased smirk, like you were a naive lamb leading itself into a wolf's mouth. 

Your brows pinch then, eyes averted to Junpei’s pale hands where he steadily refills your drink. It is swallowed in full, the initial sting diffusing into a muted warmth throughout your body, and he doesn’t comment on the cup's emptiness only moments later. 

In part, Satoru’s flagrant arrogance mystified you. It was difficult to tell whether he was peacocking to impress you, or if he really was confident that you’d pick him. Frustratingly, his assumptions weren’t baseless. 

You’re aware the others are more than suitable. Okkotsu Yuta was known for being gentle and firm. Authoritative, but in a way that puts your mind at rest. For one night, his fantasy could cast off the things that plagued you, leaving you adrift and carried by the tide’s cupped hands. Thinking was not something you need worry about. 

Informants spoke of his popularity with newcomers. First timers. You understood why they’d choose him — Yuta appeared to have an uncanny command over his expression, always kind, surrounded by an air of empathy. It is present even now, as he watches Rika perform her dance. Eyes fond, following the practised flicks of her fan as the melody clothes her. 

Choso was venerated as something of a romantic, and adored by experienced customers. His large, oppressive demeanour played well into the guise of gentle giant. He was shamelessly attentive and passionate with his servicing. This kindness was different to that of Yuta’s. It was the type anyone could fall in love with, which admittedly frightened you. 

The way Gojo Satoru carries himself is different from his peers. Selection banquets provided a short window in time to leave behind a lasting impression. Unable to yet get close, Courtesans played to the best of their strengths in the hopes of planting a seed into their clients' hearts. 

Such intentions were clear when looking at Gojo. He is carefully carved porcelain. Everything about him has been curated to serve a purpose. It seemed to you that even his garments were worn not just because of their elegance, but because they were so distinctly reflections of his mouth and his eyes.

Highly experienced, widely recommended, and dutiful at maintaining professional lines. Satoru’s prestige allowed him more freedom than his fellow Courtesans. Having earned so much for the district, Gojo was able to reject clientele if he so wished, and he often ended relationships if they began to cross boundaries. Knowing he could outright refuse you — and at the very least, hold you to account — without concern of backlash, eased some of your anxieties. 

You surmised that he would be the safest option. In choosing Gojo Satoru, you might further elevate your family's standing without worry of developing unwanted feelings. Perhaps, in knowing the background you came from, he had already come to such a conclusion himself. 

Still, his confidence grated on you. 

The evening grows older, and along with it your own gusto. Limbs heavy, capillaries filled with wet sand. Alcohol has heated you from the inside out, just enough that it is a little easier to smile sincerely. Nanami returns during the late hour, as the banquet naturally comes to an end. You cannot deny it had been a success; food and sake always did taste better in company, twice as much when married with mellow ballads and delightful performances.

Custom dictates you should not exchange words directly before the second meeting. These men were products for you to choose from. Still, you make sure to hold their line of sight while bidding them a proper goodbye. One by one, their svelte bodies bend forward into a respectful bow, and you are reminded again of your place in this pocket of the world. 

Nanami escorts you to your carriage, undereyes faintly darker than they had been earlier. You can respect that through his fatigue, the man maintains perfect posture and conduct. Norimitsu awaits by the entrance, having bided his time circling the district. 

In leaving the teahouse that night with a dull ache in your knees, you continue to recall the delicate echo of Gojo’s hair ornament. 

The days are long, longer than usual. You assist in the family business as always, but restlessness threads its way into your musculature, and you can’t seem to get anything done to completion. A letter confirming your choice of Courtesan had been sent the morning after your return, and you would attend a second meeting by the weeks end. 

You endure their lighthearted teasing with a strained smile. “The men must’ve made quite an impression,” they said. “Especially that Gojo Satoru. I’ve heard he’s a sight to behold”. 

You’d heard a lot, too. Plenty. Too much. The ornate bells had followed you all the way to your hometown. Gojo, Gojo, Gojo. Gaggles of women and men had approached you, hoping for details about him as if he were a creature tied to myth. 

While it was tiresome, you couldn’t begrudge them. Gojo was not a man many could afford. Their best bet would be to attend a procession, if only to see him from afar. Untouchable. The thought weighs heavily as you watch the anxious curl of your fingers in your lap. 

The Michizane House comes into view, your body rolling with the movement of the carriage as it cradles you. Taking up much of the forked road ahead, you think the building elegantly traditional in a way that the others aren’t. Yaga, the manager, is awaiting your arrival. Known for his philosophy of letting things speak for themselves, his property is clearly not exempt from such beliefs. 

Lined with rouge lanterns, a dream of autumn-tide. It’s inviting and promises warmth, not at all salacious, almost palatial in appearance. Men and women draped in gorgeous raiment call out to passers by kindly, knelt behind iron bars, displayed for selection in latticed parlours.  

Norimitsu is escorting you a second time. While still young, he’s tall and thick shouldered with a round belly. You knew him jovial, as something of an older brother, but to others he came across as the type of man you wouldn’t want to anger — hence why he was designated as your guard. 

“Are you looking forward to seeing him?” 

No more than you are looking forward to attending to your duties the next morning. Above all, this was work. Or so you tell yourself. 

As if he’d read your thoughts, over the bustling crowds you hear, “I do hope you’ll at least try to enjoy your night”.

Presumptively, “I expect Gojo won’t make it so easy”. 

Norimitsu chuckles as you come to a steady halt, then circling the rickshaw to assist you down. Tabi clad feet kick away any stray rocks in your path, and you step down with bated breath. 

Your escort bows as Yaga announces his presence, stepping out into the road to formally greet you. It drew some attention — the manager of The Michizane House was not often seen by any average customer. “I’ll be waiting,” he tells you. 

The pip of anxiety in your chest does take root, lissome branches curling around each individual rib. Yaga is not very personable; that’s your first lesson learnt. Rumour has it that he enjoys making dolls in his free hours. You suspect such gossip is only humorous due to the man’s rough exterior. 

“We are honoured to service you at The Michizane House,” he politely recites. You nod shortly on the end of an exhale. Alongside his love of craft sits the love for his employees. At the very least, you knew that Yaga treated the Courtesan well. 

The atmosphere changes the further into the maze you go. Tobacco, sake and sex permeates the air. Drunken laughter dissolves into quiet groans, sounds muffled behind cupped hands, a sharp slap of skin meeting skin. A fog follows — clientele chain smoking between rounds, faint grey clouds seeping beneath screen doors.

While the houses found success in abiding by their traditional values, some boundaries were a tangible, malleable concept in the district as long as money was involved. Desire could be stretched, moulded into whichever form you wanted. Here, within reason, you could do as you pleased. A mandated space to revel in your desires; scratch the itch away from the rigidity of civilised society. 

In hindsight, choosing the Courtesan had been the easier part of the arrangement. While Gojo would be there to fill silences and guide the conversation, deftly covering for whatever social qualities you so clearly lacked, that would only be enough for tonight. You ought to decide upon your own itch. 

Come the third meeting, how could Gojo Satoru sate your hunger? 

“Satoru’s private quarters are just up ahead. He will be joining you shortly,” Yaga continues as he guides you out onto the veranda, where there is a beautiful garden; bamboo hedges and interwoven bushes, a winding road of pale sand lining a miniature pond. There are stones left hollow, dwarfed peach trees and azaleas. You inhale with relief as your lungs are cleared by the crisp night air.

Gradually, the awkward thud of your shoes against wood is overlapped by another’s more practised, commanding footsteps. Each step is accompanied by the quiet tinkling of a bell. A Geisha, presumably, that you’ve yet to meet walks out into your intended path, their presence overwhelming. 

Yaga regards them cordially, “Maki”. 

Long, regal fabrics that dance in lavish shades of indigo and gold. The very cosmos stitched into their clothing. Maki. They bow and the moonlight reflects around the crown of their head, highlighting a jewelled comb tucked neatly into a bun — a style common amongst well ranking women. 

“Yaga-sama,” comes the formal reply. You stiffen when her golden eyes sweep over your form. She’s notably tall, and you felt she would still tower over you even in the absence of the Okobo strapped to her feet. Maki bows to you wordlessly, then returns to her pace. The small bell housed in the hollow of her shoes begins to sing. Thud, chime, thud, chime. 

As she passes with a sidelong glance, a stream of moonlight illuminates her face. Handsomely pretty, you think. Her features are distinctive, angular. There is a fleeting thought that she reminds you of Megumi. 

You remain close to Yaga’s heel as you enter another part of the house. The screen doors are painted entirely opaque, and there are less patrons here. While these quarters appeared to be far more private, still you hear the muffled, unmistakable, sound of sex from the end of the hall. 

“Here,” Yaga’s voice snaps you out of your nervous reverie as his arm extends to open one of the rooms. It is atleast a good distance away from the other… occupants. 

Sliding the screen across, a well sized room is revealed. Pale tatami flooring, dark knotted wood panelling. There is a low table and cushions set out beside the far alcove, where you might ponder the two decorative scrolls that hang there. At the foot is a small ceramic bowl, already cradling a lit stick of incense. 

