Palestine Masterlist

Palestine Masterlist 

(this is a list of informative sources, materials, stores, charities, books, documentaries etc to better help Palestinians, learn about the Palestinian struggle, and educate yourselves on us as a people. This list will be added on to with more links as they are recommended to me.)

Introduction to Palestine: 

Decolonize Palestine:

Palestine 101

Rainbow washing 

Frequently asked questions 

Myths 

Al-Nakba (documentary)

The Question of Palestine (book)

The Hundred Years’ War on Palestine: A History of Settler Colonialism and Resistance, 1917-2017 (book)

The Ethnic Cleansing of Palestine (book)

IMEU (Institute for Middle East Understanding):

Quick Facts - The Palestinian Nakba 

The Nakba and Palestinian Refugees 

The Gaza Strip

The Nakba did not start or end in 1948 (Article) 

Nakba Day: What happened in Palestine in 1948? (article)

Donations and charities: 

Al-Shabaka

Electronic Intifada 

Adalah Justice Project 

IMEU Fundraiser 

Medical Aid for Palestinians 

Palestine Children’s Relief Fund 

Addameer

Muslim Aid

Palestine Red Crescent

Gaza Mutual Aid Patreon

Books:

A New Critical Approach to the History of Palestine

The Idea of Israel: A History of Power and Knowledge

Hidden Histories: Palestine and the Eastern Mediterranean

The Balfour Declaration: Empire, the Mandate and Resistance in Palestine

Queer Palestine and the Empire of Critique

From Haven to Conquest: Readings in Zionism and the Palestine Problem until 1948

Captive Revolution - Palestinian Women’s Anti-Colonial Struggle within the Israeli Prison System

Palestine: A Four Thousand Year History

Except for Palestine: The Limits of Progressive Politics

Before Their Diaspora: A Photographic History of The Palestinians 1876-1948

The Battle for Justice in Palestine Paperback

Uncivil Rites: Palestine and the Limits of Academic Freedom

Palestine Rising: How I survived the 1948 Deir Yasin Massacre

The Transformation of Palestine: Essays on the Origin and Development of the Arab-Israeli Conflict

A Land Without a People: Israel, Transfer, and the Palestinians 1949-1996

The Iron Cage: The Story of the Palestinian Struggle for Statehood

A History of Modern Palestine: One Land, Two Peoples

Where Now for Palestine?: The Demise of the Two-State Solution

Terrorist Assemblages - Homonationalism in Queer Times

Militarization and Violence against Women in Conflict Zones in the Middle East

The one-state solution: A breakthrough for peace in the Israeli-Palestinian deadlock

The Persistence of the Palestinian Question: Essays on Zionism and the Palestinians

Fateful Triangle: The United States, Israel and the Palestinians

The False Prophets of Peace: Liberal Zionism and the Struggle for Palestine

Ten myths about Israel

Blaming the Victims: Spurious Scholarship and the Palestinian Question

Image and Reality of the Israel-Palestine Conflict, New and Revised Edition

Israel and its Palestinian Citizens - Ethnic Privileges in the Jewish State

Palestinians in Israel: Segregation, Discrimination and Democracy

Palestinian Culture:

Mountain against the Sea: Essays on Palestinian Society and Culture

Palestinian Costume

Traditional Palestinian Costume: Origins and Evolution

Tatreez & Tea: Embroidery and Storytelling in the Palestinian Diaspora

Embroidering Identities: A Century of Palestinian Clothing (Oriental Institute Museum Publications)

The Palestinian Table (Authentic Palestinan Recipes)

Falastin: A Cookbook

Palestine on a Plate: Memories from My Mother’s Kitchen

Palestinian Social Customs and Traditions

Palestinian Culture before the Nakba

Tatreez & Tea (Website)

The Traditional Clothing of Palestine

The Palestinian thobe: A creative expression of national identity

Embroidering Identities:A Century of Palestinian Clothing

Palestine Traditional Costumes

Palestine Family 

Palestinian Costume

Encyclopedia of World Dress and Fashion, v5: Volume 5: Central and Southwest Asia

Tent Work in Palestine: A Record of Discovery and Adventure

Documentaries, Films, and Video Essays:

Jenin, Jenin

Born in Gaza

GAZA 

Wedding in Galilee 

Omar

5 Broken Cameras

OBAIDA

Indigeneity, Indigenous Liberation, and Settler Colonialism (not entirely about Palestine, but an important watch for indigenous struggles worldwide - including Palestine)

Edward Said - Reflections on Exile and Other Essays

Palestine Remix: 

AL NAKBA

Gaza Lives On

Gaza we are coming

Lost cities of Palestine 

Stories from the Intifada 

Last Shepards of the Valley

Organizations and News 

Boycott Divest and Sanction (BDS)

Defense for Children in Palestine

Palestine Legal 

United Nations relief and works for Palestinian refugees in the Middle East (UNRWA)

National Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP)

Times of Gaza

Middle East Eye

Middle East Monitor

Mohammed El-Kurd

Muna El-Kurd 

Electronic Intifada 

Dr. Yara Hawari 

Mariam Barghouti

Omar Ghraieb

Steven Salaita

Noura Erakat

The Palestinian Museum N.G.

Palestine Museum US

Artists for Palestine UK 

Muhammad Smiry

Eye on Palestine

AKIN TO HEARTBREAK (3.2K)

BAKUGOU KATSUKI X READER

synopsis: how can you say you don't need him when he so wretchedly needs you?

warnings: flreader, nsfw, minors dni, established relationship, miscommunication, yn doesnt 'need' bkg, make-up sex, handjob, fingering (f), cunnilingus, dramatic bkg, doggy style, fluffy&intimate, emotional bkg, needy bkg, what more do i tag lol

a/n: for you, saint @saintokkotsu !! thank you for being so lovely to me. based off that one lyric in i drink wine by adele!

what bakugou feels right now is akin to heartbreak. his heart is broken, raw and missing every other beat. instead of crying over whatever is left of his heart, the feelings have morphed into silent rage, especially at the fact you’re sitting beside him in his car unaware of it all.

he’s not sure if he’s being dramatic, he did only hear less than half of the conversation you were having with your coworker but it’s enough to feel as if his head is being dunked underwater repeatedly with no time to breathe for air.

you’re confused and unsure, as shown by your finger tapping on your knee instead of grabbing his hand like you usually do. your boyfriend looks like a bubbling pot beside you about to spill over.

“did you have a bad day at work?” 

your voice makes him wince, memories of how it sounded just this morning, joyful and loving, embarrassing him. 

“yeah,” it’s a lie, it sounds burnt on his tongue.

“ah,” you nod in a show of understanding but really, nothing has changed. 

in your year of knowing bakugou, half of that time being in a relationship with him, you’ve never quite seen him like this. jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, fingers so tight on his steering wheel you think it’s close to snapping. it’s not the explosive anger you see the news reporters talk about or you hear stories of his friends telling. rather, it’s stone cold brewing. you think this anger is reserved for you.

“did i do something?” you whisper.

you sound hurt and that makes bakugou ache.

he doesn’t know how to reply to you and luckily, he’s just pulled up outside of his apartment so he can starve it off for longer. he doesn’t even know why he still wants to be in your presence but he desperately does. this is his love, still aflame during his anger.

he parks and presses a button so his car engine shuts down. with no rumble of the engine, you’re both sitting in quiet. you make no turn to move as bakugou opens his car door.

“katsuki, i am not coming out until you tell me what’s wrong. there’s no point in me coming inside if you’re not talking to me.”

bakugou freezes. you say the words to his back, measuring how all the muscles are tense beneath his long sleeve black t-shirt. he huffs, then groans aloud before roughly wiping his face.

“i heard what you said earlier.”

“to who?”

“your fuckin’ coworker, that guy.”

he was leaning outside your work building, waiting for you to come out.

“your sugar daddy’s waiting for you outside, huh?”

bakugou’s never liked that guy, he always seemed slimy and hopelessly in love with you. you just called it his ‘boyfriend brain’ whenever he spoke about it.

you snort, “he is not my sugar daddy.”

“doesn’t he practically buy you everything? new bag, new shoes? why’re you even working?”

bakugou knows your tones like your facial expressions. you’re disgusted when you reply, “how is this any of your business? i don’t use my boyfriend for money. i don’t even need him.”

that’s all bakugou heard before a needle popped his heart and blood began to spill over his shoes.

if you don’t need him, why are you with him? what is your relationship built on if there’s nothing you need from him? all his other ones need him. his presence to save, his strength, his knowledge. his parents have always needed him to keep their relationship strong, his agency is built on their need for him to stay alive. everyone needs something from him. how can you say you don’t when he so wretchedly needs you? 

he retreats into his car seat, slamming the door shut. silence swallows you both.

you want to question why he was even listening to your conversation but it’s pointless anyway. you’re not sure which part of your conversation would deserve this reaction.

“how much did you hear? what was wrong with what i said?”

the first time he properly looks at you today comes with an annoyed, nasty frown.

“you said you didn’t fuckin’ need me.”

now you frown.

“i said i didn’t need you, yes.”

a tether of his temper snaps, “so why the fuck are we together?”

“don’t talk to me like that,” you snap.

silence. both of you watch a man across the street walking his dog.

“we’re together because i love you but i don’t need you. if something happens and you leave, i’ll still be here. alive.” you watch his face for a reaction but he’s still looking ahead. “and he was talking about your money. i work for my own.” 

bakugou realises he’s never admitted to himself the things he needs. he doesn’t ever need people the same way people need him. minus perhaps other heroes for certain missions. though this premature heartbreak he’s been feeling, a rush from zero to a hundred, makes him think.

“i need you. without you, i’d be nothing.”

you shake your head softly and bakugou turns to look at you. you take his hand and it’s warm.

“that’s not true, gorgeous. you’d still be bakugou katsuki. you’d still be dynamight.”

“i don’t want any of that if it’s not with you.” you kiss his knuckles. 

“katsuki. baby,” you take a deep breath, “i think you’re used to people relying on you all the time. your family, the country, the world. i want you to know i want you for you. i don’t want anything from you. i don’t need you for your money or your strength. you make me better and happy by being you. there’s nothing more i ask for.”

bakugou feels his heart mending itself, stitching each tear and slowly beating back to normal. perhaps this is what he’s always needed to hear. you don’t need him. you don’t want anything from him, just him.

bakugou sniffs, meeting your eyes. your hand comes to cradle his cheek and he presses your forehead together.

“fuck, i’m sorry. i should probably go back to therapy, right?” he chuckles breathily, his eyes glossy though no tears fall.

his breath is hot on your face and you begin to smile at the feeling of his nose brushing against yours. he’s beautiful with his fluffy dark eyelashes and shiny ruby eyes.

“probably, but we can sort that out later.” you press a kiss to his mouth, then another but this time he holds the back of your head to keep you close to him. he inhales like it’s the first time he’s kissed you in years.

once you pull away, you mumble against his lips, “let’s go inside now. i’m starving.”

when you’ve both finished eating, dressed snuggled in your pyjamas, you notice that your boyfriend is oddly embarrassed about his outburst earlier. you never see him embarrassed, perhaps a couple of times at the beginning of your relationship when he’d stutter accidentally or he tried to open the door for you and it smacked him in the forehead. but since then, never. you want your boyfriend back.

you decide to bombard him when he’s hand washing the dishes instead of using the dishwasher beside him.

you lean on the kitchen island with your elbows, chin resting on your palms.

“gorgeous?”

he can always sense you, knows where you are. stupid hero tingles.

bakugou turns his head to look over you, “baby.”


“i miss you.”

“i’m right here.”

“no, you’re still caught up about what happened earlier.”

he rolls his head back to look at his soapy hands, “‘m not.”

you sigh softly, padding across the floor in your fluffy socks. you circle your arms around his waist, your cheek pressed against his back. here you were connected, heartbeats simmering to one.

“i love you,” you murmur, pressing a kiss through his t-shirt.

you can’t see his hands from this angle but you can hear the water sloshing about as he cleans the plates.

“yeah. i love you too. i think too much.”

you gasp jokingly, laying your palms flat on his toned chest, “you say it like it’s a bad thing!”

he shakes his head, “it’s not. just that it felt like you stabbed me earlier and now i’m in fuckin’ recovery.”

“oh baby,” you coo. you never realised how deep the roots of his need for people to need him really were. you brush the tips of your fingers against his dick, hidden away in his shorts. your touch is only light, hovering, and you feel his abs tense. “will this make you feel better?”

bakugou’s laugh is strained, humming at the feeling of you pressed against his back. “yeah, it fuckin’ will.”

you take the yes with glee, slowly pulling down his shorts and boxers in one go. his hands are still in the soapy water, squeezing the life out of a sponge when you bring your palm to your face to spit on and then cradle his length.

you don’t say a word when you flick your wrist over him. it’s not too fast, not too slow. a comfortable pace for him to slowly harden in your hand. you indulge in the feeling of knowing him so well, without even seeing his face. 

how his breath switches to breathy grunts, his fingers becoming pale white from clenching the sink. you can barely look around him to see but you can tell from only the sight of his neck that he’s looking down, mesmerised by your hand.

you’re warm and treat him with skill. you look after him, is all bakugou thinks. he can just relax, worries of before slipping off his shoulders and he focuses on the burning desire building. 

“oh fuck,” he spills, hips bucking involuntarily into your palm. you bite down on your lip, the feeling of him getting heavier, slick with his own pre.

“there’s nobody i want more than you,” 

“shit,” 

you pick up the pace, moving your wrist how you’ve seen him move on himself. you match his hip thrusts and bakugou feels his vision blur. he clenches his eyes shut, biceps thick and bulging.

a slick, wet, pat pat pat, fills the air. you feel all the muscles in his body tense, his head flinging back as finally, he lets go. his hot release covers your fingers and you keep pumping till it’s all out.

“motherfucker. oh fuck, you feel good. this is so… urgh,” he groans and you let him, even rubbing his stomach soothingly.

his come drips to the floor and unsurprisingly, you’re turned on by the sight. making him come while not even seeing what you’re doing.

once he’s all done, catching his breath and wiping his forehead, you push.

“are you still too busy moping away to sort me out?”

“watch your mouth,” he snaps.

you think he’s back. you grin.

after wiping your hand with a paper towel, bakugou pulls up his shorts and picks you up in one swoop, swinging you over his shoulder.

“katsuki!” two large wet hand imprints are at your waist. 

he’s on a mission stomping through his home into his bedroom, “i’m gonna do more than just sort you out, baby.”

bakugou throws you back onto his bed and you get to see his face. the sadistic grin you love to see, the desire for you swimming in his ruby pupils. he yanks you by the legs so your pelvis is at the edge of the bed.

“if all this shit didn’t happen today, i would have already made you come by now. i’m gonna have to catch up.”

you don’t know what beast you’ve created until it’s too late.

your lover pulls down your shorts and lifts your oversized t-shirt so your lower half is exposed to him.

“and i was thinkin’ this was it between us. it’s never gonna be it between us.”

“you’re so dramatic.”

“are you sure you wanna be sayin’ that right now?”

you rest up on your forearms, well aware he can see the wetness between your legs. it’s your favourite sight having him there, hands like paws spreading your thighs wider. he only blows on your centre, over your clit and your body tenses at the rush of air.

you flop down onto your back, pleasure shooting up your spine, “oh shit. no, no, i take it back.”

he smirks, “yeah i thought so.”

bakugou is tender with you, prodding you with his tongue like you would a sleeping animal with a stick. though he knows what gets you moving, he just wants to draw it out.

he swipes his tongue from bottom to top, not paying too much attention to your clit which is exactly where you want him. you mewl, hips jumping to try and push him in the right direction. he just holds you down and continues.

his wet tongue circles your hole, around and around and you’re just about to beg him until he thrusts his tongue inside. your moan is loud, exactly what bakugou wanted.

“she tastes so fuckin’ good, baby.” he pulls his tongue out to see you pulsing around nothing. “fuck.”

you’re whimpering, heat blossoming throughout your body, “more ‘suki.”

bakugou slides his palm onto your stomach, his other lifting your thigh. “patience baby.”

finally, his soft lips suction around your clit. he sucks, drawing out the sweetest, honey dripping moans from you. it feels electric, body twitching and it only increases when he slides two fingers into you without warning.

you grip a clump of his hair, holding him to you restlessly. 

“oh my… baby,” you whine, and you feel the vibrations of his chuckle muffled between your legs.

his tongue is swift, practised. he curls his fingers, brushing against your favourite spot and that’s enough for you to be on the edge of bursting.

then he stops, and you find two hands on your waist flipping you over onto your stomach.

“katsuki, what?! i was almost there!” you whine but your boyfriend only lightly slaps your bare ass to silence you.

“wanna feel you come ‘round my cock. wouldn’t you too?” his voice deep with control as you lay your cheek on the mattress to watch him pull his t-shirt off his body in one sweep.

you hum at the sight of his toned chest, the scars, marks and beauty spots. he wastes no time finding your ass again, two hands on each ass cheek. he roughly massages with his thumbs and you can’t help but rumble a moan, trying not to arch in the air.

“yeah, i do,” he leans over with one knee beside you and kisses your cheek, “want you ‘suki.”

“i’ll look after you, pretty.”

bakugou yanks off his joggers, one hand guiding his cock through your ass cheeks. back and forth and your moans come out like a melody in unison. he’s thick, veiny and he’s fixated on how his head pops out at every thrust. 

“could fuckin’ come like this, baby,” he grunts, leaning over your body. kisses are pressed along your shoulders and back like raindrops.

it feels good, so good but not enough. “no, don’t,” you reach for his arm behind you and bakugou meets your pleading eyes. “inside, baby.”

how could he say no to you when it’s so natural to say yes? “okay, okay. fuck, i’d do anythin’ for you.”

he grips your thigh to position you for him, guiding his cock through your folds. your breath hitches when he hovers by where you need him the most. need. right now, your craving is turning into a need.

“n-need you so bad, come on,”

and he usually would have poked you for your tone but instead, your lover grins. alive and full of energy. slowly, he pushes into you, immediately feeling you tense around him. together, he grunts while you whimper.

“oh ‘suki,”

“i know baby, i know.”

you’re made for him, he fits tight and perfect and he knows if there’s a heaven on earth, it’s between your legs. 

“why do you f-feel bigger?” you rock against him, your ass hitting his chest.

bakugou’s laugh comes out rough, holding your hips, “‘m gonna move, yeah?”

you hum back and he begins to thrust. he tries to be controlled to take his time but it all gets too much so quickly. the messiness of it all, your slick soaking his cock desperately, creating loud wet slaps in the air. you’re both lost in each other, you reaching up on your forearms to fuck back into him, you’re not sure who’s moaning more.

“fuck,” you screech and bakugou feels like he’s close to passing out.

“come, baby. you feel perfect, squeezing the shit outta me,”

he doesn’t even need to touch your clit before you’re shaking on him, stuffing your face in the mattress for some grounding, your fingers clenched.

“holy… fuck, ‘suki,” you mewl, “i love you.”

his orgasm rocks through him before he can take hold of it, spurting inside you. his hips keep going and instead of flinging his head back, he leans forward over you, stuffing his head in your neck. his thrusts jolt your whole body on the bed and it’s only when he’s all spent, he stops, murmuring a tired, “i l-love you too, pretty.”

it’s a few moments of trying to come back to earth together, bakugou flipping you onto your back to lay kisses over your hip bone and stomach. your hand brushes through his hair relaxingly.

when he stops, you look down at him to find him already staring at you. you move your hand to cup his cheek. his eyes are half lidded, sleepy, lips shiny and although you say you don’t need him like one would need food or water, maybe you crave him like one would a hot meal. like one would happiness and peace of mind.

“you know i love you, right?” you breathe and his eyes widen.

bakugou nods, rubbing against your palm like a puppy. he really looks anything but with his stubbled jaw and scar across his eyebrow but he’s still stupidly sweet.

“course i do. i get what you meant before, don’t worry,” he sniffs, pretty eyes looking over you. he grips your wrist tightly, kissing the palm that held his cheek, “i love you too, pretty girl.”

bakugou crawls up to you on his forearms, stopping until his face is before yours. “i’d die if you left me though.”

his face is serious, stone cold until his smile drops and you slap his arm. “katsuki! don’t say that,” he stuffs his head in your neck, his chuckle tickling.

“i’m not lyin’ though.”

you circle your arms around his neck, holding him to you tightly, “but you shouldn’t…”

“yeah, yeah, i know. if you ever wanna leave me i won’t actually. i’ll just think about it till one day i wake up and don’t.”

“you’re really not helping and i don’t wanna leave you any time soon. unless you’re still planning on being dramatic.”

“nah, i’m finished. i love you a normal amount.”

you roll your eyes playfully and he pinches your side, pulling you into a fit of giggles.

---

Bully- Part 1

Summary: Your bully's, Gojo and Geto, find out an embarrassing secret of yours and will never let you live it down. But maybe, you don't want them to.

Disclaimer: 18+ fic. Gojo X Fem reader X Geto. Humiliation kink. Free use kink. Gojo and Geto being mean. Bully Geto and Gojo. Dub-con warning. It is subtly implied that reader wants and enjoys what's happening to her, but the boys don't care to ask for consent.

a/n: Sorry it took so long wah but here's part one to the series. I plan to write many more cause damn it is so fun haha. I promise, the next part will have all the gratuitous smut and ruthless fucking this premise deserves. Consider this an appetizer <3

Taglist: @bisexuawolfsalt @candycandy00 @nekonanamii @sirimiripetrichor @collectionofdolls @dreamsxmerci

You sighed as you walked towards your classroom, dragging your feet, knowing full well what was waiting for you. It was the end of the day and it was your turn to clean up the classroom and just your luck- you were paired up with the two people you couldn't stand.

Gojo and Geto. The two 'strongest' sorcerers of your school. Their reputation preceded them. One of them was the prodigal son of a famous family with a deadly technique while the other had an incredibly useful and powerful skill as well. Everyone disliked them to some extent, but nobody could deny that the Jujutsu world would be worse without them.

Which is why it always confused you as to why these two powerful men seemed to love bullying you.

They were never malicious but damn if they weren't annoying. They loved to tease and prank you, joking about how weak you were and how you couldn't do anything by yourself. Forget the fact that you were actually quite strong and capable- but compared to them- everyone was weak.

But they seemed to enjoy bullying you especially even if there were classmates who were of lower grade than you. Stealing your drink right before you were going to take it from the vending machine, taking unflattering pictures of you and distributing it, embarrassing you in front of strangers by treating you like a dumb baby in front of them, making loud sex noises if you were on the phone with someone, tossing away your books and stealing your money-

Gojo spanking your ass casually a few times, Geto licking off some chocolate that was smeared next to your lips like it was a normal thing to do and even that one time when they cornered you in the hallway and convinced you to let them grope your boobs:

"If you let us squeeze your tits, we'll leave you alone for a week~" Gojo had said, wangling his fingers comically as they both stared at your chest like perverts. The offer was too good to give up which led to them squeezing your clothed tits for ten second each before they left, laughing at how easy it was to use you. And of course, they continued to bother you anyway.

You could have made a complaint to the higher ups about their behavior, something your friends have told you to do but you refused. You didn't want to be the wuss who was running to the elders over something so childish when everyone has an important job to do. Dealing with some bullying was easy compared to fighting to the death with some curses.

Besides, if you reported on them...

You steeled yourself before opening to the door to the classroom, met with the sight you expected: Gojo and Geto, lounging around, not doing any work as they waited for you to do it for them because, in their words: 'the weaklings need to put in more effort'.

But what you were not expecting to see was your phone in Gojo's hand using earplugs that he had connected to the device. You knew you left your phone in the locker assigned to you in the hallways which meant these two managed to pick the lock and take it. But the anger over that was dwarfed by your sudden realization:

The way they were looking at you as you closed the door, giving you a shocked look but you could tell there was an underlying hint of pure glee.

Uh oh.

"Give me back my-"

You yelped as Geto suddenly grabbed your wrist and pulled you towards him, barely giving you a second to collect yourself before he wrapped his arms around your neck, catching you in a choke-hold. Before you could even react, he pulled your back against him and manhandled you as he sat on a classroom bench and forced you to sit between his legs, wrapping said legs around you. You were completely caught, your nails doing nothing even as you dug it into his arms.

"Holy fuck!" Gojo explained, eyes wide and a huge grin on his face as he continued to listen to the audio on your phone, looking over at you and Geto opposite of the table he was sitting on, "You're a perverted freak, aren't you?"

"Give it back!" you snapped, grunting in annoyance as you tried to break out of Geto's hold but the man simply laughed as he held you tighter, his legs not budging.

"This is some nasty stuff!" Gojo continued, "Who knew a weakling like you would be such a masochistic slut~" he removed the earbuds from the socket and increased the volume as he confirmed what you had feared:

"Yeah? you like that don't you? Little slut~" a man's voice echoed throughout the room from your phone speakers, "Everybody looking at you as I fuck this sloppy little pussy~ Oh this cunt is dripping for me- did you like being spanked in front of them so much?"

It was an erotic audio you had saved on your phone, one of many that you enjoyed in private. You had even saved it under non-suspicious names which meant that the boys were digging through your files to find something- and they did.

"This isn't even the only one we heard, you know." Gojo explained as he dangled the phone in front of you mockingly, "What was it again? A girl getting humiliated by her teacher in front of her classmates-"

"A girl getting groped by her boyfriend on a crowded train." Geto recollected, his lips so close to your ear you could feel his hot breath dance against your skin.

"Being used as a free-use toy by a group of guys~" Gojo said, a giant shit eating grin on his face, "Seems like this one has a humiliation kink~"

"I'm not surprised." Geto said, leaning into your ear and blowing into it, making you gasp and jump, "No wonder she never reported us to the principle for all the times we preyed on her. She was probably enjoying it."

"Oh!" Gojo said like he just realized it, "Was that why? Was your pussy growing wet every time we bullied you, little slut?"

"Fuck you." you spat out, both of the men laughing in response.

"Yeah, I bet you wanted us to fuck you." Geto growled into your ear, your shiver not going unnoticed by him, "You're fucking loving this~"

"Why don't we check?" Gojo suggested, cutting off anything you might have said, his hands inching towards your belt, a dangerous gleam in his eyes, "Let's see for ourselves if we made your pussy wet~"

"Gojo-"

"That's a great plan!" Geto interrupted, laughing as he tightened his hold your your neck, making you gasp, "Take those pants off. So baggy and loose- what a waste of a nice ass."

"I agree." Gojo said, finger now running over the metal of your belt, "it hides so much. With what I felt everytime I've spanked you- your pants do you no favors."

"Don't you- fucking dare!" You choked out, face turning slightly red from the lack of air and from Gojo slowly starting to fiddle with your belt.

"Oh, what are you gonna do about it, little slut?" Gojo teased, licking his lips as his long, lithe fingers started to tug at the leather of your belt, "Look at your fucking face- that look in your eyes? You're loving this."

"No- I'm not- fuck-" you sputtered out, failing to convey your frustrations. You couldn't stand these two assholes. Constantly picking on you and thinking they were so high and mighty- treating you like a bug on their path. So smug and narcissistic and not caring about anyone but themselves-

But as much as you'd hate to admit it, you couldn't deny that your body was throbbing. Everytime they bullied you, you felt that heat. Your heart-rate quickened and your pussy would grow wet, leaving you a confused mess every-time you got bullied. When it first happened, you didn't understand what was happening. Through some internet searching, you found those audios and realized you weren't the only one out there.

A masochist with a humiliation kink.

And without them knowing, the two guys you hate were fulfilling those fantasies for you.

Well now, they were more than aware.

"Come on, little bitch~" Geto cooed into your ear, his silky voice making you shudder, "Why settle with these audios when you can experience the real thing?"

"I...I..." you panted, heat rushing to your face and your heart pounding in your chest. You could feel your pussy dampen and had no doubt that if Gojo actually took your pants off, they'd see you be wet and needy.

"Too slow~" Gojo suddenly said, unbuckling your belt in a matter of seconds before ripping it off of you just as fast, throwing it aside. You yelped as you instinctively struggled, Geto laughing behind you as he tightened his hold on you even more, rendering you helpless. Gojo laughed as well, his bright blue eyes peeking from behind his glasses as you could see the gleam of excitement in them.

"You excited, little bitch?" Gojo cooed, licking his lips as his hands started trailing up your leg, running over the fabric of your pants as he inched up higher and higher. Everywhere he touched felt like it was on fire, a rush of heat coursing through you.

"He asked you a question." Geto said, clicking his tongue as you refused to say anything, "Weren't you taught any manners?"

"Fucking- i'll kill you-" you gasped out, face growing redder as you heard Geto's growl of annoyance, feeling the vibration of his chest against your back. "Don't worry about it, Suguru." Gojo said, smirking as he started undoing the buttons of your pants, "We can punish her later for her disrespect. For now, I just want to get at this pussy~"

With a big grin, Gojo ripped your pants off of you in one fell swoop, making you squeal as he tossed it away. You shivered as your bare legs were exposed to the evening air as well as their lecherous stares. You could see Gojo's eyes trail up your legs before zoning in on your clothed pussy, the man letting out a snort as he took in your panties.

"Pink with a bow on? Really?" he joked, "how plain and not sexy."

"I think they're cute." Geto chimed in, also shamelessly staring down at your clothed cunt, "But it doesn't matter. It's not going to be on her for long, anyway."

"True." Gojo said with a nod as he hooked his finger into the waistband of your panties and pulled it out before letting go, allowing the elastic to slap back against you, "but next time, wear something sexier."

"I hate you- so much!" you snarled, face bright red, biting your lower lip as the white haired man looped his fingers back into the waistband of your panties, this time, very obviously wanting to get it off of you. You gasped, unable to stop your shivers as Gojo leaned forward and placed a kiss on your tummy, his tongue peeking out to lick at your skin as he slowly starting pulling your panties down. He laughed as you tried to squiggle out but your movements only made the slide of your panties all the more easier for him.

"Look at that~" Gojo gasped as your cunt got exposed, practically drooling as he stared like a pervert, a twinkle behind his blue eyes, "You might be a weakling but atleast you have a pretty pussy."

"Atleast she's good for something~" Geto teased, shuffling behind you and in that moment, you felt it. Something long, hard and thick pressed up against your back and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what that was. You gulped as you felt the imprint of Geto's cock against you, unable to help yourself as your eyes darted towards the front of Gojo's pants and sure enough: His erection was straining against it.

They were too focused on your cunt to notice where you were looking and you were too focused on their dicks to notice that your panties were now completely off and that Gojo had tossed the fabric aside. Geto immediately hooked his legs over your own before forcefully spreading them apart, leaving you wide and exposed to their perverted gazes. Gojo let out a whistle as he dragged a chair over before sitting on it, his face now right across your bare cunt.

"Fuck- fuck you- fuck you!" you gasped out and cursed, feeling lightheaded from the situation. "How does she look?" Geto asked, both of them ignoring you and you could hear the hunger in his voice and the sensation of his cock twitching against you. "Oh, she's perfect~" Gojo responded and you knew they were referring to your pussy as its own person- somehow giving it more praise and respect than they've ever given you, "And oh so wet~"

"I want to see." Geto demanded, not having the same view as Gojo, "Can't let you have all the fun."

"Sure thing, pal." Gojo said, not taking his eyes off of your pussy as he continued to stare, hand reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. "Gojo- don't you dare-" You barked out, understanding what he was going to do- but what you hoped sounded aggressive came out soft and subservient. The man simply snorted in response, ignoring your pleas as he opened up his phone camera and started taking pictures of your pussy. You shut your eyes and squealed everytime you heard the shutter of the camera, trembling body still held tightly in Geto's arms.