What truly demands your attention is the large wall mounted byobu, kept on the far side of the room over a large futon. It is a quiet depiction of nature, polychrome and laden with silk brocades. To the South are a small herd of rabbits, prancing through a mountainous valley adorned with blushing maple trees. North are a flock of cranes, wings spread as they glide across the skies.  

You wondered how often Gojo would find himself looking at it. Did it provide comfort, or did it leave him wistful? 

“Please be seated and make yourself comfortable. The attendants won’t be long,” Yaga gestures towards the tatami with calloused fingers, “rest assured, The Michizane House will accommodate you well”. 

“Thank you for your hospitality,” you reply, the words rolling off the tongue with ease. Formality is what you know best. Chin tucked to sternum in a placid bow, you first rush to remove your geta before entering the room on socked feet. 

The screen behind slides shut and you are left with silence. Suddenly your obi feels too constricting, and the silk of your kimono weighs heavily across your shoulders. Approaching the low table, you clutch at drapes of fabric as you kneel to be seated. This would be your final moment of respite for the remainder of the night, and yet all you can think of is how you are now set in motion towards inexorable change. 

There is a restrained knock from the door. Giving your permission, it slides open with a soft hiss to reveal the young man that you know to be named Megumi. This time he adorns deep purple, a garden of peonies both red and pink sewn into his sleeves. Balanced atop one of his pale hands is a tray of cups and sake. He bows forward, a single amethyst peony hairpin tucked behind his ear. 

Tucked at his side and falling short at the hip, is one of the twins. His clothes are slightly disheveled, as expected of a child his age, but it’s well hidden by the violet geometric pattern. Cheeks as pink as his hair, you’re presented with a wide beam. 

“Hi!” he chirps. Yuji, then.

Megumi lightly knocks his knuckles atop the boy’s crown in admonishment. As Yuji reaches to protect his head from a second strike, the trail of his sleeves pool into the crook of his arms. 

“That was mean!”

Lacking discretion, though not without trying, the older attendant mutters, “Don’t act so familiar with the customers. Greet them properly”. 

Yuji looks at you, visibly mustering up a sense of professionalism. He forces his mouth thin, and an unsettlingly placid sheen coats his once bright eyes. His head bows forward, still gracelessly. “Good evening. We are hon— honoured to serve you”. 

You become aware of the dead weight of your robes around your shoulders. A prickling of discomfort under your skin. He’s just a baby, after all. 

Kindly, you answer, “I’m honoured to be here”. 

In return, you are given a toothy grin. The two step further into the room and begin their preparations without instruction. Megumi sets the tray down on the low table, so careful that it barely makes a sound. Yuji rearranges the remaining cushions, one moved suspiciously close and the others appropriately spaced. 

Whenever Satoru arrives, a bright spark follows. There’s something different about him this time. His exuberance tempered, but still crisp; again, you are reminded of the breaking of spring. It rolls into the ambiance, and you find yourself irritatingly giddy. 

“You’re here,” he says. Tonight he’s wearing a simple, light blue yukata dotted with little white rabbits. It drapes effortlessly on his frame, loose around his shoulders and partially open at the chest to reveal a toned expanse of pale skin. 

Yuji and Megumi scramble to his attendance, while you are struck by just how relaxed he is. You can’t look away from him. There is a clink to your left, the neck of a small sake bottle meeting the rim of your cup. “…I am here,” comes your careful reply. “Thank you for accepting my letter, and for joining me”. 

He smiles at that. It is unexpected and entirely genuine. Satoru actually looks at home here. There’s still a professional air to him as he settles beside you, tactile in his touch and deliberate with his words; you parse through them but find no smarm, only that he feels warmer. 

Stilted conversation is not a thing of this world. Where words fail you, he is there to pick up the slack, peeling back the layers of your life with unassuming questions. The year you were born and the zodiac that comes with it, where you grew up, what business your family dabbled in, if you had siblings to care for — you, pleasantly light from the sake, breathing in tones of sandalwood, answer a little too freely. 

Satoru hums as though he were feigning thought. “I have no blood siblings, but I’d say that our precious Megumi here—” he reaches out to the boy with lithe fingers and tousles Megumi’s hair out of place “—is quite like a little brother to me”. 

The younger man cringes away from his touch looking suitably disgruntled. His features are sharp, but still soft in a way that betrays his youth. Yuji laughs. 

“I’ve been wondering, why is it that the other attendants make an effort to match clothing with their Courtesans, but you and Megumi don’t?” you ask, absentmindedly toying with the sleeve of your kimono. 

Satoru observes you for a moment, guileful eyes dragging from the nervous tick to your own, searching for something unbeknownst to you. You fear you might’ve offended him, but then, “Megumi dislikes the things I wear. He calls them ostentatious”. 

Satoru’s mouth twists into a childish pout as he pointedly glares at the boy in question, and for a short breath the faultless mask is gone, “He doesn’t even know what that word means”. 

Megumi snorts and quickly schools his expression, blank faced when he meets Satoru’s gaze, “I’d like to see you spell it”. 

“Oh? Trying to embarrass me infront of a customer?” If he’s attempting to scold his attendant, then he’s failing spectacularly. Voice saccharine, cloying in his throat as he tries not to laugh, Satoru says, “Yaga will have you out on the street”. 

“I wish he would”. 

You watch their interactions from behind the lip of your sake cup. The taste is sweet, fitting for the moment. Skin warming, it sits well in your stomach and has a pleasant buzz thrumming through your veins. “Are they always like this?” you whisper. Yuji nods with his whole body. 

“Don’t misunderstand,” Satoru smiles down at the two of you, his big hand reaching to cradle Megumi’s head once again. His attendant’s glare visibly softens and allows it. “We squabble like any other family”. 

The word ‘family’ stands out in your mind like a stray thread. You pick at it, tentatively, “Is it possible you have blood relatives here? I saw another Geisha here who looked quite like you, Megumi”.  

“You must’ve met Maki-san,” the younger man replies. There’s an obvious glimmer of respect at mention of her and for reasons you can’t place, it saddens you. “We share descendants. She is a distant cousin”. 

“Curious that you both ended up at the same house”. 

Satoru quietly sips his sake, licking at the inner corner of his mouth as he looks to Megumi, seeking permission to speak. Even more curious for a high ranking Courtesan. Megumi nods in silent acquiescence, and you halt when their collective attention turns on you. 

As your cup is refilled, Satoru weaves a sullen tale of a small dark haired boy born to a wanted man and a runaway Geisha. Though riddled with illness and partly malnourished from her time in the district, his stouthearted mother carried him fully to term before passing after childbirth. Left with an infant, his lover's debt and a target on his back, the man snuck his son into the district where he wouldn’t be touched and sold him to the Michizane house. 

“That boy was our Megumi. I saw his potential and took him under my wing. The rest you can guess,” he concludes fondly, though there is a tightness by his eyes. You wonder whether Satoru struggles to balance his gratitude and his guilt. 

Incognisant of the troubled atmosphere, Yuji claps his chubby hands together. Appled cheeks strain where his grin stretches wide. “It’s just like me and Sukuna-nii!” 

Megumi huffs and reaches over to pinch the swell between his fingers. The sleeve of his yukata hangs over the low table, slipping up his forearm to reveal a pale sleuth of skin. “Worm. Our stories are nothing alike”.

“No,” Satoru hums thoughtfully. “Yuji and Sukuna were left outside in a rice sack like a couple of drowned kittens”. 

Megumi shakes his cheek, and it draws the younger boy's lip up to reveal his pink gums before letting go. You listen, horrified, as Yuji giggles. “S’cause they thought Sukuna-nii was cursed. But he’s just really cranky!” 

“Is that right?” you faltered. Satoru takes your unease as a sign to lean in closer, shoulders brushing. 

“Yeah. But it’s okay, ‘cause he’s my cool big brother. Choso too! He looks a bit scary, but he takes real good care of us”.

“You really love your brothers, don’t you?”

“Choso plays temari with us in the gardens when he doesn’t have customers,” Yuji flashes the charming gap between his front teeth as he rubs at his sore cheek, earthen eyes squinted with happiness. “If you spent the night with him, I bet he would play temari with you too!”

Satoru’s hand crosses your line of sight as he reaches out to poke at the young boy's waist, dainty bangles slipping down his wrist. “What’s this, kid? I didn’t invite you here so your brother could gain favour with my customer,” he bemoans, pinching and prodding at baby fat beneath the fabric. 

Yuji stutters into peals of laughter at his theatrics, his arms folded close to protect his stomach. It’s obvious that Satoru does it to prevent Yuji from worrying — to let him act out, as a child should. The sound is so joyful it’s contagious, and the corners of your mouth curve into a helpless smile. 