"Her hole clenches every-time I take a picture~" Gojo cooed, bringing a hand up to thumb at your pussy lips before spreading them apart even more, making your back arch against Geto, "And look at this little clit! So fucking cute!"

"Just show it to me already!" Geto snarled, impatient. "Alright, alright." Gojo responded with a roll of his eyes, standing up before turning the phone towards the two of you, a shot of your spread pussy on screen. You turned your head away and closed your eyes, ears ringing at how humiliated you felt-

and pussy dripping at how good it was.

"Oh, she does look delicious!" Geto praised, gripping your chin as he forced you to turn your head back towards the phone, making you look at the picture, "You have such a pretty cunt and you hid it from us for so long?"

You whined cutely as you looked at the picture- a closeup shot of your spread cunt with a clear view of your clit and hole, your cunt glistening with slick.

"Seriously!" Gojo barked as he started swiping, showing off the various photos of your pussy that were now in his possession, "If we knew all you wanted was some fucking, we'd have pounded this pussy ages ago! I've always wanted a sex toy."

"Don't you have like a dozen already?"

"Yeah, but I'm sure this bitch's cunt will feel way better than some silicone~"

"I hate you-" you gasped out, any and all fight leaving your bones (not that there was much to begin with) as you leaned your head against Geto's shoulder, "I hate you both- so much-"

"Yeah?" Geto asked, the tone in his voice clearly indicating that he wasn't taking you seriously, "Well, this pussy says otherwise."

He let go of your chin and snaked his hand down quickly to cup your pussy, making you yelp. You didn't know if what you felt was shame or relief that there was finally a hand on your cunt- finally some friction against your dripping womanhood. You tossed your head back, eyebrows furrowed and lip trapped under your teeth as Geto's long fingers started gliding through your pussy lips. The slick sound of him rubbing circles over your hole and collecting your wetness echoed through the room, the sound making your ears burn and your chest feel like it was on fire.

This is was so...so...

so fucking fun...

"She's loving this~" Gojo predicted accurately, eyes darting between your blissful expression and Geto's fingers toying with your body, "Fucking whore- slutty bitch- oh, we are going to have fun with you~"

"Her pussy is growing wetter by the second." Geto noted, cock fully erect and throbbing against you, his other arm slowly letting go of the hold around your neck, confident that you were going to stay right there like a good little girl. You gasped as the head spinning pressure was finally off of you, taking in a few deep breaths but choking on it just as quickly as the man started using his slick covered fingers to run circles over your clit.

"You're dripping all over the table, little bitch~" Gojo teased, taking a couple more pictures before pocketing it, "Fuck- let me feel too- or- actually-"

He sat back on the chair, pulling it closer before gripping your thighs, an eager grin on his face:

"I'm gonna eat~"

"Get used to this, little bitch." Geto growled into your ear, pulling his hand away from your cunt and snickering at your whine of disappointment, "You're our toy now and we are going to do whatever we want to you, understand?"

His hands came upto your chest, lithe fingers starting to undo the buttons of your shirt one by one, revealing a patch of skin before the peeks of your bra. Gojo licked his lips and moved forward, his hot breath fanning against your slick cunt.

"Whatever. We. Want."

---

lakeside

13.2k / dbf!joel x f!reader

official dbf!joel playlist

warnings: 18+, minors dni. y'all know the deal by now. smut. heavy on the fluff. age gap (reader is 23, joel is in his late 40s). dbf!joel, dom!joel (he's back) (prepare the red carpet), fingering, toys, some, uhh, light ass play and some equally light...tying up? spanking, unprotected p in v, reader can get/is on her period, joel's face is still busted, ive exhausted myself y'all can let me know if i missed something

a/n: hello party people. i love you long time. y'all make my day every day. have fun, be safe, live laugh love dilfs, etc etc. inbox is always open for all of y'all 🤍 enjoy the cabin. it will be a two part affair.

this is part 11 of my dbf!joel series. read the previous parts here:

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | bonus chapter (joel's pov) | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10

masterlist here. kofi here, if you wanna leave a tip :)

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What?”  He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth.  “Nothin’,” he says.  And then he kisses you. 

Joel waits in his truck while you get your stuff. He keeps the engine going and his foot on the gas. 

You like knowing he’s there, when you slip into your house. You like knowing he’s close. 

You make a beeline for the stairs the second you’re inside. You don’t announce you’re home, the way you usually do, and you think with any luck your dad won’t hear you come and go. 

You make it to your room without a chase. You drag a duffel from your closet and throw in some clothes — tee shirts, jeans, whatever’s closest — and whatever’s within reach on your bathroom sink. A toothbrush and toothpaste. An open, almost-empty box of tampons. Whatever. You figure Joel can stop for anything you miss. 

Your phone is where you left it two nights ago, half-buried underneath your pillow. You fish it out and stuff it in your duffel. Your charger, too. Then you do a final, hurried sweep — and, fuck it, — you shove that little black vibrator in, too. The one tucked in the back of your nightstand. The one you haven’t touched since that night with Hayes. 

You zip the bag. Sling it up over your shoulder. Your pulse paints a weird, nervous patter by your throat. 

And then — because of course your luck has to run out, sooner or later — your dad’s voice lurches behind you. Hard and brittle. Almost broken. 

“You’re home,” he says. 

You freeze. Your hackles are up, like a cat in the corner. His shadow stains the carpet.

You turn, slowly. Your duffel slouches. 

“I’m leaving,” you say. Soft. Even. But — firm, you think. You’re leaving. Get out of my way. 

“Where’ve you been?” he asks. He sounds tired. 

You don’t answer. You know he already knows. 

He sighs. His head hangs. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. His hand comes up, fast, and slams the doorframe. “Fuck!”

You wince. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he says. You can’t tell if it’s an order or a plea. Both, maybe. “Just—put the bag down. Come downstairs. We’ll talk.”

“I don’t wanna talk.”

“Just — fuck!” He swears, again. Slaps the door, again. You wonder if he hit Joel like this. Open-palm. So hard he makes splinters. Or if it was worse — closed fist, knuckles scraping. 

Your cheeks burn. 

“I’m not talking right now,” you say. “You’re too—” 

You don’t finish. He’s too everything. Too much. 

You walk closer. He doesn’t step aside, so you squeeze past. 

He doesn’t stop you, at least. Doesn’t touch you. But he follows you, when you sidestep him and take the stairs two at a time. You can hear him on your heels. 

“Stop,” he says. He’s slower than you are on the stairs. You’re halfway out the door by the time he hits the bottom. 

You don’t stop. You can hear Joel’s engine, purring out in the middle of the road, waiting for you when you step into the sun. Just like he promised. 

You take your porch steps two at a time, too. When your shoes hit the street you’re almost sprinting. Not — away from your dad, so much as towards Joel.

He cracks his door when you get close. Trots around the truck to the passenger side. 

You shrug your bag off your shoulder and he takes it from you. Puts it in the backseat. He snaps the passenger door open and nods. 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah,” you mumble. Your face is flushed. 

He nods again. His finger flexes on the door. He’s looking past you now, up the street, where your dad is stomping down your driveway with an angry sort of gleam. 

“Get in,” Joel says. 

You get in. He shuts the door behind you. His window is cracked — you’re not sure they’re even capable of closing — so you can hear every snarled syllable when your dad crosses the street. 

He’s shouting. It takes you a minute to work out that he’s yelling at Joel and not you. 

“Are you fuckin’ serious?” he’s saying. Shouting. 

He’s barefoot on the pavement. He’s lucky it’s still overcast, you think. Or else the soles of his feet would peel right off. You kind of wish they would right now. 

Joel is quiet. Which is nothing new, really, but — still. You wish he’d fight back. He’s bigger than your dad. Taller. His voice rolls deeper. It’d take one word to set him back in his place. 

But he’s quiet. Silent. You notice, though, that he doesn’t move. He stays wedged in front of the passenger-side door. Between the truck and your dad. Between you and your dad. 

“Where the fuck d’you think you’re goin’?” your dad yells. “You asshole. Y’can’t take her.”

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Joel stays put. 

“Goddamn it,” your dad swears. “You didn’t learn your fuckin’ lesson already? Huh? Wanna go again?” 

“Dad,” you say. 

He ignores you. Again. He takes a jolting step forward, towards Joel and towards you. He shoves Joel with two flat palms and a snarl. 

Joel stumbles. His back thumps the door. Heat swirls in your chest. 

“Don’t fucking touch him,” you snap. Your hand curls on the handle. “You need to — you need to calm down.”

“I need to calm down?”

He’s talking to you now, at least. He sounds incredulous. He glares between you and Joel. 

“Get outta the car,” he says. He’s not yelling. You wish he would. 

“No.”

“Yes. We’re gonna talk about this now. Get out of the fuckin’ car.”

He reaches around Joel for the door handle. You shrink back. 

And Joel — who didn’t fight back two nights ago, who’s peppered black and blue with bruises, who hasn’t moved a muscle this morning- 

Joel puts a flexing, furious hand on your dad’s shoulder. 

“Step back,” he growls. 

There he is. That’s the Joel from the bar. That’s the Joel that beat the shit out of two grown men and sent them running. 

And you get it, you think. You get it now. Your dad can threaten him all day long. Beat him black and blue. But the second he raises his voice at you—the second it’s you he’s reaching for — Joel is on guard. He’s pulling rank. He straightens up, drags himself to his full height, and you see the not-so-subtle way his shoulders bunch. Even banged and bruised, he looks imposing. More so than usual, maybe. Like a wounded animal: angrier, untethered. 

“You got some fuckin’ nerve,” your dad says. But he’s stepped back, you notice. “She’s my kid.”

“‘N she doesn’t wanna talk,” Joel says. “So I’m tellin’ you to step—” his jaw flickers, “—the fuck back.”

Your dad stares. You swallow. 

“Fuck you,” he says, finally. But he’s stepping back now, all the way. Crossing his arms. 

Joel doesn’t say anything. No last word. No smug smile. He just walks quickly around the truck, to the driver’s side, and clips the door shut when he climbs in. He wraps a hand around the gear shift. 

You stare straight ahead. Your hands are shaking. 

“You okay?” he murmurs. Still gentle. 

“Yeah,” you breathe. You can see your dad in your peripheral, standing in the middle of the road. Arms barred. Face tangled. “Just drive.”

Tommy’s cabin is in the middle of fucking nowhere. Which is — nice, actually. It’s nice to get away. From Austin. From everyone. From everything.

The nearest town is a place called Two Springs. Two Springs, Texas. It sounds more like a stop on the Disneyland express and less like an actual location, but — Two Springs. You stop there, on your way up. For groceries, gas — the essentials, according to Joel. 

It turns out town is a gross exaggeration. Two Springs has exactly four buildings to its name: a gas station, a bar, a Mexican restaurant, and a sprawling, Western-style structure with a sign that says GENERAL ORE. You figure it might’ve said General Store once, like a century ago, when someone painted it for the first and last time. 

It’s well-stocked, at least. They have Tylenol, Advil, Aleve — for your cramps and for Joel’s ten thousand cuts and bruises. They have a reusable ice pack Joel insists he doesn’t need. They have tampons, to supplement the grand total of three you’d managed to scavenge from your desperate sweep of your bathroom. 

And they have food. Lots of food. 

“Better stock up,” Joel tells you. He’s slouched against the shopping cart with a lazy sort of lean. His sleeves are sloughed up to his elbows. The further from Austin you’ve gotten, the more he’s seemed to relax. He almost looks content, right now. 

“Hundred bucks says Tommy ain’t got a damn thing in the house,” he says. “So. Get whatever y’like.”

“Oh, god.” You fake a groan. “Does that mean you’re cooking?”

He shoots you a glare. You grin. 

You split up. You case one aisle and he takes another. When you meet back up in the middle of produce, you’ve got your hands full of ice cream and he’s cradling a case of beer. 

You point to the beer. Shake your head. 

“You’re useless,” you say. 

He frowns. 

“You’re one t’talk,” he says, with a nod toward Ben and Jerry.

“This counts as food.” You study the label. “See? Chunks of real cookie dough.”

He stares at you. Blinks. Then he sighs; that beleaguered, bemused huff that hides his smile.

“Just put it in,” he grumbles.

You do manage to get some actual food. Eventually. And you talk him into that reusable ice pack,  for the sprawling, angry bruise under his eye. Eventually.

A spindly, skeleton of a man checks you out up front. His eyes droop. He’s got a cowboy hat on — true Texan — and there’s a layer of dust on the brim. He’s probably been sitting here since they built the store. 

He takes an eternity to scan your items. You can feel Joel getting antsy beside you. 

“Passin’ through?” the man croaks. 

He’s got a voice like a broken rattle. It startles you both. 

Joel grunts. 

The man nods. He mutters something you can’t hear. Then he points to you with a gangly finger. 

“She’s a nice little thing,” he drawls. 

Your nose scrunches. Fucking — gross. 

Joel tenses beside you. His fist folds on the counter. 

“Don’t,” he says. His voice is dangerously quiet. “I ain’t in the fuckin’ mood.” 

The man blinks. Swallows. He drops his gaze and doesn’t look at you again. 

He finishes ringing you up in silence. When he hands Joel the bag his fingers tremble. 

“Y’all have a nice day,” he says. 

Joel grunts. 

You follow him back out to the truck. He puts the groceries in the backseat, by your duffel, and you don’t say anything to him, not yet, but you’re gnawing on your cheek when he climbs back in the driver’s seat. 

You’ve had a shitty start to the day. A shitty last few days, to be honest. You don’t want Joel to be pissed. It’s just — he’s kind of hot, when he gets riled up. When he snaps at your dad. When he rolls his fist on the counter and snarls at strangers. 

No. He’s not kind of hot. He drives you fucking crazy. 

But you keep that to yourself. For now. At least ’til you get where you’re going. You figure you can wait at least a little while longer. 

Tommy’s cabin is nice. 

Not that you were expecting anything less. Joel built it, after all. 

But — still. It’s nice. It’s really nice. It looks like something straight out of a Hallmark postcard: Adirondack chairs on a pinewood porch, stone chimney surrounded by trees. No neighbors — at least none you can see. A quiet lake with a pebbled shore. 

The whole place smells like sunlight and pine needles and freshwater. It’s a far cry from Austin. From home.

He parks the truck out front, on a packed-down slope of dirt. There are tire treads baked into the soil — Tommy’s, you assume. 

You’re halfway out of the truck before he puts it in park. You snatch your duffel from the back and stand in the shade, staring at the tops of trees, waiting restlessly for Joel to get his ass out of the car. 

He lumbers out, eventually. You shift your bag to your other shoulder while he gathers up the groceries. 

He leads the way up the slope, towards the cabin. You follow on his heels. 

“This place is kinda cool,” you admit. “I haven’t been camping since I was, like, ten.” 

“This ain’t campin’,” he says. 

Typical. You roll your eyes. Pull a face behind his back that he — mercifully — doesn’t see. 

“Uh-uh,” he drawls. “Don’t roll your eyes ’t me, pretty girl.” 

You pause halfway up the steps. Your duffel hangs off of your shoulder. 

“I didn’t roll my eyes at you.” 

He hums amusedly. He digs a key out of his pocket and twists it in the lock. 

The door gives with a push. The smell of pine drips down the porch. 

“What, so, you can read my mind now?” 

He hums again. He puts the key back in his pocket and leads the way inside. 

“Somethin’ like that,” he says. 

You roll your eyes again. He turns around this time, just past the threshold, and fixes you with a hooked half-smile. 

“You ain’t that hard t’read, darlin’.” 

You grumble something in response. His smile widens and yours does too, reluctantly, because seeing him happy is fucking infectious. It almost makes you forget about the bruise under his eye, and the slice across his nose that still looks too fresh. 

“C’mon,” he says. He flicks a switch by the door and the whole place flickers — once, twice — then settles into soft light. “I’ll give ya the tour.” 

He snatches up your hand and you lean into his arm, smothering your smile in his sleeve. 

“Alright,” you tell him. “Better be good.” 

It is good. You’re impressed. It’s a small place, cozy, but he’s thought of everything. Dark wood floors and a light leather couch and comfortable, colorful throws. Sketches on the walls: deer and ducks and charcoal antlers. Half-finished woodworks on a desk by the window. You wonder if they’re Joel’s, or Tommy’s, or both. 

You don’t ask. Yet. 

The bedroom is equally intimate. White sheets on the bed. Wooden headboard. Flannel blanket that screams Joel Miller. It makes you smile, when you drop your duffel down on it and unpack your things. You like it. This whole place feels like Joel. 

You put your random, assorted toiletries in the bathroom, and — in a spur of the moment decision — you shove that black vibrator in the back of the nightstand, where you’re keeping your phone charger. Force of habit, you guess. You leave the rest of your clothes in your duffel and shuffle out to find Joel.

And — speaking of Joel — he was right to stock up, in that shitty not-quite-town of Two Springs, because the kitchen is empty. Well — almost empty, if you count the cobwebby bottle of clear liquor stashed beside the sink. You pick it up while Joel puts the groceries away. Turn it label-side out. 

“What the hell is this?” you ask. 

You hoist it up, towards Joel. Dust sloughs off the glass. 

He straightens. Turns. 

“Not a damn clue,” he says. “But I wouldn’t touch it ‘f I were you. Knowin’ Tommy, ’s probably radioactive.” 

Your nose scrunches. You work the top off and put your nose to the rim — which is a huge mistake, because it smells like raw gasoline. You cough loudly and reseal the cap. 

“What the fuck,” you sputter. 

Joel laughs. Told ya so.

You shove the bottle back by the sink. Wipe the dust off on your jeans. Joel finishes arranging his beers and stands back to admire his handiwork. 

“So-o,” you say. You push yourself off the counter and wander out of the kitchen. You drag a curious finger toward the wall of charcoal sketches, and you can feel Joel’s gaze follow. You can hear his sigh, too. Like he’s preparing himself. 

“Tommy’s?” you ask, turning halfway to face him. “Or yours?” 

He shifts a little. Shoves his thumb through a belt loop.

“Tommy’s,” he gruffs. 

That checks out. You’ve seen Joel’s drawing skills on display, in that tiny coffee shop in San Antonio. He’s god awful. And these are at least…halfway decent. You wouldn’t say impressive, but — 

“They’re good.” You flash a grin. “I mean. Better than yours, for sure.” 

His brow lifts. The corner of his lip twitches. 

“I’d watch it, ‘f I were you.” 

“Oh, yeah? Or what?” 

He almost smiles. You almost catch him. 

“Or y’can sleep outside,” he drawls. “With the bears.” 

“Mm.” You turn away from the drawings. You’re not so interested, now you know they’re not his. You wander back to him and smooth your hands along his collar. “Very scary. I’m terrified.” 

His pulse picks up at your touch. You can feel it, when your hands drift lower and skim across his heart. 

“Should be,” he murmurs. 

You’re close to him, now. Really close. You have to tilt your chin to meet his gaze. His voice drips to your lips and settles there, white-hot. 

You want to kiss him. You really do. It’s just — that fucking bruise on his cheek is glaring at you, mangled and purple and mean. 

You swallow. Draw back, just a little. He looks disappointed. 

“That bruise looks bad,” you murmur. 

He starts to shake his head. You cut him off. 

“C’mon,” you say. “We bought that ice pack. Let’s try it, at least.” 

“You bought it.” 

“Not true. I just put it in the cart. You paid.” 

He frowns. 

“Don’t say no,” you say. 

“Didn’t say anythin’,” he gruffs. “But no.” 

“Mm. Okay. Keep it up, you can sleep outside with the bears.” 

He frowns again. Deeper, this time. You get the sense he’s forcing back a smile. 

“Don’t be a baby,” you say. “We can’t waste it. It was, like, seventeen bucks. Total rip off.” 

He grumbles. But he doesn’t grumble quite as much as he did two nights ago, when you first begged to take care of him. So he’s either getting used to someone caring about him — caring for him — or you’ve just worn him down. 

You don’t mind either way. Whatever gets the job done. 

“Go on,” you tell him. “Couch.” 

He’s still grumbling. But he goes obediently to the couch and sits, sinking down onto the cushions with a heavy sort of sigh. 

You sit beside him. He’s easier to reach like this, when you’re both sitting. You can perch yourself on the arm of the couch and tip his chin up, towards you. You can hold the pack to his face without reaching. Press it gently to the mangled colors on his cheek and his chin and his jaw. 

He hisses softly, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything he sort of melts into your touch, the way he’d been too scared to do two nights ago. 

He could do this himself. Easily. He tries to tell you as much, a couple times — and you bat him away. You like helping. You like feeling useful. And you like any excuse to be this close to him; to touch him, even though you don’t need much of an excuse at all. 

He stops asking to do it himself, after a while. You get the sense he likes the help as much as you like giving it. His face gets heavier in your hands, and you realize he’s stopped propping himself up. He’s just — dead weight, in your palms. He trusts you. 

You swallow. Your throat feels thick. So does the air, all of a sudden, like someone’s tossed a giant blanket on the inches between you. You move the ice pack half an inch to the right. Expose the corner of his mouth you’d had covered. 

And then you try not to kiss him. Again. 

The edge of his lip you’ve exposed quirks up, like he’s asking you to do it. Teasing you. Wondering just how long you’ll hold out. 

You clear your throat. 

“So the drawings are…Tommy’s,” you say, lamely. 

He blinks. Hard. He’s been staring at you. 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Says he comes up here t’hunt, but — I’ve never seen him shoot a deer. Only ever seen him draw ‘em.” 

You smile. You pull the ice pack back and examine his face. It looks a little better. Less…angry. There’s a pink shine on his right cheek, where the ice has numbed his skin. 

“I get it,” you say. “Miller boys. You’re both big softies.” 

He glares at you. You can feel his jaw tense where you cup his face. 

“Sorry,” you say, quickly. “I mean — very scary. So scary.” 

He grunts. Mumbles something unintelligible. You could swear his almost-smile gets wider. 

“And the little wooden things?” You tilt your head toward the far wall of the cabin. Toward that desk by the window, littered with half-finished carvings and pinewood peels. “Are those Tommy’s, too?” 

He doesn’t answer. Which is fine, because you’ve gotten pretty good at reading his silence. 

“Okay,” you say. “So. Not Tommy’s.” 

There’s a pause. He sniffs. Then his gaze drops; off of the couch, onto a knot in the hardwood, and the cheek you haven’t been icing turns pink.

He’s blushing.

You stifle a grin. He’s cute when he’s flustered. And he’s even cuter when you consider that this must be how he spends his free time. Joel Miller, strong, silent, a little bit mean, carving little creatures out of wood. 

You push off of the couch before he can protest. He grumbles weakly and sinks further into the cushions. 

You walk over to the desk. Sunlight pours through the window, baking the glass, and the wood is lighter where it spills. You slough some wood chips aside with the flat of your hand. Most of the carvings are in some state of progress, like he can’t quite decide what to work on and what to finish — but you find one that seems pretty much done. You pick it up, gently. Turn it over in your hands. You hold it up to the window and swallow back your smile. 

It’s a duck. A little wooden duck, with a flat bill and pine feathers. There’s a tiny J.M. carved into the side. 

It’s good. Better than Tommy’s drawings. But, then — you might be biased. 

When you turn back to Joel you’re grinning. The duck is hoisted in your hand. 

“Shut up,” he says. 

“I didn’t say anything!” 

“You’re ‘bout to.” 

“It’s good.” You walk back over to him. Sit beside him on the couch. His little duck sits in the palm of your hand. 

“It’s cute,” you say. 

He glares at you. Then the duck. 

“It ain’t cute,” he says. 

“Yeah it is. It’s cute. It’s adorable. You carve ducks.” 

“Don’t carve ducks,” he says, gruffly. “’S just the one. The feathers are — hard t’get right. ’S good practice.” 

“Right. For more ducks.” 

He looks at you. Shakes his head. He snatches the duck up out of your hand before you can close your fist. 

He stands up, off of the couch. Walks his duck back to its place on that sunlit desk. 

“Come on,” you protest. “Finder’s keepers.” 

“Uh-uh.” 

“Fine. Then you can make me one.” 

He sets the duck down. Adjusts it, so its bill is basking in the sun. You’ve only ever seen him this gentle when he’s touching you. Well — you and his wooden duck. 

He straightens up. Turns back to face you. 

“You’re a pain in the ass,” he says.

“Yeah. So you’ve said.” 

“Y’don’t want one of these,” he says, with a gesture toward the desk. Toward the dozens of half-finished creatures. You can make out the vague shape of a deer, in one block of wood. The hint of an antler. “They ain’t even good.” 

He’s self-conscious. Joel Miller is self-conscious about his ducks. Or — duck. Singular. 

“Yes they are,” you say. You stand up, too. Join him over by the desk. You loop your arms around his waist and rest your head on his back. “I mean, you’re not gonna be carving the David anytime soon—”

He twists around to glare at you. Your arms drop from his waist. 

You laugh. You laugh until he’s smiling, too. You laugh until he tugs you into his chest, and tucks your hair behind your ear, and tilts his bruised face down to yours. 

“You made them,” you say, softly. “‘Course I love them.” 

You mean that. You’d love anything he’s scrawled his initials into. 

He’s quiet, for a second. His thumb stills on the ridge of your cheek. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles.

“What?” 

He swallows. Shakes his head. His thumb drops to skim the edge of your mouth. 

“Nothin’,” he says. 

And then he kisses you. 

You’ve been waiting for this all day. There’s been a borderline-painful tug between your legs since you left that shitty almost-town of Two Springs. So you melt into him, when he bends to kiss you, and you’re almost — almost — too preoccupied to feel your phone buzz in your pocket. 

You ignore it. His tongue slips into your mouth. He tastes like summer sun and coffee, and his lips are still cool from the edge of that ice pack. 

You fist your hands in his flannel. Bite at his bottom lip and swallow his groan. His hands go to your waist and he’s turning you — turning you both, so that your back nudges the desk — and you get the vague sense he’s lifting you up. He swipes stray wood chips aside, clearing space for you, and puts you down with a gentle sigh. 

You mumble something into his mouth. You’re not sure what. Your legs are hooked around the backs of his, pulling him close, and when he bends to kiss your neck you tilt your head for him. His nose grazes the side of your throat. 

And then your phone buzzes. Again. 

He hears it, this time. He pulls back with a bemused smile. His eyes are heavy. 

“Wanna get that?” 

“Not particularly,” you mutter. But you dig your phone out of your pocket anyway, just to turn it off, and your dad’s contact lights up the screen. 

You groan. Your heart sinks to your feet. 

 “Shit.” 

Joel is quiet. He’s still desperately close. There’s a piece of his hair that’s out of place, thanks to your wandering hands. It’s curled halfway down his forehead. 

“It’s my dad,” you say, blandly. You flip the screen to show him. 

“Figures.” 

You swipe the notification open. Your phone is ridiculously slow in opening, which probably has something to do with the fact it’s on 2% battery. It’s kind of impressive it’s even still functioning, considering you can’t remember the last time you plugged it in. 

Your dad’s messages come up. Slowly. You read them with your feet dangling off the desk. 

“What’s he say?” Joel asks, quietly. 

You shrug. 

“Wants to know where we are,” you say. “I turned my Find my Friends off, so.” 

You don’t elaborate. You doubt Joel even knows what the hell that is. 

“I should tell him something,” you say. “So he knows I’m not dead, at least.” 

Joel nods. 

“Sure,” he says. 

You swallow. Look back down at your phone. The screen blinks with a battery warning.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “I need my charger. Can you—?”

“Yeah,” he says, quickly. “‘Course. Where ’s it?” 

“Uh—nightstand. In the bedroom. The one on the right.” 

He nods. He extricates himself from between your legs, a little reluctant, and you watch him disappear down the hallway. 

You look back down at your phone. At your dad’s messages. Your last text to him is still plastered on the screen — something inane from San Antonio, when everything was still good. Normal. It makes your heart hurt a little. 

You text him back quickly. Before your phone can die. 

You: i’m fine. need a few days. we can talk when i'm home. 

The service up here is hanging on by a thread. It takes a minute to deliver, but when it does his grey bubble pops up almost immediately. It takes another minute for his response to come through. And it’s not really what you’re expecting, when it does. It’s not angry. It’s just — short. It makes your throat swell a little. 

Dad: OK. Be safe.

You lay your phone down on the desk. Face-down. It’s progress, you think. It’s something. 

And then you wonder where the hell Joel is, because this place is not that big and he’s been gone way too long for a phone-charger scavenger hunt. You told him exactly where it is. So unless he’s blind—

“Joel,” you yell. “The nightstand on the right. It can’t be that hard to—”

He pokes his head around the corner. Steps out, slowly, until the sun washes his skin.

“…find,” you finish, lamely. 

He moves closer to you, and it’s clear there’s something in his hand. Judging by the look on his face — narrowed gaze, crooked smile — and the way his fist is folded, tight, it’s not your charger. But there was only one other thing in that nightstand, which means— 

He’s just a few feet from you, now. You think about sliding off of the desk, and darting under his arm — but he’s stepping in between your legs, again, and you let him cage you in. 

You watch the gentle rise-fall of his chest under flannel. The way his smile drags wider when he unspools his fingers and shows you his palm. 

“What’s this?” he drawls. 

You know what he’s holding. You don’t have to look. You’re blushing before his fist can unfurl. 

Your little black vibrator. The one you’d taken from your room, on an impulse, in a mad-dash sweep of your things. The one you’d squirreled away in the nightstand on the right, next to your fucking charger. 

“Uh,” you say. 

His eyes sparkle. He looks annoyingly smug. You figure he’s probably loving the look on your face right now, after you subjected him to torture by wooden-duck. This is payback, you think. 

“Go on,” he urges. 

He drags a rough thumb over the black shell, and your stomach clenches. A shiver crawls up your throat. Whatever’s been stirring in your core since the car ride up here sparks suddenly to life. 

Something about that thing in his hand. How small it is. How smug he looks. 

“It’s nothing,” you say, softly. 

“Yeah?” He cocks his head. That one stray curl flips against his forehead. He pushes his thumb down, gently, and the vibrator buzzes to life in his palm. 

You stare at it. So does he. Heat pools at the pit of your stomach. 

“Don’t look like nothin’,” he murmurs. 

He flicks it off. You swallow back a sound. 

You lean in. Snatch it up, out of his hand. Your fingers close around the shell, and you ignore the fact they’re trembling.

He lets you take it. He looks amused, if anything. He likes watching you squirm.

“I just thought, maybe—” your cheeks are burning again, “—you wouldn’t want to, like — you know.” 

He looks at you, nonplussed. You blink. 

“Since I’m on my period?” you offer, weakly. “I didn’t know if you’d want to do—like, do anything, so—I just brought it in…case.” 

He’s silent. Even more so than usual, if that’s possible. 

“It’s totally fine, by the way,” you say, hurriedly. You’re pretty sure you’re just talking to talk, now, but — you can’t stop. “If you don’t want to. I wasn’t trying to—”

He tilts his head a little. Enough to show he’s listening. Enough to shut you up. 

And then he puts his palm out. Face-up, in the small space between you both. 

You know what he wants. He doesn’t have to ask. Your fingers flex around the toy, a little hesitant, but you give it up. You give it back. 

His hand folds around the shell. He slides it into his jeans, into his pocket, and you watch it disappear. 

The tension is too thick. Sticky. It’s hard to draw a breath. Outside the sun slips toward the water. 

The light slants a little darker through the window. Almost blue. Almost dusk. 

“Bedroom,” he says, and his voice is silk. Like smooth whiskey and the slipping sun. “Five minutes.” 