None of this had been what you expected. The many whispers you’d heard before tonight tell you clearly that this second meeting is an unconventional one. You figured the younger ones were invited to set your mind to rest; not once did Satoru make a pass in their presence. As the evening wore on you felt your inhibitions slip further, anxieties along with them, and enjoyed yourself as though you were in the company of good — albeit, touchy — friends. 

Eventually, the attendants are given leave. Megumi bows deeply, Yuji mirroring him, but then you are thrown an easy wave before the shoji doors slide shut. With no boisterousness to fill the silence, you and Satoru sit quietly and listen as their light footfalls gradually disappear. 

Then, Satoru reaches for your sake cup. Stifling heat flushes through you in anticipation of what he might do. Your tongue peeks out to wet your bottom lip as he brings it to your mouth. “Here,” he murmurs. “Let me”. 

Hand poised by your cheek, you hold the decorative beads pinned behind your ear back while you bend to take a sip. The weight of his stare is unnerving, and inexplicably tempting. You release a pleased little noise at the woody aroma. It’s not unlike the sandalwood incense permeating the room. 

He leans into your space and you hear a shallow intake of breath. After a beat, he confides, “It’s my favourite”. 

You’re immediately disappointed, then you squash it. “Well. Thank you for sharing it with me,” your reflection stares dolefully at you from the bottom of the cup. “For sharing all of this with me. It was unexpectedly… fun”. 

He pouts, and doesn’t miss the way your eyes fall to his mouth. ”I’m not at the top without reason”. 

Sensing Satoru’s mischief, you hasten to deflect from your obvious slip up. “It’s a compliment! I just meant that this was different from what I was expecting”. 

“In a good way?” he coaxed. 

“Yes,” comes your ginger reply. You spare him an equally cautious glance. “I appreciate you letting them stay so long. I’m aware you didn’t have to”. 

After a long silence, Satoru sighs. “Admittedly this isn’t how I usually do things. But I knew I needed to take a different approach tonight”. 

“And what approach is that?” 

“To be myself,” his eyes sweep over your form. “Can I touch you?”

You startle. “That—! We aren’t supposed to be intimate until the third meeting”. 

“Not like that,” he reassures, the corners of his mouth slightly downturned as he fights a smirk. “Though it’s interesting that you would immediately assume something dirty”. 

“We’re in a pleasure district. What else would I assume?” you argued, directing a glare to your lap, “I just didn’t want to overstep house rules”. 

Satoru clicks his tongue, and the sound ricochets throughout your chest. If you had feathers they might’ve been on end, inflamed and splayed out in defense. 

“Are you determined to make this difficult for yourself?” his tone lowers, a warm and playful lilt to it that pulls the breath from your lungs; As if he was actually enjoying his time with you, despite how intransigent you were being about it all. The back and forth was unexpectedly natural, and you think, in part, that is what startled you. “I’m supposed to be seducing you, you know”.

Satoru moves impossibly closer, thighs pressing together. You pull your kimono tighter, feeling exposed under his scrutiny, “And you plan on doing that by aggravating me?” 

“No,” he draws the word out, ducking forward to meet your eyes. “You’re skittish. I thought I might hold you, that’s all”. 

“You want to… hug me?” 

“Hold,” he emphasises. “There’s not a romantic bone in your body, is there?”

Nettled, you lift your chin to glare at him, “I was under the impression you didn’t have any either”.

“You wound me,” he seems all too pleased by your sudden childishness. “Come here, then. Let me show you the difference”. 

You hesitate as his body turns toward you, arms raised a fraction and waiting for your consent. His kimono has loosened further, revealing the defined planes of his stomach. 

Closing the distance, you are pulled into his depths. Tense still, but as promised, Satoru does nothing besides embrace you. Heat seeps through silk garments, an arm secure and branding around your waist while a hand brushes reassuring strokes along your back. Tucked against his chest, soft redolence of floral spice coils around your nose and fills your throat like air. 

With eyes closed, you listen to the pitter patter behind his ribs. His pulse is unexpectedly quick. 

“Are you nervous?” 

It’s surprising that you would be the one to ask. He hums pleasantly. “I wouldn’t call it nervous,” one by one, lissome fingers ascend the length of your spine, “if there’s one thing I know, it’s that the body is always honest”. 

Satoru’s words are flint struck against steel, blood warm and rushing to fill the capillaries as you suppress a shudder. He cradles you securely and gently, as one might hold something precious to them, and your body is alight with it. Lured into a false sense of safety, surrounded by free spirited little white rabbits lovingly sewn into cloth. 

You think you might be one of them now, too. Prey. Lured into the jaws of a man that has eaten his fill many times before — you taste good, but you’re no different. You’re just a rabbit. 

He laughs at your awkwardness and it reverberates, tapering off into a long hum, “Breathe. Stop being so stubborn and let yourself enjoy this”. 

Exhaling at his instruction, you grimace through the obvious quiver and peer up at him. His features are sharper from this angle, cut deep by the shadows. He’s beautiful. A paste of clays moulded into porcelain with smithsonite irises. It isn’t a wonder why people flock to purchase his time — he’s a spectacle.

“Can I ask you something?” 

Then his eyes smile, wrinkling at the corners. It reminds you that he is human. “You don’t need my permission,” he assured. 

I do, you think. 

“Do you believe in love?”

You ache when he laughs again. This particular grin looks brittle up close, and there is a pervading sense of loneliness in it that you can’t shake. “Love is what I sell. Does that answer your question?” 

“Is it?” you ask, lips pressing into a flat line. You were bored of being spoon fed fairytales. “What you sell is short-lived desire”. 

He quietens, regarding you for a moment with dim eyes and you worry that you’ve been cruel. Amidst the silence you think he might be asking you the same thing — is it?

“Well, there’s no shortage of desire,” he says, though mostly to himself. The comment is wary, as if he’d fought something and lost, but his self assured veil is fixed. “They come here to fulfil a dream, one that I can give them. Same as you”.

Just another rabbit. You weren’t sure whether it was his lack of flaw or the idea of him treating you as any other customer that left such an unpleasant taste in your mouth. 

“I think you’ve mistaken me,” you reply curtly.  

“I don’t think I have,” he murmurs, reaching down to smooth over the curve of your cheek, speaking with amused cadence, “you only loathe that choosing me makes you exactly like everyone else”. 

“Gods. You are so—!”

Satoru intrudes into your space until his nose bumps precariously against the skin beneath your eye, practically gleaming with expectant amusement, “—Loveable?” 

Your fingers curl tight into his kimono, lest they find themselves around the pale column of his throat. “Irritating,” you fumed, reflexively pouting. 

“Yet here you are”. The pad of his index finger then presses to your jutted lower lip. He hums, seemingly incognisant of the way your entire body has frozen. “I think you like it,” he says, his voice warm and amused. “I think you like me”. 

“I don’t,” you reply. Too quickly. 

He laughs, “Then I’ll get you to like me over time. Think of it like slowly boiling a frog”. 

“That’s an awful idiom to use. What happened to supposedly trying to seduce me?”

Slowly, his finger skims over your cheek to the shell of your ear. You hold your breath. Close enough to count each white eyelash, to see the individual shadows they cast. He follows the curve with lidded eyes. Over the lobe to your jaw, down to the small gland in your throat, pulse quickening under his touch. 

“Hm, I don’t know,” he plucks your wrist from your lap and brings it to his lips. “It seems to me that it’s working”. 

Rocked by the intimacy, your tight fisted hand unfurls. Satoru watches intently. He begins at your inner wrist with a feather light peck, his lips softer than your imagination allowed, leaving behind a warm impression on your skin. 

He carries on over to the heel, then another, deliberate where he kisses your heart line. You remind yourself to breathe and the exhale comes like a tremor as he nuzzles into the shallow of your palm. Pink lips drag along your thumb, pressing a kiss to the pad with a fleeting dip of tongue, searing against the whorls and lines. 

The air is electric. Satoru repeats the motions for every one of your fingers, his gaze never wavering from yours. There’s heat spreading down your neck, prickling along your spine, pooling in your belly. His mouth quirks, equal parts knowing and amused. 

“What do you think?” he speaks with warm, alluring cadence. There’s a desperate lilt to it that you like. It sounds as though he were just as affected by this as you. “Will you choose me again?” 

That evening with Satoru left you feeling like a convalescent child. Fatigued, indulging in familiar home comforts. It wasn’t anything he did; not delivering gentle touches, nor his well practised whispers. More it was your own reactions — jittery and diffident as a newborn foal — that plagued you on sleepless nights. 

You realise that at some point a subconscious part of your being began to seek his approval in some way. To experience his pleasure, aside from yours. Not only in spite of proving yourself worthy company, but because you— 

A long groan builds in your chest, heels pressed harshly into your eye sockets. This is the exact opposite of what you thought would happen. 

—You truly did come to like him. Selfish as it may be, you wanted him to think of you while you were away, just as you thought of him. 

Gojo Satoru had crawled into your skin; made a home between your fourth and fifth rib. Your family are ecstatic, enthused by the arrival of a letter with his name inscribed on paper in heavy strokes. You tuck it away into your sleeve and read it later in the privacy of your room. 