And then he turns, and goes, and you count back from three hundred. 

 You wait five minutes, like he asked. 

It feels excruciatingly long. But, then — you’re used to this, by now. The minutes with him go too quickly and the ones without him never end. You can’t ever seem to get it just right. 

But the time does pass, eventually. You make it pass. You push yourself off the desk and wander into the bathroom. You take your clothes off — everything, except black underwear — and you take your tampon out, and you run a brush through your hair. Then you walk back to the living room, where his duffel bag is still sitting by the front door — and you fish one of his flannels from the top. It’s red and brown and smells like bourbon and it’s way too fucking big. But you button it up anyway, over your bare chest, and leave the top two undone. 

It’s huge on you. The sleeves drip over your fingers. The hem drops just above your knees. 

You like it. It’s warm. It feels like him. 

And then your five minutes are up, just like that, and you follow his shadow to the bedroom. 

You’re nervous, when you open the door. But you’ve gotten used to that, too. The constant swarm in your stomach when he calls you by name. The flush in your face right before you see his. 

You take a quiet step inside. Let the door click shut behind you. 

“Hi,” you say, softly. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed: Still dressed, in his belt and his boots and his jeans and his flannel. The sleeves are cuffed at his forearms, exposing tanned skin and corded muscle. His runaway curl is smoothed back into place. 

There’s a towel spread across the sheets. One of the big, fluffy black ones you’d seen hanging by the shower. The edge hangs slightly off the bed. 

He doesn’t say hi back. But he does give you a look — like, a look — that makes your throat run dry. His eyes roam your body: up your legs, over his flannel, over the bit of exposed skin where you’ve neglected the top buttons — and you watch them go dark. 

“C’mere,” he says. 

You take one step forward. Then another. There’s something intensely commanding about the way he sounds right now, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact he’s almost completely, totally silent, or the way he doesn’t move a muscle while he watches you approach. He only really moves once, to push his own sleeve higher. You watch his wrist flex with the motion. 

You stop at the edge of the bed. He tilts his chin to look at you. 

“Lie down,” he says. 

You get the sense that this is not about to be a repeat of two nights prior, when you issued all the orders. You’re pretty sure that was a one-time thing. Or at least — a once-in-a-blue-moon thing, if the look on his face and the cut in his voice are any indication. 

He’s back to his old self. More commanding, if that’s even possible, like he’s making up for lost time. His eyes are black. 

“Don’t like repeatin’ myself,” he murmurs. 

Your breath hitches. The tug between your legs is borderline painful. You have to bite back a whimper when you sink down onto the bed, on top of the sheets and on top of the towel. 

He doesn’t move, still, when you lie down. He stays sitting at the foot of the bed. But he does turn slightly, to look at you, and his stare is so sharp you drop your own gaze. 

He doesn’t do anything, so you pick up his slack. Or…try to. You bring shaky fingers to your flannel — his flannel — and start to pull at the buttons. 

He shakes his head. Your fingers still. 

“Don’t,” he says, gently. 

So you don’t. You drop your hands. Let them fall useless to your sides. 

And then he moves. Finally. He undoes his belt with deft fingers and slips it through his jeans with a soft, leathery hiss. It’s the only sound in the room. It makes your skin prick and your stomach clench. 

He gets up, off of the bed, and you tilt your neck to follow him. He walks up to you, where your head is propped against the pillows, and bends to pick up your hands. 

He’s gentle, while he does all this. Gentle and quiet and not at all the rough, teasing, domineering type you’ve gotten used to. But there’s something about him, still, that spells you into silence. Something that makes you listen, and makes your wrists go limp when he takes them both in one hand. 

He pulls your hands up over your head. Your pulse beats a double-rhythm in his palm. He holds them to the headboard, to the second wooden slat of four, and ties them in place with his belt. 

And you let him. You let him wrap the leather around your hands and the headboard, let him cinch it tight, let the metal buckle bite into your wrists. You don’t say a damn word and neither does he. 

Not until he sits back down beside you, on the edge of the bed, and digs that black vibrator back out of his pocket. 

Your breath picks up. Your legs pull. You flinch a little, tugging at his belt, but it doesn’t give. If anything the leather cinches tighter. 

“What’re you…?” 

He puts a broad hand on your thigh, inches above your knee. Heat flushes underneath his touch. The hem of your flannel bunches around his fingers. 

He looks up at you. 

“Said you weren’t sure ‘f I wanted it,” he says. 

He flicks the vibrator on. It hums to life in his palm. 

“Stupid fuckin’ question,” he murmurs. He drags his hand up the seam of your thigh, until his thumb grazes cotton. Your hips jerk a little. 

He holds you in place with that hand. Puts the toy to your clit with the other. 

“Makin’ sure y’never ask again,” he growls. 

And then you really do buck your hips; pulling at his makeshift restraints, whining through your teeth while he teases you through cotton. 

“Fuck,” you yelp, “Joel—”

“Shh,” he mumbles, half to himself. He moves the vibrator half an inch lower, clicks the setting higher, and fire shoots through your core. Your wrists wrench at the headboard. The wood doesn’t give. Neither does his belt. But you’ll have a bruise on both hands, you’re pretty sure, where the buckle gives a warning bite. 

“Y’move too much,” he murmurs. 

“S-sorry,” you pant, and you’re not really sure what you’re apologizing for, but you’re kind of delirious and you’ll say whatever he wants if he just — doesn’t stop. The pressure he’s putting on your clit is fucking — it’s ten times better than any time you’ve used this thing on yourself. You’re not sure if it’s just him, or if he’s got some kind of magic technique, or what, but — 

“S’okay, baby,” he says, in that gentle, slopey drawl. “’S why we used the belt.” 

Your legs are trembling, and you’re not really sure if it’s the toy or his voice or the words themselves, dripping to your skin like honey. You try to pull them together, against the ache he won’t fill, and his free hand tightens on your thigh. 

“Jesus,” he murmurs. He sounds amused. His thumb strokes at the seam of your thigh. “Tie the rest ‘a you down, too, ‘f you don’t quit movin’.” 

You whimper — something pitiful, pathetic — but you stop moving. Part of you wants to push him: rut your hips, and writhe against his belt, just to see if he’ll make good on his promise. Part of you wants him to. 

But this is enough, for now. This is almost too much. He’s got your eyes rolling back, and he’s keeping you still with that big, broad palm above your knee. He flicks the setting higher, higher, highest — and you shout his name. You pitch forward, panting, and the belt snaps against your skin. It might hurt, if you weren’t so preoccupied. 

“Fuck,” you plead, “Joel, p—fuck—”

“Too much?” he asks, gently. 

You shake your head. Your hair is in your face, in your eyes, and you can’t shove it away. Your thigh flinches underneath his hand. 

“No,” you punch out. “N—fuck, please don’t st—op.”

You’re close. He can tell, probably before you can. It never takes you long with the vibrator — that’s why you bought it — but Joel plus toy is something else entirely. It’s a hell of a lot different than when you use it yourself. You never push it past the first few settings. You’ve got an easy, relaxed routine, under your covers, in the comfort of your upstairs bedroom, or your dorm room, or wherever. It’s lazy. Languid. Sometimes there’s a video, to help things along. More often than not you just use your imagination. 

 And you always — always — think of Joel. 

So having him here — actually here, flipping your lazy routine on its head, working the toy against your clit with the kind of practical skill that comes from a lifetime of using your hands — 

It’s a whole lot better than your imagination. And you try to tell him that, or something like it, but your head is foggy and your vision is blurred and his knuckles are grazing the soaked-black fabric of your panties while he guides the toy along. 

So you settle for his name, instead. It comes out broken on your tongue. 

“S’good, baby,” he coaxes. “Good girl.” 

You cum hard, then, with his name still on your lips and a slew of fractured curses behind that. His free hand lets up on your thigh. It’s still there, still warm and rough and comforting, but he’s not applying any pressure. He doesn’t have to keep you still. 

He clicks the vibrator off. Moves it back, gently. The guys you’re used to would keep going, once they got a result — struck gold once, why stop digging? — but Joel knows when to stop, when to pull back, when to let you catch your breath. He knows how to read your voice, and your body, and the words that get tangled on their way up your throat. 

He leans back while your breaths steady. You see his shape in your peripheral, putting the toy down gently on the nightstand, and then his hand is on your face and he’s pushing your hair back, away from your eyes and your mouth and your cheeks. 

Even that touch makes you shiver. You figure you’re probably just fucked, when it comes to Joel Miller. 

You pull up a little on the restraints. You want to kiss him. Or — you want him to kiss you, since there’s not much you can do. 

He doesn’t give you what you want. He pulls back, and moves back to his familiar spot beside your legs. He drags an aimless hand up your calf, your knee, your thigh. 

You suck in a breath. Push it out through your teeth. 

He knows what you want. He picks up on the patterns in your breath; the way your panting turns to pleading. 

“Can you —fuck—” you pull against his belt, “—just—fucking—untie me, please—”

His fingers drift up your thigh, ghosting cotton, and then — they drop. His touch trickles back to your calf. And then he starts again, even slower, and it’s softer than the toy, and gentler, and lighter, but it’s driving you just as crazy. Maybe more. 

He takes his time, like he’s pretending to think. His touch skates higher. 

“No,” he says, after a long pause. “Don’t think so.” 

You make a long, frustrated sound. Drop your head back to the pillow. Your wrists go limp against his belt. 

His thumb strokes at the edge of your panties. You gasp.

“Make ya a deal,” he drawls. “Gimme one more — ’n we’ll see ‘bout the belt.” 

“We’ll see about the belt?” 

He shrugs. It takes everything in you not to buck your hips into his thumb. 

“Best I can do,” he says. “Take it or leave it.” 

You stare at him. Then your head flops against the pillow, and you sigh. 

“Fine.” 

He smiles. You can feel it. 

“Kinda like ya like this,” he says. “Ain’t so stubborn.” 

He swipes past your swollen clit. You yelp.

“Fuck you,” you pant. 

He hooks a finger through your waistband. Pulls your underwear down, down your thighs and over your knees and off around your ankles. Then he holds them, wrapped around his index finger, and tilts his head. 

“We’ll do somethin’ ‘bout that mouth, next time,” he says. 

He tosses your panties to the floor. Pushes his slipping sleeves back to his forearms. You roll your eyes, but you know he sees the blush that stains your cheeks. 

His brow lifts. 

“You’d like that, huh?” He smiles. “Dirty fuckin’ girl.” 

You mumble something. It sounds like a whimper. But it must be good enough for him, because he takes pity on you. 

“What d’you want, baby?” he asks, softly. His gaze drifts to the nightstand. “Up t’you.” 

You know what he’s asking — and with most guys you’d say yes, please, use the fucking vibrator, I thought you’d never ask — because its success rate is exponentially higher than most college boys’s clumsy fingers. 

But this isn’t a college boy. This isn’t most guys. This is Joel, and you want Joel. Just Joel.

“No,” you tell him. “Just — you.” 

He doesn’t move, so you add, a little awkwardly — 

“—please.” 

He blinks. Then he snaps back, like he’s just — recalibrating. He’s got the same look on his face as he did half an hour ago, when you told him you loved his little wood duck. 

“Is that…okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “Fuck. Yeah, ‘course it’s okay. Just thought—” he’s looking at the nightstand again, with a curious kind of look on his face, “—thought y’might like that better.” 

That’s stupid, you think. It’s a stupid fucking question, even though with anyone else it would be true. 

“No,” you say, quietly, and you’re blushing, still, but for a different reason. “I like you better.” 

He swallows. His jaw flexes. 

“What?” you ask. 

“Nothin’,” he says, again. And then — softly, “—just don’t know what t’do with you.” 

He looks at you. His fingers are still splayed at the inside of your thigh, half an inch from where you want him most. You stare at them; at his hand sprawled on your skin, and he follows your gaze. 

“I know where you can start,” you mumble. 

And then he smiles again — that crooked, happy, satisfied smile — and his hand slides higher. 

“Hold still this time,” he says, in that honeyed drawl, “or the belt stays.” 

It’s not much of a threat. You like the way the leather hugs your wrists. You like that it belongs to him. You like that you do, too. 

But you play along. You nod. And when he slips two fingers inside you you try your hardest not to squirm. 

You don’t think you’re that successful. But he’s nice about it, or he’s distracted, because he doesn’t say another word. He lets you thrash against his belt, and writhe into his hand, and shout his name when he crooks his fingers and pumps his wrist and hits something inside you that that fucking toy can’t ever reach. 

And — if it’s even possible — you cum faster on his fingers than you did with the vibrator. 

He talks you through it. Murmured words and quiet praise. You tell him you’re close, again, and he tells you he’s got you, good girl, y’look so beautiful like this.

It’s the last one that sends you over the edge, you think. The way he calls you beautiful, in that molasses drawl, quiet and reverential and a little bit awestruck when you come apart in his hands. 

And then he’s untying you; unclasping the buckle, releasing you from the headboard, and you’re undressing him before you can rub at your wrists. You can do that later, in the dark. You can ice his face and then your hands and then his face, again. 

He kicks his boots off. His jeans are easy to get off, without his belt in the way, and he helps you with his shirt when your fingers shake. He leaves yours on, though. He stops you, when you go to take it off for the second time tonight. 

“Leave it,” he says, and his voice is so dark, so deep, that it stops you in your tracks. “Like you like this.” 

By this he means — in his clothes. In his scent. Wrapped up in him, in every way. He likes the way his shirts are too big, and he likes the way the smell of pine and coffee linger on your skin. You’d say he likes showing off that you’re his, but — there’s no one around. He just likes to see it for himself. 

Which you knew, already. It’s why you pull his shirts out of his duffel, whenever you get the chance. It’s why you’re swimming in his flannel now. 

So you nod, shyly. You keep his shirt on, and when he leans forward, and cups your jaw in his hand, it feels like he’s everywhere. On your skin and in the air and on your lips, when he kisses you. 

You fall back against the pillows. He climbs over you, on top of you, and his knees dig into the towel. And this is the part, now, where you might start getting self-conscious — about the fact you’re on your period, and he’s gone to all this trouble, even though it’s really no trouble at all, about the fact you might make a mess, about ten thousand other things that couldn’t matter less. 

But you don’t think about that. You think about Joel. And when your mind slips, into that fuzzy, peaceful space, you think about the way he feels, and the way he tastes, and you spell that you love him in drifting fingers down his back. 

You have nothing but time, so he takes his. He drags his teeth up your neck and smoothes the marks with his tongue. He kisses your collar, where the edge of his shirt meets the dip in your skin, and his scruff leaves gentle scrapes. You put your hands in his hair, in his roots, and he lets you guide him. 

And then — finally, finally, he draws away from you, and pulls back on his haunches to take off his boxers. 

You watch him, while he does. You watch him toss them onto the floor and then fold back over you, chest to chest. His cock nudges at your entrance and you spread your legs, lifting your hips for him — but he doesn’t push into you. Even though it would be easy; even though he’s achingly hard and you’re soaked for him and you’re practically begging him, please. 

He doesn’t fuck you. Not yet. He noses your cheek, instead, surprisingly gentle, and he kisses you there. And then he kisses the edge of your brow, and your temple, and your forehead. Just — gentle. Soft. Like he’s telling you something, or — trying to — but this is all his mouth can do. 

He stops when you whine, softly, because you need him closer. You put your palms on his chest and push up, lightly. He breaks his kiss and pulls back. His forehead hangs over yours. 

“Please,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Okay, angel.” 

His hands are splayed somewhere beside your head. He moves one of them, now, to wrap around the base of his cock and guide himself into you. He slides in easily, so fucking easily, like he just fits there. Your head sinks into the pillow and your nails sink into his skin, into the muscle on his arms, and you’re sure he’ll have marks there. Little crescent cuts to go with all the rest. 

He sets a slow, patient rhythm. He’s usually rougher, faster, and you’re pretty sure his show of self-restraint is driving you crazier than him. He’s hitting something deep inside you, over and over, not quite fast enough to push you over the edge but steady enough to keep you there. 