He asks that you visit again. He makes a promise to kiss more than just your hand, if you permit it. You swallow thickly at the thought, the ink trembling in your grip where you hold it a few inches over open flame. How is it he beguiled you this easily? What had happened to your steadfast resolve? Diminished in a single meeting. 

You tuck the letter under your pillow with a sigh and write back. 

That fateful night begins with an awe inspiring procession stretched many metres down the main road. Your family had insisted on commissioning the event. Hand picked Michizane House attendants, all dressed to mirror one another, walk forward slowly wearing stoic expressions. Lantern bearers, apprentices and servants followed close at the Courtesan's side. 

There in the centre is Gojo Satoru, breathtakingly beautiful. His feet swooped outward in his approach and glided forward with trained precision, standing proud, tall and regal despite the many colourful, heavy robes and accessories swallowing his body. 

You stand by the shop in wonder, surrounded by the crowds reverential whispers. The passing mention of your name encourages you to stand taller, to show the same dignity and grace that Satoru has shown. His eyes stare right ahead — right at you, vivid blue and divine in the lamplight. Under all the cloth and jewellery you see vestiges of boyish excitement. He looks happy that you’re here. 

The onlookers seem to hold their breath as he closes in. Your heart beats wildly in the back of your throat, incognisant of the gentle pitter pattering rain from above. You’ve never seen anything like it. Waterfalls of red, gold, green spilling from his front. The geta on his feet are scuffed, scratch marks stark against the black. You cannot imagine the hours put into perfecting such a precise walk. 

Norimitsu hurriedly produces an umbrella and holds it above you. Shoulders already damp with rain, you didn’t mind it. Satoru peers down at you through wispy, dove feather eyelashes, and the hairs on the back of your neck stand up in ovation. 

You are ushered into the shop. 

The time between stepping into the genkan and being taken to Satoru’s quarters is a rush. Your new partner is taken elsewhere for assistance with removing his heavy garb. A young girl you’ve never met offers you a clean dry towel and leaves you idly waiting. 

Patting at the damp skin around your collar, you take in the surroundings. It is undoubtedly Satoru’s room, now lit only by lamplight. Golden, flickering shadows veil the space, creating a close and intimate ambiance. There is a luxurious futon in place of the low table covered in fresh bedding and pillows. You swallow at the sight of it. 

“This won’t do”. 

You yelp, covering your mouth to muffle the noise. Satoru stands in the doorway, leaning against the frame, hand still holding open the screen. He steps forward and slides it closed with a quiet hiss. You take in his state of undress; a thin pale robe draped around broad shoulders, tied loosely to emphasise a tapered waist, open at the front to expose his chest. Gone are the delicate ornaments and grand fabrics spilling forth from his obi. Brought back down to earth — back to you. 

Lost in your appraisal of him, you almost miss the pinch in his brow. He cups your throat with featherlight pressure, rubbing his fingers together as he pulls away. “You’re wet,” his frown deepens briefly. You witness the moment that his thoughts connect to sex, only to smother them in favour of keeping you comfortable. 

“You can say it, you know,” you offer wryly. He blinks, and the discontent melts to give way for mirth as he realises what it is you’re referring to. 

“Well I can’t now. It loses all impact”.

Satoru takes the towel from your grasp. He hooks a finger into the fold of your kimono and you exhale, feeling knuckles brush over your breasts. “I’ll have Megumi draw you a bath. I can’t have you getting sick on our special night”. 

Right, you think. His geniality and carefree air made it so easy to forget that this was little more than a transaction. “Please. Don’t tell me you got us nuptial cups”. 

“Okay,” he chimes, flattening his palm against your chest to iron out the creases he’d left. “I won’t tell you”. 

You clutch at his wrists, swimming in the loose fabric of his sleeves, “Satoru—!”

“A hot bath should help you relax. We don’t need to jump right in,” he murmurs firmly. Voice low and quiet, a pleasant hum in your ears. His hands are splayed over your hips now, stroking in small circular motions. “I’ll be gentle. Soften you up until you’re ready for me”. 

Your nerves lessen steadily into a simmer. Amusement curls in the corner of your mouth, “A slow boil?” 

Satoru grins; small, affectionate and sincere as he leans in, brushing his nose along the underside of your jaw. You feel a warm breath ghost over your skin. “Yeah,” he says. “Like a slow boil”. 

The Michizane house was prized for more than just sex. You are pointed to a darkened, private bathroom and overwhelmed by the scent of eucalyptus. There is flora carved into the walls, topped with extravagant vermillion gables. Megumi rises from his knees, a sash drawn across his chest to keep his sleeves back, his silhouette blurred by steam. He nods as he greets you and sets a small stool over the grate. Rigid, you take in the large, kiln shaped tub.

Megumi bows, staring over your shoulder when he rises. It reminds you of the man standing patiently at your heel, maintaining a short distance as you acclimate to reality. You thank Megumi and he stoops beneath the curtains to leave. 

Anxious as you were, the bath is calling to you. Tendrils of white dance on the water's surface. Wordlessly, you start to undress, loosening your obi until the neck gapes open and pools at your shoulders. The careful press of Satoru’s hands does not startle you. He helps slide the damp material over your shoulders while you untie the cotton belt around your waist.

Your kimono flowers open. Exhilaration frissons through your body and heat gathers under his fingers. All that’s left are your thin underclothing. You tremble as you reach back to undo the final knot. Satoru peels the layer back, stripping you bare. The temperature is pleasant on your exposed skin. Bumps arise over your arms and breasts, nipples perked up, senses sharpened. You can feel his sinuous movement in the air behind you, fingertips brushing the small of your back. 

“Get in,” he quietly instructs. 

The water is perfect. You dip your toes in first. Knee bending to climb in, your thighs part as you go; Satoru takes a sharp intake of breath that sparks like flint in your belly. Slowly, you sink into the depths, muscles bled of their rigidity. You sigh and tip back to rest your head on the edge. 

“Better?”

You peek at him from beneath half lidded eyes. Satoru has taken up station by the bathtub. He looks comically large on the small stool. His arms are folded by your head, and he lowers into the cradle, cheek turned to watch your face closely. Lazily, you reach to curl a stray strand of white, gossamer hair around your index finger, saturating it with water until it holds a curl. 

“A lot better,” you admit. It’s surprising how little you care that he’s seeing you naked. Maybe it was his commitment to honouring your boundaries that made this so much easier. A supposed sexual being, an ethereal creature of the night, so deliberately keeping his gaze above your collarbones. Picture perfect obeisance. “Will you just sit there?”

Mischief returns to his eyes. “Oh? Were you expecting something?”

“Don’t tease me,” you mumble. This is all so new to you. “I just thought you might…”

When your voice weakens with uncertainty, he presses. “Might?” 

“Bathe me”. 

You see his expression light up in the dim shadows. Satoru deigns to respond, rather, he turns to grab a bowl smaller than his palm. Inside it is a bar of perfumed soap and a cloth. He scoots closer with the cloth between long fingers, disturbing the water as he soaks it. You observe, hazy, as he lathers it with soap and moves to run it over your bicep. You lift your arm out of the water in synchrony, swallowing the swell of emotion in your throat as he covers your hand and gives a deliberate squeeze. 

“Did you enjoy the parade?” he asks. The question echoes in the otherwise silent room, almost as quiet as the rippling water. You nod, too lost in the delicious pressure of his hands as he washed over your shoulders in practised, comforting motions. He huffed a laugh under his breath and continued down the planes of your back as you sat forward. 

The words are cloying on your tongue. “You looked beautiful,” you tell him. “Just watching made my feet ache. How many years did it take to learn that?”

“That’s what you were thinking about?” he needled. You shudder at the innocent pass beneath your breasts, barely hearing him. “You were supposed to be enchanted by me. Not worrying about my ankles”. 

“I was,” you insist, voice slightly slurred. The loss of tension has left you loose lipped. “You were so incredible. I could hardly believe you were walking in my direction. I can hardly believe you’re at my side now, bathing me”. 

There’s a wealth of emotion in his eyes that you aren’t privy to. Satoru hums amusedly and bends to kiss your wet shoulder. He takes a copper jug from the shelf and fills it with water, shielding your face when he pours it over you to rinse away the bubbles. Eventually, he whispers for you to get up. 

“Best get out before you prune,” he smirks. Satoru snakes an arm around your waist as you stand. Uncaring of how wet his robe would get, he balances you against his broad chest, leaving behind the wet impression of your hand. You feel something warm pressed to your temple. It is only when you are dry, wrapped in a thin robe of your own, that you realise it was another kiss.

You’re perched on your knees in the centre of his futon. Legs numb under your body, skittish heart jumping behind your ribs. You feel more naked than ever before. Somehow the suggestion of nudity is far more overwhelming than the latter. 

Satoru sets a tray of sake cups on a tray, setting it beside the futon. You are awash with relief to see that they are the house’s regular cups. He must notice, because he chuckles. 