And even though the cabin is empty, and you don’t have to be quiet, you are — because he’s kissing you. He swallows all your quiet moans and his own tangled, whimpered name. 

He pulls halfway out of you. Drags his mouth away to breathe. You gasp at the emptiness but he swallows that, too — he flexes his hips, and thrusts into you, and his tongue is sliding back to yours before he’s even fully gone. 

You have never — never — fucked Joel like this. You’ve never fucked anyone like this. Not in a dorm room, or a frat party, or a childhood bedroom that feels too cramped, now. Not your ex-boyfriend Carter, or any guy at school, or Hayes. 

Not anyone. Not ever. Not until now. 

“Feel good,” he’s mumbling, in those rare seconds when his mouth leaves yours. “Feel fuckin’—good.” 

He pulls out, again. Thrusts back into you. This time he groans, into your mouth, and his hips stumble a little. His cock twitches. You dig your fingers into his shoulders, clench around him, and he breaks your kiss with a gasp. 

“Fuck,” he pants. “D-do that again.” 

You’d make him work for it, usually, but you can’t bring yourself to tease him. You drag him closer; squeeze tight around his cock, and his head drops to your shoulder. He pushes into you —less steady, less restrained — and finally picks up the pace. 

You loop your hands around the back of his neck. Let your head go hazy. But when the pressure at the pit of your stomach starts to build, you tell him — 

“—Wait—” 

—in a shallow, breathless voice. 

He stops. Immediately. He slips out of you, and his head whips from your shoulder, and he looks at you with wide eyes. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “What's wrong? Did I—”

“No,” you say, quickly. “No. I just—”

You trail off, a lot more self-conscious now than you were two seconds ago. Easier to demand things of him when he’s railing you, you guess. 

“I just wanted to—or, I wanted you to—”

You’re blushing, again. Your eyes dart to the side, away from his. 

The concern drips out of his stare. He knows exactly what you want — what you’re trying to ask for — because he knows you. 

Now, he looks — amused. And fucking smug, again. 

“All y’gotta do is ask,” he drawls. 

You swallow. 

“Or you could just tell me,” you say, quietly. 

You watch his eyes go dark. He likes that. You know he does, because you know him. 

“Flip over,” he says. 

You flip over. Stomach-down on the towel. Your cheek digs into the pillow. His hands wrap around your calves and he drags you down, lower, and you let him manhandle you. You let him move you the way he wants. 

And then he’s settling over you again, and you can’t see him but you can feel him. His weight, behind you. His hand, when he shoves your shirt up and puts his palm on the small of your back. 

“Hold still,” he says, for the thousandth time tonight. You smile. 

“Or what?” You grin into the pillow. Try to lift your hips and push against him. But you keep forgetting how strong he is, even with one lazy palm sprawled out across your back. He pins you down too easily. “You’re gonna bring out the belt?” 

You hear his huff. 

“Keep ya still without the belt,” he says. 

“Not a chance.” 

You can feel him roll his eyes. This must’ve been how he felt, earlier this afternoon, when you’d rolled your eyes behind his back. You can't see him, but you just know. 

“No?” he drawls. 

It’s a terrible attempt to rile him up. But he’s humoring you. 

You mumble your no into the pillow. Shake your head. 

You hear him sigh above you. Then his palm lifts off the small of your back, just briefly, just for a second — before he cracks it down across your ass. It’s not hard, really — not hard enough to hurt — but it’s enough to leave a mark. Enough to make you yelp. 

“F—”

He does it again. Same spot. The sting that sticks behind is sweet. 

You swear into the pillow. Your skin glows white-hot. If he flipped you over right now, you’re not sure if you’d slap him, or kiss him, or beg him to fuck you. 

Probably the last one. Definitely the last one. 

“You never fuckin’ listen,” he says. 

His palm settles over your ass. Over the handprint you’re sure he’s already made. 

“You gonna hold still?” 

This time you nod. As best you can. 

“Yeah?” he asks. 

“Yes,” you say. 

He squeezes your ass. 

“‘Atta girl,” he says. 

Then he slides into you, one hand braced on the towel beside you and the other on your ass, and you have to bite into the pillowcase to keep from mangling his name. 

The angle he’s hitting is so much deeper, and so much different, and he’s splitting you open all over again, and — 

“Fuck,” he pants, “you—fuck.” 

He flexes his hips. Thrusts deeper into you. This is a much different pace than the one he’d set before, when he’d peppered you with gentle kisses and gentler words. This is something else entirely. This is rough, and untethered, and exactly what you tried to ask for. 

He fists your hair in his palm and pulls, yanking your chin up off of the pillow, wrapping your hair around his knuckles while he slams into you. You gasp for breath.  

“This what you needed, baby girl?” 

You say something. You’re not sure what. 

He pulls on your hair. Tilts your neck back, further. 

“Yes,” you yelp, “Fuck! Y-yes.” 

He lets you go. Lets your head drop back to the pillow. His hand is back on your ass, splayed out in a possessive sprawl. 

“Yeah,” he agrees. “’S what you needed.” 

He pushes deeper into you. Groans, softly. His flannel scrunches up around your cheek, your mouth, and you bite down on the fabric. 

His hand drifts lower, over your ass. His thumb skims the ring of muscle there. 

You tighten. He notices — he must — because he stills, for a minute. But his thumb doesn’t move. 

There’s a beat. You take a breath. 

“No?” he asks, softly, and you already know what he’s asking. 

You go to shake your head, reflexively — you’ve said no every time, to everyone, no matter how creative or long-winded or desperate the proposition. Just — no. 

“S’okay, angel,” he says, gently. “Don’t have to.” 

“No,” you say, quickly — but you’re not saying no to him, you realize. “I want — I want you to.” 

“Don’t sound too sure.” 

“No, I am, I’ve just never—”  

There’s silence. You can feel him above you, gauging your reaction. Gauging the blush on your upturned cheek. 

“I want to,” you say, again. And you mean it. You want to, with him. 

“Okay,” he murmurs. But his thumb still doesn’t move. He doesn’t move. 

“Joel,” you say, a little impatient, now, because you’ve been on the edge for so long, and you just gave him permission, so what the fuck is he waiting f—

“Relax,” he says, quietly. He’s not rough anymore. He’s just Joel. “Relax, angel.” 

You only realize how … not relaxed you are when you actually, really try to relax. Everything is tense. Your jaw, your stomach, the fist you’ve wrapped around his sheets. 

You’re nervous. Which — okay, fine — but this is Joel. With the gentle Texas drawl, and the warm hands, and the flannel shirt that smells like sunshine. 

It’s just Joel. And you trust Joel. 

So you do relax. For real. You let your jaw go loose and untangle your fingers. 

“I trust you,” you mumble, into the pillow. 

He’s quiet. 

“Yeah,” he says, simply. “I know, baby.” 

Then he pushes back into you, stretching you out, and you breathe his name into his flannel. His thumb nudges at your ass and you push your hips back, into him. You want him to. 

“Easy,” he murmurs, and you’re not sure who he’s talking to. His thumb pushes into you — just the tip — and you hiss into his shirt. But that’s it. It hurts for a second, maybe, and then it doesn’t. He’s crooking his thumb, pressing deeper into you, hitting something deep inside you, and you just feel full. You feel like he’s fucking everywhere — inside you, and on your skin, and in the words you can’t say. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, “Joel, fuck—”

“Good?” he asks. He’s not really moving, and you realize he’s waiting for your green-light: waiting for you to re-set the pace. 

“Yes,” you plead. “Fuck, yes, please just—” 

You whimper. Mumble around his shirt. 

“—don’t stop,” you tell him. “Don’t fucking — stop.” 

That’s all the green-light he needs. He snaps his hips up, into you, and he fucks you at that frantic, furious pace you’d begged him for. You push back weakly; against his hips, against his thumb, but you’re content to just let him take over. You can’t think straight, anyway. Everything is foggy and white and bright, and when he takes you to the edge this time you let yourself fall. 

“Doin’ so good, baby,” he’s saying, over and over again, good girl, good girl, doin’ so fuckin’ good f’me, look so good like this—and you can barely hear him, because you’re so blissed out, but you feel him, when his hips trip into you and he spills inside you with a strangled cry. You feel him, when his chest crumbles to your back. You feel his heart beat through your shoulder blades, frenzied and wild. 

It takes you a long time to catch your breath. It takes him even longer. When you’re aware of your surroundings again — when you can hear things that aren’t your own pulse between your ears — you roll over and touch him. 

His eyes are closed. Or half-closed, at least. He looks like he’s dozing, or drifting, or in some kind of happy, dreamlike, almost-sleep. You feel kind of bad, waking him up. He hardly ever looks this…peaceful. 

You prod him. When that doesn’t work you nuzzle into his shoulder, and kiss his cheek, and nip at his jaw until he groans.

“Mmmph,” he grumbles, which is not usually a sentence, but which you’ve learned in Joel-speak can mean a myriad of things, like who the fuck is bothering me and why the fuck are they bothering me and can you please stop fucking bothering me.

“Move,” you say, pushing at his arm. It’s like moving a grizzly bear. But he does move, eventually, with a long-suffering sound that makes you roll your eyes and laugh.

“What?” he grumbles. 

“The towel,” you say, and you hate that you still sound shy. That that self-conscious streak has wriggled back in. “I’m gonna — I need to clean up. So do you.” 

He opens his eyes, then. He rolls over and frowns. 

“Go get ’n the shower,” he says. 

“But—”

“I’ll take care ‘f it,” he says. 

You look hesitantly at the towel. At him. 

“I can do it,” you say. 

“Didn’t say y’couldn’t,” he drawls. Then he’s rolling off the bed, and tugging the towel out from under you, and you have no choice but to stand up and let his shirt drip back over your knees. 

“But—”

“But nothin’,” he says. He nods toward the bathroom. “Go. Hot water ain’t great. Only lasts a couple minutes.” 

You stare at him. But then you go, because he said so, and there’s really no arguing with him. So you shower while he puts the towel and the sheets and the pillowcases in the laundry, and when he’s done he joins you in there. 

The hot water is almost gone, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t complain. He washes your hair, and works out the tangles, and swipes soap off your jaw with even soapier fingers. 

“Thanks,” you say, a little awkwardly. “For — cleaning up.” 

He shrugs. 

“It’s nothin’,” he says. And it is nothing, to him. Everything is just — nothing. Except for you. 

You let him have a turn under the water. It’s pretty much icy, now. Your teeth clatter while you wait for him. 

“We should probably make dinner,” you say, while he sloughs shampoo from his hair. 

He opens his eyes. Blinks water at you. 

He’s a terrible chef. And you’re too wiped to even think about cooking. You both know both of these things, so you just — stare at each other. Eventually he turns the water off, and bundles you in a towel, and dries himself off with another. 

“Or,” you say, slowly, “we could just eat the Ben and Jerry’s.” 

He pauses, mid-towel dry. 

“Chunks of real cookie dough,” you remind him. 

“Mm.” He pulls a tee shirt on over his head. “Lead the way.” 

You do eat the Ben and Jerry’s. The whole thing, between the two of you, and even he has to admit that it’s — in his own words — pretty alright. 

After that you’re both full, and a little hopped up on half a pint of sugar, so you sit on the couch with your legs in his lap and you ask him every stupid question that flies into your mind. He rubs your feet while you talk, like he’s silently praying you might just wear yourself out. 

But he indulges you. There’s a smile playing at the edge of his lips. He’s turned the fireplace on, with a lighter he found somewhere deep in the kitchen, and his face flickers in the glow — orange, red, orange, again. 

“Favorite color,” you say. 

He tips his head to the ceiling. 

“Brown.” 

“Oh my god. Brown?” 

“’S wrong with brown?” 

“Dirt is brown. Mud is brown. No one’s favorite color is brown.”

But you’re realizing, as you’re saying it, that you’re wrong. His hair is brown. Deep brown, dark brown, like a forest after rain. His eyes are brown. Light, sometimes, like water over silt, and sometimes almost-black. His flannels are brown: brown and red, brown and yellow, brown and something, and he always looks like autumn. 

So he’s right, you think, when he says brown is his favorite color. You think maybe it’s yours now, too. 

“What?” he asks, when you’re quiet too long. 

You look up at him. Brown eyes, tired. Brown hair, tousled. 

“Nothing,” you say. “Next question.” 

“Childhood pet,” you say. 

“Black lab. Cooper. Used t’hunt ducks.” 

“Like that one?” You nod toward the desk, where his little wood duck sits facing the moon. 

He makes a soft sound. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Sure.” 

“And when did you start wood…working?” 

“Carvin’,” he amends. His thumb stills on the arch of your foot while he thinks. “Dunno,” he shrugs, after a while. “After Sarah came ‘long, I guess. ’S—relaxin’.” 

“You should sell them,” you say, matter-of-fact. “Like. At a Farmer’s Market, or something.” 

He half-laughs. But then he sees you’re serious — or as serious as you can manage, in your fucked-out, sugar-high, loopy sort of bliss, and he shakes his head. 

“Nah,” he says. 

“Why not?” 

“‘Cause no one would buy ‘em,” he says. “They ain’t any good. And,” he adds, when your mouth snaps open to protest, “—‘cause they’re—part ‘a me.” 

Your mouth snaps back shut. 

“What d’you mean, part of you?” 

“They’re mine,” he says, a little helpless. “I made ‘em. Don’t wanna give ‘em away.” 

“Sell them,” you amend.

“Don’t wanna sell ‘em,” he says. “Ain’t worth anythin’, anyway. ‘Cept to me.” 

“And me.” You prop yourself up on your elbows. Look at him across the couch. “They’re worth something to me.” 

He actually does smile at that. Not — smug, or self-satisfied — but shy. Sweet and shy and a little bit sheepish. 

“Okay,” you say. “One more question.” 

“Said that ten questions ago.” 

“I was lying. This is the last one.” 

“Mm,” he says. But he lets you go. 

“What’s his name?” 

“What?” He blinks at you. “Who?” 

“The duck,” you say. “What’s his name?” 

He’s silent, for a moment. 

“Ain’t got a name,” he says. “’S a duck.” 

“Ducks have names. Donald Duck. Daisy Duck.” 

“Those ‘re fake ducks,” he says. 

“So’s yours,” you say. 

“Jesus,” he says. 

But it’s soundproof logic, so — you win. He sighs, heavily. 

“Clyde,” you say, after a minute. 

“Clyde?” 

“Yeah. That’s his name. He’s British.” 

“Mm.” He leans back against the cushions. His hand strokes a lazy line, from your calf to your ankle and back up again. “Long way from home.” 

“Yeah,” you agree. Your eyes are heavy, now. You rest your head against the arm of the couch and stretch your legs out in his lap. “Poor Clyde.” 

He chuckles, softly, and that makes you smile. You flex your foot against his hand and close your eyes.

You sit quietly for a few long minutes. You maybe — maybe — fall asleep. 

His voice wakes you. His gentle hand below your knee. 

“Tired?” he murmurs. 

“No,” you say, without opening your eyes. “I’m — resting my eyes.” 

“Okay,” he says. “Well. Y’can rest your eyes in bed.” 

You try to mumble something in protest. You don’t want to go anywhere. You like it right here, with your feet in his lap and your head on the couch and the fireplace warming your skin. You like how close he is, how domestic. You don’t want it to change. You don’t want the sun to rise. 

You want to stay right here. 

But you’re fighting a losing battle, because he’s moving your legs aside, gently, and standing up off the couch, and he’s scooping you up like you weigh nothing at all. 

“C’mon,” he mutters. 

You don’t argue anymore. You let your head slump in his shoulder and your nose nudge at his neck. You kiss him there, lightly, and you hear his hum in response. Warm and silk-smooth. 

He puts you down and disappears for a few minutes — to lock the door, and turn the fireplace off, and check the windows are sealed. Then he comes back in, and shucks his sweatpants and his shirt off, and when he climbs into bed beside you you nuzzle at his side. 