Pouring you a shallow cup, he asks, “Have you ever bedded a man?”

There’s a tremor in your hands when you receive the sake from him. Between sips you reply, “No”. 

“Are you scared?”

There is something in his voice, in the way his demeanour shifts, in how his face softens; it alleviates the panic. The waves become bearable. You can’t find it in yourself to fear what he might think of you now, not when he’s looking at you like he loves you. 

“I’m not scared,” and it’s the truth. 

You like it when he smiles. When he finds you funny and the bridge of his nose wrinkles. It’s no wonder some guests are dragged out kicking and screaming come morning. 

“Why didn’t you choose Yuta?” Satoru splays out beside you. He lay on his hip, legs angled toward you, elbow propped up to rest his head. There is little left to the imagination. His belt hangs low, showing the firm plains of his abdomen. Your sights linger on the fair hair leading from his navel, growing thicker below the confines of his robe. 

“Yuta?” you echo. 

He nods, reaching across your lap to pick up his own cup. The sake leaves behind a sheen on his lips. You track the swipe of his tongue, leaning into his heat. 

“Yuta is widely known to be a favourite amongst newcomers. Virgins especially,” he says. Had it not been for his neutral tone, you might’ve rushed to defensiveness. Empty drink set aside, his hand waves dismissively, “Apparently I’m too intimidating”. 

“I can see why people might think that. You are sort of… otherworldly, at first glance”.

“Then why did you pick me?”

After your third night together the relationship would be sealed. You would be forbidden from accompanying another Courtesan. While it was not a traditional relationship, it still spoke of a high level of commitment and dedication to one another. Pride reared its lion head and you struggled to find the right words. Telling the truth would expose your feelings like a shorn nerve. Lying wouldn’t sit right with you.

“This isn’t one sided,” you tell him instead. “You could’ve turned me away. You chose me too. Why?”

“Because I wanted you,” he says plainly. Then, Satoru, far braver than you, takes your face into his hands, sweeping over your cheeks. You can taste his breath, sweet from the sake. “My world is all about desire and I’m no different. I want you”. 

Satoru wears the warm lamp light well. Painted in strokes over every muscle and curve, it softens him. You let him take your weight, gently guiding you as you recline against the futon; thick and plush beneath, you are ensconced with his body heat as he presses chest to chest. Your thighs part naturally to make room, hooking lazily at either side of his waist. 

His lips brush your own in a whisper of a kiss. “Wait,” you gasp, instinctively gripping his shoulders. Satoru doesn’t pull away nor does he push. As you asked, he waits. “What if I’m terrible at it?” 

Blinking slow, he rubs his nose along your cheek. Eyelashes tickle you like a moth's wing. “Sex isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being present,” your fingers slide up the back of his neck, curling into his hair. Your eyes fall closed as he tilts to kiss each eyelid. “It’s about doing what feels good and letting go. Let me take care of you”. 

Satoru’s mouth is hot and softer than any silk you’ve worn. He takes his time with you. The kiss begins tenderly — unexpectedly chaste, but never parting for long.

It touches something deep within you. The feeling intensifies as he parts the seam of your lips with his clever tongue, and when your fingers tighten at the back of his skull, he moans. You shudder under him, thighs reflexively clenching. 

His hand comes up to cradle your crown as he gently coaxes your tongue into his mouth to suck on it, the other cascading the length of your bare calf to your thigh and kneading. Squeezing. Appreciating every inch of you. Satoru slips beneath the hem of your robe. You whine, trying to follow his lead. 

“Yours first,” you pant, pawing at his clothes. Hair mussed from your hands, Satoru looms above you with kiss bitten lips pulled into a grin. You stare as he opens his robe, letting it slide naturally over his shoulders and casting it aside. 

Your hands find smooth milky skin. He settles with his arms braced either side of your head and lets you touch. Fingertips trace the lines and divots of his stomach, feeling his muscles flinch under your touch. He’s a marvel to look at. But what you like best are the noises he makes — each part of his body is a new string to pluck. 

The white hair around his cock is trim and surprisingly soft. He’s pale with a subtle curve, the tip blushing dark pink. Of course his cock would be pretty, too. He’s big. You think he is. You wouldn’t know, not really, but long enough for you to worry. 

With newfound curiosity, you trail a finger from root to crown, spreading the prespend around his slit. You wrap yourself around his length and smile when he twitches, hips involuntarily bucking into your fist. Exhaling a shaken breath, “Can I touch you, too?”

“…Okay,” you hold his gaze and let him see the need there. A part of you wanted to be looked upon as an equal, rather than a fledgling; such thoughts you know to be ridiculous. Surely the power imbalance should lie with you, and yet. 

You turn your cheek to the pillow while he parts the robe. It’s different here. Hugged by a dewy orange hue, the darkness makes the room smaller and casts your body in another light. You’re relaxed, laid flat. A shadow curves around the soft, lower part of your stomach. Your breasts lay slightly uneven, no longer held in place by a bust belt. Your legs are spread and draped around his waist, cushiony next to what looks to be cut straight from porcelain. 

“Gods. You are divine”. 

Satoru sits back on his calves, palming at your own. The oil lamplight flickers in his crystalline eyes and he looks ravenous. He’s looking at you. 

“Satoru…” You ignore the urge to cover your face as he lifts your legs to hook one over his shoulder. You are already breathing heavily and he hasn’t touched you yet. He must know. 

With reverence, Satoru turns and presses a kiss to the arch of your foot, smiling when you reflexively kick. “Ticklish?” he murmurs. The next is pressed to your ankle, drawn out and warm, holding your gaze as he does it. “How cute”. 

Your hands twist in the sheets. He continues up your calf to your knee, then further, forging a path of lascivious words between your thighs. A shudder wracks through your body at the ghost of his breath over your sex. And when he blows lightly, purposefully, you can feel how wet you are. 

“Fuck,” he breathes. So quiet it might not have been for your ears. Heat spreads under your skin. You’re equally frustrated and aroused as he continues on, abdomen flexing where he brushes a kiss to your navel. “You’re so beautiful”. 

Satoru rubs his cheek over your stomach and takes a deep, contented breath. His hands smooth along your waist, kneading and squeezing at the flesh but never enough to bruise. Your heart jumps as he cups your breasts, mouthing the valley between, gently pushing them together to flick his tongue over each nipple. Wet with spit, he blows again, smiling as your skin pebbles as though it were reaching for him. 

“You’re perfect,” he continues, returning to his place over you. There’s a dazed look in his eyes, now. The kind a man gets when he’s hungry. “I love how reactive you are. Look at you”. 

“Satoru,” your voice echoes, desperate and barely recognisable. His face is warm in your hands — there’s a ruddiness to his cheeks that is unmistakably a blush. You’ve never felt so desired. His eyes watch as you wet your lips, and you try to pull him closer. “Kiss me again”. 

“Another?” He sounds so breathless. Even so, Satoru barely yields, holding rigid over your wanting mouth. “Where, angel? Here?” He kisses the skin below your eye. “…Here?” His lips press to the line of your jaw. 

You whine. Strengthening your grip, you force him to align with you, “Here”. 

And he does, licking into your mouth in teasing, practised motions. He tastes like his favourite sake. Teeth sink into the fat of your bottom lip, pulling gently and letting go, connected by a thin string of spit. Half lidded eyes fall to the laboured rise and fall of your breasts, his fingertip circling around your pert nipple. 

“Talk to me,” he pinches the nub between his fingers. Exhaling a short moan, you push up into the touch. “I want to hear all your sweet little noises. Will you do that for me?” 

“Feels embarrassing,” you confess thickly. The vulnerability is overwhelming; your body continues to betray your true feelings with glaring clarity, all while his own remains hidden. “It’s— it’s a lot. I want you to feel good, too”.

“Good?” A fair brow arches. Satoru rolls his hips down in one smooth motion. He slides through your folds, weighty and hot. The head of his cock bumps against your clit and you both groan in synchrony. “This is what you do to me”. 

“Me?” 

“You,” he answers easily. The thick baritone of his voice quakes through you. Your pulse throbs as he reaches down to cup your pussy. “I wanna kiss you here, too. Can I?” 

The heel of his hand alleviates the ache. Your hips instinctively grind against him, pleasure gathering low in your belly. “Yes,” you nod frantically, wanting more. “Please”. 

“So well mannered,” he teases, thumbing your lower lip. The playful air has you opening your mouth, tongue pressed to skin. You feel his cock twitch. His fingers shift where they’re splayed across your cheek and he taps your jaw. “Get these nice and wet for me”. 

Satoru smooths the pad of his thumb over your tongue, learning the grooves of your teeth. Heat flushes through you. The soft wet sounds of spit pooling into your cheeks rings in your ears as he pulls back, only to slide in another. Two, his middle and index, splitting them so they frame your tongue and stretch your mouth. 

“You really are gorgeous”. 

Embarrassment floods through you, yet somehow, his earnest praise only feeds your arousal. You buck against the hand that has slowly begun to grind against your pussy. Sex is about feeling good, he’d said. It’s about letting go. 

You meet his eyes and steel your resolve. Cutting free of shame you wrap your lips around his knuckles and suck unabashedly. His lashes flutter, jaw slacking with a drawn out groan. “There you are,” he murmurs, retracting his fingers. They’re coated in saliva, glistening. 

Before you can mourn the loss they’re sliding over your clit and the complaint dies in your throat. He spreads you open. Pupils dilated and gleaming, he descends your torso and rolls his tongue forward obscenely to flick the bud of your clit between the V of his fingers. 

Your hands take root in his hair. He is undeterred by the clench of your legs either side of his head. He leans forward to consume you completely, eyes falling shut in a show of pure indulgence. Covetous, he verbalises his satisfaction with a rumbling in his chest and it vibrates against your sex. 

The beat of your heart ricochets through your stomach. Satoru’s tongue glides over you, languid and soft. Wherever a pleasured sound falls past your lips he maintains rhythm and pace. “Fuck, Satoru. That’s—” you keen when he gently sucks your clit between his lips, finger hooked and pressed to your entrance. 

Satoru’s sinks into you, a careful back and forth, relaxing the tension with his tongue as he works his way in. It's foreign. He’s bigger, longer than yours. Not unlike the reverential way he treated your mouth, he pulls out when you’re comfortable and pushes in another. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks. You blink through the warm haze. There’s a sheen of spit and arousal covering his chin. 

You shake your head no, “Feels… feels really good”. 

“It’ll feel even better soon,” he promises, maintaining a delicious rhythm. Fingers curl upwards inside of you, a come hither motion towards your belly. That intense feeling tightens and your body coils in on itself, thighs flexing against his ears with hips bucking into his hand. 

“Oh—!” He angles his head to unrelentingly flicker his tongue over your clit and your heels dig into his back. “Satoru!”

The breath is caught in your throat. From your fingers to your toes, something all consuming forces your muscles rigid and your spine arches upward like a bow as you crest. Then the air is pushed from your lungs. All at once, the sensation lessens, diffuses, and warms your body from the inside out in gentle pulses. 

You hear the fond intonation of your name. It sounds so natural in his mouth. You’re awash with afterglow. Was sex always like this? You felt as though you were floating. Releasing a satisfied sound, you slump into the futon. Satoru laughs and the room glows a little brighter. 

“Done already?” he asks, massaging your calf. There is a hint of pride in his voice. “We have all night together, you know”. 

“No,” you mumble, teeth worrying your lip as you push up onto your elbows. He’s hard, you notice. Hung heavily between your bodies. You want that power at your disposal — to render him as useless as you. “I want you to cum, too”. 

There’s a pinch in his brow. Satoru shifts with you and squeezes at the fat around your hips, “You don’t need to push yourself”. 

You try and fail to articulate it, stringing together a breathless request, “No I—I want you to cum because of me”. 

Satoru laughs and the sound dwindles into a light groan as he squeezes himself. “Angel. All of this is because of you”. 

“Then fuck me,” you say. “Properly”. 

The lamplight flickers, moving the shadows on his face. He’s gazing at you from above, big, hungry. Exhilaration frissons down your spine. Satoru manoeuvres your hips, dragging your lower half unceremoniously into his lap and slipping a spare pillow beneath you. 

When the head of his cock catches, you instinctively clench. “Breathe for me,” he coaches tenderly, and you let the tension go. The stretch is unfamiliar and uncomfortable, but as you exhale the sting lessens until there is no pain at all. Skin to skin, Satoru lingers patiently in the cradle of your hips, letting you adjust to his length. 

“Move,” you rasp. “Please”. 

He pulls out with an indelible pace. You’re still sensitive, but it feels good in an odd way. Melting into the sheets to savour the drag of his cock. Your breasts shake with every rock of his hips, blue eyes enraptured and following the movement. Bending to cage you in, Satoru captures your lips in a deep kiss, groaning loud into your mouth with his hand laid flat and pressing to your belly. 

“Taking me so well,” he rumbles. “I knew you would. Wanted you the second I saw you”. 

That sensation returns. It begins like a trickle, the heady pleasure slowly seeping and growing in intensity until it’s an enormous wave. He indulges, and you arch into his touch as he continues to transverse the length of your body to tuck into the crook of your neck.

“Fuck. Feel that?” the words press against your jugular. His hips rear back for emphasis, “You keep sucking me back in”. 

Inhibitions lost, you tether yourself to him, nails embedded in the pinked skin of his shoulders. You stutter out a warning, “Fuck, Satoru. I think— I’m going to—!”

“There you go,” he punctuates the demand with a firm thrust. Eyes squeezing shut, your arms lock around the expanse of his back, toes curling as your legs seize forcefully around his waist. More overwhelming than the first, you clench down on his cock as you’re tipped over the crest. 

Satoru carries you through it with the languid undulation of his hips, peppering kisses to your cheek. His own broken whines are hot against your skin. Your arms are limp, still clinging enough to keep him close. You don’t want to let go. 

That thought passes just as his breath hitches and he abruptly pushes up from your chest. Gripping the base of his cock he pulls out, he fucks desperately into his fist and cums over your bare stomach. Satoru exhales a long moan and the sound tapers into a sigh. 

Regaining his bearings, Satoru murmurs your name again. You watch dazedly as he lifts his head. The corner of his mouth curls up into a satiated smile as he notices you’re already looking back at him. Leaning to press a kiss to your forehead, the room falls unnaturally quiet. The dregs of afterglow slowly dissipate, and reality creeps into the forefront of your mind. 

“Are you in pain?”

There’s urgency in his expression and you realise he has sensed your change in mood. “Not…” you wriggle slightly beneath him. “Wow. No pain. I’m just a little sore”. 

“You felt incredible,” his face softens with relief and glances to where your bor bodies once connected. You grimace as he drags a finger through the cum on your belly. “Rest here. I’ll fetch something to clean us both up with and have Megumi bring some water to drink”. 

What follows is akin to a lovesick haze. A memory before you can even register it. You awake to the brilliant ochre of the morning, swaddled in thick blankets and laid next to a warm body. Satoru has you cradled to his naked chest, rising and falling with shallow breath, sleeping soundly. 

The sunlight has flooded into the room and that is enough to conclude that it is long after dawn. Your ears prick at the sound of movement in the rooms around you, and the events of last night flash unbidden through your mind. Noises like that are commonplace in a pleasure house — still, you hope nobody heard you.

Cautious as not to wake him, you lift your head to survey your surroundings. The atmosphere is so starkly different during the day. All the allure and taboo is gone. It is just a man's bedroom. The only space that truly belonged to Satoru. 

It tasted bitter in your mouth. 

“What’re you thinking about?”

Satoru had roused so easily. You wonder if he always slept so light. “I was thinking that…” you pause, giving your next words some thought. “I think you don’t… belong in this place”. 

Satoru readjusts himself and meets your gaze from above, bracing over your body with one arm. His head tilts, lazing against his shoulder as he watches you, tracing a lithe finger over the swell of your cheek. 

“Oh? What will you do?” his voice is tired, lilted as if he were mocking you. But he’s smiling, too, and it is unlike the others — soft and sad. His vulnerability leaked through the crescent-shaped indentations you’d left behind. “Will you buy my freedom and deprive my other loyal customers of their fulfilment?” 

“I don’t care about their fulfilment,” you mutter, eyes falling to the space beneath the linens where your legs are still entangled with his. He laughs. 

“You’re more selfish than I thought,” his fingertips smooth along your jaw, gently tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him. “And then what? You’ll keep me all for yourself?” 

It reveals a lot, you think, that his first assumption is you’d still expect him to serve you somehow. All Satoru has ever done in his life is give, give, give. He was beautiful, strong and skilled, and such gifts from the Gods were obligated to be shared. 

But as he said, you are selfish. When his thumb skims along the bow of your lips, they stretch into a promising smile. “No,” you tell him. “You can go anywhere you like”. 

It’s a pleasure to watch his expression wane, the push and pull of hope and disbelief. Now, his eyes are brighter than you’ve ever seen them. “Anywhere?” he breathes. 

“Anywhere,” turning into his palm, you kiss the heel and feel a tremor rush through him. “Be whoever you want. Just Satoru”. 

A brief silence stretches thin. And then he laughs again, an abrupt sound. Satoru dips to press your foreheads together; close enough that you can see the dreamer's expression on your face reflected in his own pupils, and individually count the striking white lashes along his waterline. 

“Selfish and cruel,” he murmurs fondly. Instead of warmth, you suddenly feel cold. “Even if that were possible, I have responsibilities here. Megumi, Yuji and the others are here”. 

“But—!”

“—I have influence. High ranking customers. I keep those kids safe here, and I bring in enough money that they can enjoy their youth before they’re made to work,” he continues. As it goes on, his voice is steadily harder; the cradle along your jaw firmer. 