He’s like sleeping with a space heater. Every part of him is a thousand fucking degrees. Which is nice, because you’re freezing. You chalk it up to genetics, or the half-pint of frozen ice cream floating through your bloodstream. Either way he lets you burrow into him. Under his arm and into the warm plane of his chest. 

“G’night,” you say, softly. 

He kisses you. Somewhere buried in your hair. 

“Night, angel,” he murmurs. 

You could swear he mumbles something else, too — something softer — but you’re half-asleep already. You don’t hear, and he doesn’t repeat it. 

And then you really do sleep, wrapped up in his arms and pressed to his heart, and when you dream they’re all of him. 

 When you wake up it’s still dark. Which sucks, but — you have to pee, and the only thing left over from your Ben and Jerry’s dinner is a fucking headache, and you have cramps that bite you awake. 

Great, you think. It’s the trifecta. 

And there’s something else, too, something bigger and heavier that won’t let you sleep, but you don’t — or you won’t — think about that, right now. Right now you roll out of bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, and you hobble over hardwood to the bathroom. 

You only turn the light on when you’re sealed inside. Joel’s a heavy sleeper, but — still. You don’t want to wake him. He deserves the rest. 

You dig around in your bag and slam two Tylenol — one for the headache and one for the cramps. Or so you figure. You use the bathroom, wash your hands — and by the time you’re back in the bedroom you’re wide awake. 

Naturally. 

So — fuck it. You grab a hoodie from your duffel and slip out of the bedroom, down the hall and through the living room and to the front door Joel’s dead-bolted. 

You undo the latch and let yourself outside. You leave the door open but close the screen behind you — so you won’t lock yourself out, on accident. You don’t love the thought of spending the night — or whatever’s left of it, at least — outside. 

You’re not sure what time it is. If it’s closer to morning or to night. The sky is pitch-black, littered silver with stars, and the water on the pebbled lake is glittering, moon-grey. 

It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. You can’t remember the last time you looked at the stars.

You pick your way over to one of Tommy’s Adirondack chairs, sprawled out across the porch. It’s huge — big enough for two people, easily — and you slouch down against the slats. It makes you smile, how small you feel. In the too-big chair under the too-big sky. You put your hand on the wooden arm and tilt your head up to the stars. 

Behind you the screen door opens, and whines, and then shudders shut. Joel’s heavy footsteps join you on the porch. 

You twist around in the chair. He’s leaning up against the cabin wall, in a grey Dallas Cowboys shirt and a pair of grey sweatpants. His hair is mussed. He’s got a chipped mug in his hands that he cups with both palms. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks. His drawl is still thick. He must’ve just woken up. 

“Not really.” You frown. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”  

He shrugs. 

“Didn’t wake me,” he says. “Room just felt empty.” 

You’re quiet. Steam twists out of the mug and drifts apart in the cold air.  

You don’t know what to say. That thing that will not let you sleep is getting bigger, heavier. 

So you nod, quietly. And you accept the mug, when he peels himself off of the wall and offers it with both hands. 

“What is it?” you ask, a little skeptical. You put your nose over the rim and sniff.

“Tea,” he says. There’s a pause, then he adds, “Peppermint.” 

Peppermint. Your favorite. You told him as much, just a few nights ago — and apparently he listened. 

You take a tentative sip. Smile. He made it right, this time. Kept the bag in long enough.

“Where’d you get this?” 

“Had some at that gas station, on our way up. I just thought—” He shrugs. “Just ’n case.” 

“Just in case,” you repeat. You take another sip. 

“It’s good,” you say, quietly. “Thanks.” 

He smiles. You think he looks pleased. He takes a seat in the other Adirondack chair, beside you, and you watch the moon paint his face silver. His jaw, his cheek, the bruise under his eye and the slice across his nose. Everything looks lighter. More muted, less angry. 

You put the mug down on the chair’s arm. Then you stand, careful not to let it spill, and you go to his chair, instead. 

He makes room for you right away. You don’t ask him to, but he does. He scoots back, spreads his legs, and you drape yourself across his lap. His nose nestles in your hair, by the shell of your ear. 

"Y'alright?" he asks.

"Yeah," you tell him. "I think so."

But you're not, really, and he can tell. He can read your mind, or something close to it. So you're not all that surprised when he noses your ear, a little more insistent, and says—

“Hey. Talk t'me."

The irony of Joel Miller, asking you to talk to him. You’d laugh, if it didn’t feel like something was sitting on your chest. 

“I don’t know,” you mumble. But you do know. “It’s nothing.” 

He’s quiet, for a moment. You wonder if he’ll let it go. 

“Your dad?” he asks. 

“No,” you say. Which is the truth. You haven’t thought about your dad since you texted him, half a day ago now. It’s not him. 

Joel is silent again. You turn in his arms to look him in the eye. 

“It’s nothing,” you repeat. “It’s not—it’s stupid.” 

He takes a breath. Lifts a finger to your face, and traces a strand of hair. 

“Bet it ain’t stupid,” he says, softly. 

“Yeah.” You push out a laugh. It sounds hollow. “It is. It’s dumb. Let’s just — drop it.” 

You can feel him studying you. Watching you. But he’s quiet, and he doesn’t ask you again, because you asked him to drop it. He only says, “okay, angel,” in that syrupy drawl, and strokes your arm with a rough thumb. 

And you appreciate that. You do. But you kind of fucking wish he’d ask you until you break, if only to get this weight off of your ribs and your chest and your stomach and your heart. 

But he doesn’t. Because that’s not Joel. Joel listens. He listens when you tell him your favorite tea. He listens when you tell him to leave it alone.

He changes the subject, instead. He brings his hand up beside your face and points to the sky. 

“’S, uh — Orion, I think.” 

“Oh.” You blink. The change in subject throws you a little, but — you follow his index finger. Squint up at the dark. You have no fucking idea what you’re looking at, but he seems eager enough. 

“Sure,” you lie. It all looks the same to you. Just a bunch of streaky silver. Beautiful streaky silver, but — still. 

“To the left,” he says, gently, and you can hear the smile on his lips. His breath tickles your cheek, your neck, your collar. 

He drops his pointer finger. Puts his hand on your jaw, instead, and tilts your head in the right direction. 

“There,” he mutters. “Now look.” 

And you actually do see it, this time. 

At least, you think you do. It’s hard to concentrate, with his fingers so close to your neck. With his voice like starlit silk in your ear. 

You shift a little in his lap. The wind whistles, whinging off the lake, and his arm tightens reflexively around you. Possessive. Protective. But — gentle, too. Always gentle. 

It bubbles up in your throat again. That thing you can’t keep down. That thing that will not let you sleep. 

“Joel,” you whisper. It sounds like a whine. 

“Yeah.” 

You turn to look at him again. His hand is still on your jaw, fingers slack, just — holding you. His thumb rolls over your chin. 

You shake your head. Fuck.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “I know, baby.” 

“No you don’t,” you say. Your throat feels tight. You’re angry, you think — not with him, just — at the sky. At Orion. At yourself. Just fucking say it.

“I want—but I don’t want to—”

His thumb inches to your bottom lip. He holds it there, effectively shutting you up. 

“S’okay,” he says, softly.

His thumb strokes higher — to the edge of your mouth and then back down, over your chin, to the ridge of your jaw. He’s tracing you. Mapping you like the stars. 

“S’okay, angel,” he echoes, and you’re still shaking your head when he speaks again. Low. Gentle. So, so gentle. “I love you, too.” 

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@bbyanarchist @elissaaa @nana90azevedo @cannolighost @jbb-sgr @cedricbitch @nenyahh @totallynotastanacc @jasminedragoon @hrdc0re-goth @myswficlist @brucewaynescock @aestheticangel612 @re3kin @untamedheart81 @pedrosheartshapedbeardspot @am-3-thyst @godisawomansblog @prettyangelsthings @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite @daddy-din @crocodiile @socket-seahorse-blog @confused-and-clumsy @she-could-never @suzmagine @artsymaddie @mellmannn @virgogaia @mysteriousheat4058 @fandomoniumflurry @projectionistwrites~ @buckyandlokirunmylife @brattynbookish @carriganbrowning @brittmb11 @iamsherlocked1479 @ghostofjoharvelle @kay2601 @casa-boiardi

@silkiers @mrsquill @stileslvr @joelssheep @joelsversion @pedropascalsbbg @bonesblow @madblue3500 @evyiione @missandaei @trishpish-blog @sarahhxx03 @pedritosgirl2000 @zliteraturehoe @thedeadsingwithdirtintheirmouths @l0vem3n @nelsohanx @cassiecasluciluce @wildcat116 @sanriowhorelol @ifall4dilfs @act816~ @lunarxeclipse @gracevnn @papiispunk @anner--nanner @illusivepeony @pureaustralianhoney @peqchsoup @fifia-writes @hallofagayqueer @livinxdeadxgrl @sentients17 @jamesmasbone @pattwtf @shjl15 @caitispunk @mmmmandoz @ssweetart42 @eyelismtears @h1ghinmiami @olivermarfanking @hayley-the-comet @abigails-gf @blondewonk @worhols @lesmismakesmehappy @subconsciouscollapse @lucylynnrose @foras @kosh-kaj-blog @jazzy-music-cat @abuttoncalledsmalls @sarahp-77 @the-names-peach @yo-its-jackie @iluvurfather @llovegallore @jessahmewren @sparklingwine829229 @vickie5446 @lmariephoto37 @defibrillator7 @winwin70 @joelsguitar @marnle @spideysimpossiblegirl @vickie5446 @xocalliexo @yiikkesss @goldenhxurs @akah565 @spacelatinos4life @mellymbee~ ~@purplexical @whichwitchwanda @mandofanclub ~@scarletsloveletter @thewiigers @zarakirbyy @cordeliasenvy ~@iwantaharrystylesalbum @cumulonimbus34 @tremendouscreationperson @sweetorangecakeboi @toomanynights @chantelle-mh @willbereturningshortly @kelesisworld @awxcoffeexno @siggy-things @joybabyjune @carlsssbarkley @bluetattoos @thefourteenthofoctober @spaceface25 @lestlie @oliveg95 @a-rose-of-amber @ninja-ubg @ladybubblelift

@whorror-s @sunnywithachanceofjavi @omghwa @joelslegalwhre @i-workwithpens @dinomdubs @kdogreads @lizzie-cakes @sustainedsigh @ashleymsnodgrass @mondaychildsworld @imsoborediwannadie @012307-jd @akah565 @hexidous @sanscas @grounderprincesslookspissed @obscurexsorrows @dizzyforyou-blog @pedrobaby @hopplessilse @pedroluver @iront33thhcrochan @sallyrooneypilled @pastelnap @thewiigers @vvackos @huggablepanda @mishala005 @ennema @jester-the-goblin @amymoments @lolzdayz @poolbool @cowb00t @glassslipper485 @gracieispunk @strang3lov3 @macfrog @dindjarinsbeskarbunny @spookyxsam @joeldjarin @kittypascal8775 @nightdreamss @aphterthoughtt @multibandstan @bbymamalitz

---

LOVERS VICTIM ☾

gojo who bullies you constantly, but can’t stand seeing anyone else do the same.

tags — major nsfw, unprotected sex, oral (f!rec), mean gojo, slut shaming, gojo senpai, angst, jealous gojo, mean girls, public humiliation (not from gojo), pussy drunk, lowkey toxic, love struck gojo, cum dump, secretly in love, dacryphilia, dumbification, fingering,

notes — ignoring the new chp bc my baby boy is happy and livin life XD

you hated him. he was the worst person you’ve ever met. if someone put a gun to your head and asked you to name one good thing about this man, you’d probably have to say your prayers fast because you’re dead.

“one tutor session, princess?” his teasing voice was nagging as he pressed himself beside you. you hated when this happened. when he’d sit next to you just as the lecture was about to start so you’d be stuck.

“fuck off,” you huff, trying to pull out your laptop from your bag, only for his leg to keep you from getting your bag from under your seat.

this shit wasn’t new. no, instead it’s been going on for months. and I mean months. if you’d known rejecting the satoru gojo in public, let alone, at a fundraiser hosted by his family, you’d have politely said you were in a relationship, instead of the annoyed snap you gave after he tried hitting on you for a fifth time that night.

to say you rep what you sow, is a complete and utter understatement. satoru took it too personally—not to say that it wasn’t personal, it certainly was, but still!— you’re paying for it months after the fact!

“just move it, you’re acting like a child,” the same comebacks, the same snarl in his words, nothing was new here. and yet, he still refuses to leave you alone. so you had to sit the entire lecture unable to take a single fucking note because he refused to move his leg and he knew you weren’t about to cause a scene.

“asshole,” you finally shove him, grabbing your bag as the lecture ends and storming away. desperate to catch up to a mutual friend that could maybe, possibly, give you the notes….and satoru couldn’t careless.

…his eyes though….he followed the way your skirt flowed as you ran, hitting the back of your plush thighs. soft. the slight pant in your face as you reached your male friend, cute, a bit out of breath as your entire body pressed against the guy who immediately blushed at having you so close to him.

“asshole,” he mutters to himself, grabbing his own things. his blood suddenly boiling, and his veins straining in his jaw.

the campus was big, it wasn’t some small town university. no, it was one of the best in the country. you weren’t going to pride yourself and say you were the smartest shit ever, but you still tried your absolute hardest. point being, in the large fucking campus, satoru is still able to find you.

“whatcha reading—“ you don’t have time to react as he snatches the book from your hand and holds it up to read it. his brows pinched, as he looks down to see you ignoring him and instead pulling out your laptop. “what, the silent treatment again?”

no response.

he lets out a strangled sigh, unbothered by the other people in the park that take a glance, he squats down, his dress pants tightening around his built thighs and his white dress shirt crumbled across his biceps, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, showing the veins that run up the sides. it wasn’t surprising that girls were tripping over as they passed by.

“princess, upset you didn’t take any notes?” he taunts, his hand tilting your chin up when you refused to respond again.

“don’t fucking touch me,” you slap his hand away, eyes deadly as you glare holes into him. you hated how worked up he gets you. especially when he’d reciprocate the same amount of anger back.

“I just asked a question, why’re you acting like a fucking bitch,” he snaps at you, nothings changed. you grab the book back, gathering up your things, only for a grip on your bag to halt you.

“god, you’re such a fucking asshole, leave me alone,” you try to pull at your bag, just as his brow quirks, eyes set on you as he lets go, watching you fall back on your ass.

“calm the fuck down, will you, I’m just playing around,” he raises his hand, his sunglasses lowered a bit to look at the way you push your skirt down quickly, covering up the peak in your panties that he certainly caught. his breath catching in his throat at the cotton blue flowers which had him immediately stand up.

“maybe don’t go wearing skirts that easily show off your panties,” he glares down at you, making you feel so small and insignificant.

“maybe don’t look there,” you snap, completely embarrassed that this is happening. his grip suddenly held your jaw, breath warming your cheeks as it fans to your ear.

“don’t piss me off again,” you felt your body shiver. “i see you parading around like a common slut. I’m just asking for the decency, not to do it in public. no wonder everyone wants to fuck you.”

your breath was uneven, even though he was no longer beside you. even though he says mean things to you all the time. it felt different this time. you felt so completely alone. you were disgusted with yourself. who was he to tell to you anything? he who’s always with someone new every week. he who has every single girl falling at the sight. he who flirts with every girl in his class just for some answers. and yet, he was the one surrounded by friends. he was the one that caused girls to spread rumors about you. he had people thinking you were sleeping with him, with every guy on campus.

“fuck him,” you hated when these moment would cause you to shed a tear. you weren’t sensitive. you could care less about people liking you or not, you weren’t here for that. it was a degree and you’re out.

that didn’t help though. especially when you volunteered for the swim tournament. the university was hosting a marathon for every full 100 meter lap they’d donate a $1000 and if the representative from the school won a race they’d donate five times that plus every person competing.

it wasn’t uncommon for you to help fundraisers. so this was no different. what you didn’t consider though was having multiple men surrounding you as you checked them in.