Brows pinched, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed forward. Your nose bumps against his cheek, lips awkwardly aligned — you let him kiss you. It’s too quick, and almost punishing. 

Pulling back, he rasps, “It is my job to sell dreams. Not yours”. 

That’s right. How could you forget?

He cups your face again, as though he didn’t want to let go. The pad of his thumb strokes over your cheek, tracing a shallow crescent shape beneath your eye. You’ve never felt so helpless.

You leave the Michizane house soon after with a smile painted on your face. It will not slip, not until later in the night. You cannot allow Yaga to question Satoru’s treatment of you. A courtesan’s duty is to appease. Norimitsu scans your body, entirely lacking subtlety, and steps forward to assist you into the rickshaw without a word. You’re thankful for it. 

When you do not return to the shop, a letter arrives. The parchment is perfumed with a comfortingly familiar scent. Satoru inscribes his longing onto the page. He’s asking if you’ll visit with him again, and in the bottom corner he has cleverly convinced Megumi and Yuji to sign their names alongside his own. Your chest tightens. 

Weak, you reach for your ink stone and brush.

Satoru sold dreams — and yours had been to be loved. You wondered if that was his dream, too.

#jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader

[mangoisms]

i want your hands, your future plans (to the bitter end)

━ pairing: tim drake x f!reader

━ summary: A night on the town and a first-time encounter with Tim as Red Robin — and knowing that, too.

━ word count: 3.3k

━ contains: super brief mention of stalking (within the normal canon-typical range), established relationship, suggestive content

━ a/n: technically takes place as an extension of my other tim fic, i'll be the dangerous ledge (you be the parachute), but prior reading not required! title is from this song

━ you can read this on ao3 as well

“And he just left! He left! At the first sign of trouble, he is gone and he leaves me behind! You know, I’d get it if it were out first date or something, ‘cause like, whatever, you don’t owe me anything — would still be nice but it’s not something I’d get mad at since it’s Gotham but… you know?”

You do know. And you do think it’s fucked up that Amir’s boyfriend abandoned them at their date to Amusement Mile after a false alarm about the Joker. 

It’s just that… three men have been tailing you guys for the last two blocks. 

You two didn’t have that long of a walk after coming out of the station; Amir lives in the Upper West Side like you, their apartment building only a few blocks from Rose Oaks, you would find out. But it doesn’t take long for others to notice an opening and take it. Not in this city. 

Amir hasn’t noticed yet. You only noticed because, well, when you have a vigilante for a boyfriend, you’re guaranteed a crash course in all manners of suspicious activity and whether danger is on the horizon. 

And danger is very much on the horizon. 

You already pressed the panic button on your watch, though. Tim outfitted it. A standard WayneTech smartwatch configured with a panic button that sends your location to him and can also be sent to the others. 

It’s just a matter of continuing on your way. Keeping an ear out. Wondering when the two of you need to start running. 

A breeze flutters your sundress. You frown a little bit. You aren’t dressed for it. Not with your wedges. Neither of you are. Amir wanted to drown their sorrows in margaritas at a new restaurant in the Fashion District and you went along for moral support. They’ll probably fare better than you with their ballet flats. 

You do have a taser. Voltage as debilitating as Dick’s escrima sticks. Or so Tim tells you. You’ve, fortunately, never encountered those up close and personally. 

You hope it won’t get that far. You are strong and independent. But strong and independent can only get you so far in a city like this and you are secure enough to not mind relying on your boyfriend for help. Especially since he’s, you know. A vigilante. 

Any of them could help. You don’t mind. Send Cass or Steph or Helena. They can save you any day. 

But that’s not necessary. 

A choked yelp stops you. Amir stops their rambling, tensing. You spare a glance over your shoulder and watch as the three men go down quickly. 

“Woah,” they mutter, the both of you now turned, watching Red Robin step away, men down for the count, hands cuffed, pained groans escaping them. 

“I didn’t hear them,” they mumble. “Shit. Shit.”

You squeeze their arm. “You okay?”

They look a little pale. Which is saying something, with their russet skin. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Just…” They shake their head, watching Tim — Red Robin — straighten up. “Never seen one of these guys in person before.”

“Me, neither.”

And that isn’t a lie. Not technically. This is your first time with Tim as Red Robin for a… prolonged period of time. And it’s… not bad. Not bad at all, you think, eyeing the imposing figure he cuts with his suit, Kevlar molding to broad shoulders and a lean, muscled figure. The shadows from the nearby street lamp make the panes of his face even sharper, prettier, in the night. 

But you have to remember your position here. This is Red Robin, one of the Bats, one of Gotham’s many vigilantes. Not Tim Drake, your boyfriend. Even if you saw him off tonight, helped clasp his cape to his suit and press the domino mask to his face, you cannot give anything away. 

“Are you two alright?” he asks and you immediately notice the modulator, changing the pitch and tone of his voice. Most likely for Amir’s sake. You hate it but understand the need. 

“Yeah,” Amir says, a little dumbfounded. “Yeah, man. I mean you…”

“You saved us,” you finish, looking at him. It’s hard to tell where his eyes might be with the white lids of the mask but the tilt of his head is in your direction. 

A spark of energy skitters up your spine as a moment passes and he drags his eyes off you. 

“Just doing my job,” he says, demure, something about it amusing to you, making you glance to the side, lips pressed together to suppress a smile. “Can I walk you two home?”

“Oh, you don’t have to,” Amir says. “I’m sure you have, uh, other things to be doing right now…”

Even if that were so, Tim is unlikely to leave you two alone. If he won’t walk with you, he’ll shadow you. You know he will. And honestly, you’d like him to do it, too. But Amir is just being nice. Trying not to burden Red Robin, a figure that, arguably, has many burdens, especially regarding the city. 

“I don’t mind,” he says, then pauses and hastens to add, “as long as you two are fine with it, I mean.”

Amir looks at you, a question in their dark eyes. You just nod at them, letting them know the decision is in their hands. 

They glance back at him. “Alright. Sure. We’re not far. Won’t keep you long.”

“Like I said. I don’t mind.”

He falls into step with you, with him nearest to the street and Amir between you. For the best, probably.

For a minute, it is painfully awkward.

Well, painfully awkward for Amir.

You? You’re just trying to stave off a smile. You never quite anticipated you’d ever have to play this game of pretend with Tim but it’s… fun. A little thrilling, if you want to be truly honest. A secret the two of you share. With poor Amir caught right in the middle of it. 

“Should thank you,” Amir suddenly starts after a couple minutes of silence. “Since, like she said, you saved us.” 

“Just doing my job,” he says, echoing his earlier words. 

You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. It’s a monumental thing, acting normally here, pretending you don’t know Red Robin personally, intimately, but your coworkers know you’re fond of the superheroes of your world, of the vigilantes of this city, particularly Red Robin, so, you think, trying to justify it, Amir would think it odd if you kept quiet this entire time. 

Even if, should they have noticed your odd silence, an entirely plausible excuse would be that you were too nervous to speak with him…

But you think his recklessness is rubbing off on you. You can’t help yourself. So —

“Doing more than that, I think, walking us home,” you say lightly, conversationally. 

An electrifying tension flexes in the air between you, despite Amir’s obvious presence physically between you, and you get hit with the nearly unbearable urge to get your hands on him. 

Doesn’t help that something about him being suited up like this sort of… really does something for you. 

The name leaves something to be desired, that’s for sure, and you’ve teased him about it since Red Robin (the restaurant) isn’t even that good, like their whole thing is bottomless fries but, like, the fries aren’t good and it’s kind of embarrassing for them. A little embarrassing for Tim. But not as embarrassing as going by Drake, that’s for sure. And sure, yeah, Red Robin is supposed to be after a bird but… you know? The connection is impossible to ignore. 

But…

Questionable naming decisions aside, the suit itself, the suit he designed, all blacks and reds with sparse accents of yellow, it’s nice. Good. Great. Flattering for the muscles you know he has. 

Your face warms. The summer heat of the night edges on uncomfortable as a different kind of heat settles inside you. 

He clears his throat. You bite your lip. 

“It’s the right thing to do. And I don’t really have anywhere else to be right now so… might as well make myself useful. Personal escort isn’t really the worst of what I sometimes have to do. Preferred, maybe.”

You barely stop yourself from saying Preferred, huh? 

Remembering your present company. 

Don’t want to tip them off. And also, they know you have a boyfriend. Would look really bad if you started flirting. Even if it is with the one vigilante you admit to liking quite a bit. But your real life romantic relationship is a little more important than what is perceived as a parasocial relationship to others.

Of course, the truth allows you to stretch those boundaries. But you only like Red Robin — really like, you mean — because you know that is Tim. Your Tim. So. 

“I’m sure we’re better company than a couple of goons,” Amir says. 

A short laugh. “You’ve got that right.”

“Prettier, too,” they add, arm tightening around yours. A teasing squeeze. 

You chuckle. 

“I would also have to strongly agree there,” he says smoothly. 

Amir hums, a curious note to it, but one you don’t get to look too closely at as they point ahead, at the brick apartment building on the next block, sandwiched between a bodega and nail salon. 

“That’s me.”

Once you get close enough to the entrance, Tim lingers behind, letting you two have your space as you follow Amir to the door. 

They dig through their tote bag, eyes on your face, barely illuminated by a dim street lamp nearby.

“I’d ask if you were going to be okay but I don’t think I need to,” they remark quietly, voice low enough to carry only to you, eyebrows arched. 

You blink. “Why not?”

A furtive glance at your vigilant (heh) guardian, who looks out at the street. Surveying your surroundings. Trying his absolute hardest not to eavesdrop on your conversation even though you know he must be dying to. Being a vigilante for over a decade erodes some of the more basic social courtesies. You don’t let him get away with it on most days. Certainly not now since it seems like something is about to be implied. 

“Sort of seems like he likes you,” they say, finally fishing out their key and fixing the bag over their shoulder. 

“I don’t think we interacted that much to get that kind of impression. Also, boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” they say, grinning now, mischief sparkling in their dark eyes. “But Tim likes Red Robin, too, doesn’t he?”

You sputter a laugh. Then catch the most minute twitch of Tim’s body in your peripheral, head moving like he wants to look before he stops himself.

You quell your laughter, lips twitching still. “You’re kidding.”

“No,” they say very assuredly, voice still low — thankfully. “I am not. Could take him home. Have a little fun.”

You laugh again. Harder. Take him home. You will take him home. (At least you hope so. He agreed to patrol but didn’t agree to stay out as late as the others like to.) It’s just you aren’t taking him home to your boyfriend. Because he is your boyfriend.

But they don’t know that. And honestly, you’re too amused to mind this whole thing. It’s funny. Tim’ll get a kick out of it, too.

“I’m just saying,” they say, shrugging, finally moving to unlock the door. “You and Timbo are definitely a nice package together. If he had any sense, he’d take the opportunity.”

“Oh my god.”

“Just saying. Text me when you get back, okay?”

You smile. “I will.”

They wink, then slip inside, door rattling shut behind them. 

It’s hard to keep a grin down. Your cheeks ache with the force of it, face hot. 

God.

Take him home. Honestly. 

Shaking your head, still grinning, you turn around. Not surprised when you find Tim already turned, looking back at you, head cocked. No pretenses to uphold here. Not anymore. The thought makes your heart pound, a dizzying kind of heat taking hold of you once more, frenetic energy crawling under your skin and making your fingers twitch to touch him. 

But that can wait.

Instead, you gesture forward and he nods. The two of you begin your walk to Rose Oaks, which is a couple more blocks ahead. 

“Seemed like you two were having fun,” he remarks a minute later. The modulator is shut off, much to your relief. Though it hardly helps your growing desire to shove him into the nearest alleyway and kiss him breathless. Worsens it, if anything, that warm, familiar tenor gliding over you. 

“Amir was being very funny.”

“Oh?”

“I believe they were implying that you liked me. With the other underlying implication that I should take you home because of it.”

“Really now.”

You bite your lip, grin uncontainable. “Mmhm. And when I brought up the whole, you know, boyfriend thing, they said, Well, he likes Red Robin, too, doesn’t he?”

That startles a laugh out of him. 

You can’t help but join. 

It eases some of the tension. Tim drifts closer, still chuckling, gloved hand brushing the small of your back.

“They’re a riot as always, then,” he says, then sobers a bit, moving closer, until your elbow brushes his ribs. “Are you okay?”

You flash him a small smile. “I’m okay. Got a little anxious but I wasn’t alone, which sounds horrible but —”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “It makes sense. It’s worse to be on your own. I’m glad you weren’t.”

“I’m just glad you were able to get here. I wasn’t expecting you specifically but it was nice.”

“I was in the area.”

“Well, thank you,” you say, sending him a soft smile.

Fingers skim yours. “Of course.”

You walk in silence for a minute. His hand brushes yours repeatedly. Gloved, still, but you don’t mind, finally hooking your pinky with his, feeling the textured, non-slip material. Odd but not unpleasant. He gives your fingers a gentle squeeze.   

You let them wander, your fingers tangling briefly, before your thumb skims the heel of his palm, fingers tracing over his palm, then traveling upward. You’re rewarded with the barest silver of warm skin from where the glove and sleeve do not meet. Your thumb skims it once, twice, then he’s moving and you’re moving, back, back, back into an empty alleyway until you’re pressed up against the wall, his arms around you, pulling you flush against him.

Though, you aren’t actually pressed to the wall. The arms that are wrapped around you save you a couple inches between the back of your dress and the brick wall. You wouldn’t care about it, too consumed with this moment, breathless as he curls around you, but Tim does, he considers it, and you love him a little bit more because of it. 

Your heart pounds so hard, you’re certain he can feel it, with how close you two are. Even through the thick Kevlar that protects him. 

Summers in Gotham City are hot and humid. Extremely during the day and moderately during the night. It still doesn’t compare to the heat inside you, burning for him. Your hands clutch his shoulders, fingers digging into the nearly-impenetrable material until the textured grooves of it are imprinted into your skin.

Tim breathes a little unsteadily, like you, bent close, breath ghosting over your mouth, smelling sharply of mint. On longer stretches of patrol when not much happens, he chews gum to keep awake. A special kind Bruce makes in-house and can be safely swallowed or if spit out, dissolves. Better than sustaining on coffee and energy drinks since, if they need to jump into action, most of the time, they end up leaving their trash behind, getting too caught up with everything. 

They’ll go back and clean it up but you’ve heard that it’s a little annoying sometimes, having to backtrack, having to do it at the end of long nights when they’d just like to go home and crash. The gum leaves no traces and doesn’t affect them, either. 

Some of them still drink that stuff, anyway, though. Duke is fond of an atrocious combination of Monster energy drinks and Takis. Cass is, too. His influence, you’re certain. 

But now, you’d just like to taste that mint for yourself. 

“Tim,” you whisper.

“Names.”

“I’m not calling you Red Robin like this.”

A soft chuckle. The sound sends goosebumps breaking out over your skin despite the warmth of the night.

He leans his forehead to yours. You close your eyes, basking in his presence. You can smell his shampoo. Lingering bits of his cologne. He had lunch with some WE board members today. Doesn’t hurt to stay on their good side, even if he doesn’t work with WE as much as before. 

You nuzzle your nose against his cheek. He smiles. You just know it’s so terribly lovesick. Mostly because you’re wearing a similar one on your lips right now.. 

“So…”

“So?”

“About what Amir was saying… what are my chances of going home with you tonight?”

You can’t help your smile from widening into your grin, your cheeks aching with the force of it, heady affection and love rushing through you, unspooling in your chest like cotton candy. Insane how much you love him. How attracted you are to him. Doesn’t matter how long it’s been, you think it’ll always be that way. You’ll always want more. More, more, more. All that he can give.

Maybe because of his responsibilities to Gotham. Maybe because you know you won’t have him entirely because of that. Maybe just because you love him. 

Maybe all of that. 

Now isn’t the time to think on it. 

“Pretty good, I’d say.”

“Just ‘pretty good?’ Not sure if I’m happy with that.”

“I could stand to be convinced.”

That’s all you need to say.

His lips meet yours in the next second and you press that much closer to him, suddenly wishing you didn’t have the thick Kevlar between you, that you could feel his skin against yours. But that’s hardly appropriate for a Gotham alleyway so you take what you get. 

The mint makes your mouth tingle deliciously. His breath is almost cold when his lips part, teeth nipping your bottom lip, eliciting a shudder from you. The kiss deepens, stealing your breath, mind blanking, the drag of his tongue against yours making your knees weak, a bit too hot and heavy for right now, a bit too intense, but not unwelcome, no, not at all. He gets like this sometimes, from the adrenaline of what he does, and you hardly mind alleviating the fervent energy inside him. Although alleviating might be too kind a word. Right now, you think, your nails scratching through his hair, windswept and windblown from patrol, a quiet, wanting sound escaping him at the feeling, you two have become more like a feedback loop, endlessly repeating, his desire feeding yours and yours feeding his. 

You don’t imagine he is complaining. 

You’re panting when you two separate and his lips are red more than pink now, on their way to being swollen. You’d love to see that to completion. Among other things. 

Tim can tell. Lips pulling upward. Smug. Pleased. You enjoy the sight too much to knock him down a couple pegs. Not to mention you’re still trying to get your brain back online. Always takes a bit when he kisses you like that. All open wanting and desire, like he wants to consume you. The thought makes your face hot. More hot.

“Patrol?” you ask breathlessly. Just a confirmation before you take the plunge.

“Wouldn’t start something I couldn’t finish, gorgeous. So? What’s the verdict?”

You take a deep breath. “The verdict is… take me home. Right now.”

“Gladly.”

#tim drake x reader #red robin x reader #dc comics x reader #dc comics imagine #tim drake imagine #red robin imagine #tim drake x you #tim drake x y/n #red robin x you #red robin x y/n