“how many times do I have to win, until you say yes to dinner?” one flirted, he was objectively attractive, taller than you, blonde hair, but you weren’t interested.

that didn’t stop other volunteers from making comments. fucking slut. just because she got with gojo-san, she thinks she can be with anyone.

“why don’t you race? isn’t it open to all,” another guy was speaking to you as you did a quick check of the pools, kneeling beside the water as the stands began to fill in.

“what, me?!” you said a bit too shocked, the guy laughing as his fingers helped you stand up. you shook your head, letting out a laugh. you look so cute, the guy blushing at your reaction. “i can’t swim…like at all.”

“aww,” he cooes, making you laugh at his teasing. he was cute. “i can give you lessons,” your brow quirks, slightly interested. “I’m a great teacher, I help kids on the weekends.”

“that’s too convenient,” you brush him off jokingly, the guy immediately infatuated with your attention.

it didn’t take long for satoru to notice you. especially when he was also one of the volunteers. not by coincidence of course. what he wanted was to get on your nerves some more, but instead he’s watching every single guy throw themselves at you. but it was too convenient, especially with how some volunteers were snickering at you.

as the stands began to fill up, the more swimmers lined the pool. you were immediately eaten up by them, as you moved up on the stand. you were announcing the swimmers. but something was off.

bitch is getting what she deserves. cant wait to see the look on her face. she dressed all nice in that slutty outfit! satoru felt his blood run cold, eyes scanning to find the guys from earlier, fake wrestling by the stands loose base.

I don’t know if this is such a good idea. I heard she can’t swim. that’s exactly why! needs to learn a lesson about humility.

“what did you say!” satoru’s voice startled the group as they turned to face the man. his eyes were dark, veins bulging out of his white tee. he didn’t have time to get angry, until he was looking up at the loud gasp from the audience. your body already plunged in the water, too far from the edge to reach.

“shit!” his blood was boiling as he watched the swimmers just stare around the pool, struggling to push past the bodies before diving in the water. how fucking deep is this pool?! his hands grabbed your flailing body, pulling you to the surface.

“y/n!” you were coughing up the water, body shaking as you held onto him desperately. “fuck.”

“f-fucking asshole,” you cough, body struggling to get away from him, only for his grip to slip as you sink back into the water unexpectedly.

“don’t struggle, shit! just hold on!” he yells at you, as you cough some more, now holding him too tightly. “you’re gonna strangle me.” he jokes, but it’s received only by the trembling of your body. his hand pressed on your back, unconsciously soothing your body as he swam to the edge. his arm was tight around your body as he had you hold onto the edge as he lifted his body up.

the audience members gasping and whispering to each other as satoru’s white shirt easily showcased his sculpted body, his hand pushing his beautiful white hair back as he kneeled by the edge, pants tight around his crotch as his arms flexed pulling you up.

too say the girls were livid was an understatement. they were fucking seething when satoru gojo carried the girl instead of having her walk! her body curling in his arms from embarrassment and shame as she hid her face. he kept a deadly stare ahead, silencing anyone that even dared to look, having every single one of them cowering at his gaze. his aura too powerful for them to even breathe, almost choking on it. the biggest player in the university was a terrifying sight to see angry.

he hadn’t realized you were crying until he heard the quiet sniffles when he’d reached the empty locker room. your body was quivering in his arms, you hadn’t said a word to him, not even struggling in his hold as he sat down on the bench, his own head falling back, looking up at the ceiling.

his lips parted, stare blankly. but his grip only tightened around you.

what am I doing. he couldn’t make sense of his own actions. his emotions were a mess, anger, jealousy… he couldn’t bring himself to admit it. it was too disgusting. he hated himself for feeling this way.

“i hate you,” your fist squeezed his wet shirt. you were embarrassed, humiliated, and so fucking angry. this happened because of him. it’s his fault!

“i think you should be thanking me,” he snarks back, still not daring himself to look down at you.

“thanking—“ your blood was boiling. “thanking you? for what exactly?! for making everyone hate me? for embarrassing me—“

“for saving your life, for starters,” his eyes try to remain up, the water still trickling from is wet hair cascading down the column of his neck, his skin glistening as his chest rose and fell with each passing breath. your eyes followed the tight clothes that stuck perfectly as you saw his jaw clench. “and it’s not my fucking problem that you don’t have any friends.”

your breath hitched, and he caught it. his eyes betraying him, cursing himself when his heart stopped. the glossy eyes held in so much rage and hate, and the pinch in your eyebrows, the embarrassing tremble of your lip, fuck he wanted to bite them.

“i can’t even talk to you like a normal person,” you mutter, body moving on your own, as you try to get up. you couldn’t believe him, after everything that happened, could he not see your side? you’re not playing the victim, you could careless if everyone just ignored you, but this crossed a line. being invisible is better than being targeted. at least then people can’t say you’re doing it for attention—

“where’re you going,” he couldn’t loosen his grip. he didn’t want too. he was too used to your body heat. the weight on his lap—

“let go of me, I’m done with your stupid games. It’s not funny anymore,” now you’re struggling, squirming to pull his arms away, but it was hard. it was hard because why was he looking at you like that? why did his eyes pull you in? “senpai—“

“you think I wanted this to happen to you?” he snaps, blood boiling.

“yes! it’s even more humiliating that you had to save me!” the frustrations and insecurities that you had control of, was suddenly starting to boil over. all because of this asshole—

“so you wanted me to do nothing?”

“just leave me alone,” your throat is tight, don’t cry don’t cry dontcrydontcrydontcry

“and if I say no?” you couldn’t breathe, the proximity, suffocating.

“i don’t care, just stop it!” you’re now forcefully trying to get off, only to wince when his grip tightens. “senpai—let go—“

he moved too quick for your mind to comprehend, his lips crashing onto yours. the wind completely knocked out of you. his grip around your waist was burning, the other hand held your jaw as you whined in his mouth. his tongue was so warm and wet as it easily pushed into your lips, before you shoved him back.

“what the fuck?!” fuck…the tears slipped. “what’s wrong with you?!”

“i don’t know,” his jaw clenched. eyes shamefully looking away as he cursed again. “I couldn’t help myself—“

“what do you want from me?” satoru could feel your chest beating against his. your breath fanning still short of breath.

“I don’t know,” his voice much lower now, sending an unexpected feeling right down to your core. his eyes stilling on yours, thumb gently caressing your damp face, wiping the slow humiliating tears that seemed to escape one after the other.

you couldn’t properly think. you want to make sense of this. you did. but what is there to make sense of? everything in life is confusing, but this was someone who’s bothered you endlessly for two fucking semesters. it was exhausting—

he kisses you again.

you whine again.

you push him back again. your eyes are downcast, out of breath once again. his lips were so wet, yours were so soft. his hand was rubbing your side, soothing you. his eyes felt too real….too genuine.

he comes closer, the proximity had your lips just grazing one another, his breath taking in your own as his thumb gently eased your nerves as you felt it rub your jaw, holding the side of your face.

your lips pushed forward, and that’s all he needed. your lips moved in complete sync, as if you both knew the others body. your moans flowed in hushed whines as he felt up your body, groaning as you rolled your hips slowly, circling the growing bulge that was easily visible through his wet clothes.

“gonna make me loose control, princess,” he groans, grabbing your ass, adam apple bobbing as his hips jerk, pressing you down firmly.

“didn’t take much,” you reply, cheeks blushing as you earned a chuckle from the white haired man, only for your breath to hitch as he lifted you in the air. your arms immediately falling on his shoulders as he sat you on the bench in his place and dropped to his knees.

“let’s see this fucking pussy, I know you’re soaked,” he easily tossed your wet shorts off, which only seemed to be a bit of struggle. but it was well worth it when he pushed your legs apart, eyes immediately falling onto your drenched strawberry panties that hugged your pussy lips. “shiit, i can fucking see right through,” he laughs, thumb rubbing through your clothed folds making you bite down a whine.

“keepin yourself quiet?” his eyes flick up.

your cheeks feel hot, eyes stuck waiting for his next move that you only gave him a silent pout, as if you weren’t shutting yourself up.

“you look so cute in these,” he grins, pressing his face between your legs, kissing your clothed pussy.

“stop teasing,” you blush, as his eyes look up at you, smiling as he rubbed his face, he couldn’t help his cock from growing. his thick fingers skillfully pulling your sticky wet panties to the side as he took his tongue and licked up, up, before kissing your clit between his lips.

“ahhhhh, fuuh uhck,” your lips quivered as you reached for something—

“mmm, pull my hair,” satoru guided your other hand to hold his hair tighter, your hips were bucking as he absolutely devoured your leaking hole. “good fucking pussy,” he pulls back spreading your legs ever further as his thumbs pulled your slippery folds apart, getting a nice clear view of your pretty pussy. it was absolutely drenched stupid, your chest heaving as he soothed a hand on your tummy as his thumb rubbed circles on your cute little bud.

“your mouth—mmfh uhahh ah senpai—“ your head was thrown back, holding his hair.

“you’re so cute,” he groans, flicking your clit so fucking teasingly as you moaned over and over. edging you on and on. your eyes were seeing stars as you cried for more, just to feel warmth spread inside as he let a glob of spit fall on your cunt. trickling down inside your pussy, some sliding down to your ass.

“so pretty when you’re making a mess,” he murmurs, lips brushing your puffy wet folds, your heart beating in anticipation, as you felt his warm breath fan against you. his lips parted as he took a kitten licks, your fingers tangling in his white hair as he hummed. “taste so sweet,” he groans form the back of his throat, tongue making out with your lips before slipping inside your hole, the feeling had your whines echoing.

he was so fucking drunk. your taste, scent, he couldn’t help himself. his eyes shut as he coaxed another orgasm, your eyes falling shut as you pulled at his hair. his face moving back and forth, pulling you closer and closer, until you came with a muffled moan. your arm over your mouth.

“can’t stop tasting you,” his pants like a dog, tongue hanging out as he watches your pussy spasm. “more, princess,” he whines licking up your generous cream, sucking every thing, until he pulls away, middle and ring finger gliding inside, your tight walls, squelching at the intrusion. some more juices trickled down his fingers as he hums. “you’re so nice, giving me so much.”

“sen…pai,” the broken whine, sent his mind off. everything about your moans and body was just so fucking perfect.

“might cum from how good you taste?“ he kisses your swollen nub, “tell me how good yer feelin….cmon baby,” his free hand gave your inner thigh a tight squeeze as his fingers splayed. your hips bucking as your hand stroked his hair, eyes rolling back as he pumped his fingers inside you.

“you’re uh…so good,” your voice strained, orgasm coming on faster than before. he was not giving you a single break, his fingers curling up pressing against your sweet spot, lips sucking desperately on your swollen bud. you were so close—

“I was not expecting them to pull that shit. that was too far—“ the voices coming from the entrance immediately had your body jerking up.

“mmfh…w-wait—“ you were desperately trying to push his pretty face away, but he only went faster. his cheeks flushed pink as an unexpected moan came from the back of his throat. it looked like he was enjoying this more than you, he was glad that his pants were already soaked, so you couldn’t see his cum spraying in his tight pants. your hand went over your mouth trying to conceal the orgasm the ripped through you.

“stay quiet,” his lips were suddenly on yours, you couldn’t even think properly as his body lifted yours. your arms wrapped around his shoulders, allowing him to take you away.

don’t ask how things like this happen, because honestly even if you try to follow it linearly, you’ll still be stunned how you could’ve ended up on satoru gojo’s bed. your wet clothes were discarded on the ground as his fingers pulled at your nipples.

“you’re soaking the sheets, mmm…ya like it that much?” he sucked bruises on your hips and inner thighs. his face smeared with your juices, too addicted to the taste, he had to dive for seconds.

“senpai,” your sweet voice was like honey, it was too easy for his body to move on your command. automatically catching your lips in a deep kiss. he tasted like you, but his hands were pushing your legs up, pumping his heavy cock, his tip swollen, aching for you.

“is this your first?” his tongue played with yours, his cheeks flushing at the thought of taking away your first. his pre-cum oozing down on your puffy folds at being the first to go inside you.

“you’re not that special,” you slur, mind blessed out as your hands stroked his flushed cheeks. his brows pinched together pulling away to look at you. he had to contain himself, your pretty lips smeared with his spit, eyes blessed out from the amount of times you’ve cum just by his lips and fingers, you looked stunning.

“who fucked you?” his blood suddenly boiling as your thumb gently played with his swollen lips. his eyes half lidded with a sudden coat of dark blue as you answered.

“kento-kun,” you were a bit glad for this small break so you could catch your breath, pretty tits pushing up as you took deep breaths. “he was a lab partner in first year—“

“nanami?” his jaw clenched. he vaguely remembered the blonde. “you let him fuck you?”

“I’m letting you fuck me,” your hands are glued to him, unable to rip them away as they continue to caress and feel his naturally soft skin. “you still wanna fuck me, right?” you’re leaning up, lips grazing his, you were didn’t want admit how much you wanted him right now. his cheeks, chin and lip all coated in your juices—

“you some whore now?” his cold stare sent shivers down your spine as you suddenly felt your stomach churn in disgust.

“says you,” you suddenly realize who you’re with right now. “whatever,” you push him to the side, body sliding to get off the bed. what were you thinking—

“wait, wait!”

his arms tightly wrap around you, stopping you as he buries his face in your neck.

“I’m sorry…. don’t leave,” his voice was soft, a bit shaky, as he kissed your shoulder, neck, pulling you into his firm chest as you gave in again.

“do you hate me?” your words felt like knives. his movements freezing.

“I don’t hate you,” he turns your face so he can see your eyes, his hand was warm on your jaw.

“then why’re you such a dick all the fucking time?” your throat felt dry.

“I don’t know,” he dropped his head. “I can’t explain it,” his lips pressed onto yours. “i need you,” he mutters. “all the time,” he’s practically whining into your lips as you turn over, laying him down, legs straddling his waist as you rocked your hips, pussy leaking on his cock. “i can’t leave you alone,” he pants, holding your face as his eyes flutter seeing your pretty face above him. “i can’t think when I see you.”

“you in love with me or something?” you tease.

silence…

you pull away. what’s going on? your stomach churned at the flustered expression on the man’s face. his eyes glossed over, and his face bright pink. his lips parted—

“d-don’t answer that!” what the fuck?!

you weren’t thinking straight! so you pushed everything back and kissed him, your hips moving up as you swiped at his flushed tip, his body shuddering at your small hands picking up his hefty girth.

“you’re pretty sensitive,” you comment, his blue eyes look over at you with an embarrassed scowl.

“let’s see you take it,” an arm goes behind his head as the other rubbed at your hip, smirking as you lifted your hips, pressing his tip to your entrance. he had to contain his own moan as you slowly sank down on. your eyes unconsciously fluttered, you barely have experience, you were faking this whole shit. you’ve never been on top before!

his eyes flicked up to your pinched expression as you slowly struggled to take his tip. your juices squelching down his cock to his trimmed base as your body shuddered.

“need help?” satoru leans up, grabbing at your sides, as he kissed your neck, he wasn’t that mean…

“I can do it,” you stubbornly huff. cheeks flushed as your nails dig into his shoulders.

“it’s okay if ya need my help, I won’t tease you, princess,” he says with a wide grin, his ego easily going through the roof as he watched your body struggle. “I’m bigger than most—“

“it’s just…” you’re already out of breath, sweat trickling down your temple as you struggled. “been awhile.” you clamp around him unexpectedly.

“shit—might cum just from your dirty pussy squeezing me,” his hips buck on instinct, earning a strangled moan to escape your lips. “fuckk,” satoru throws his head back, abs clenching as his legs trembled, suddenly wrapped his arms under your thighs grabbing your ass, biceps flexing as his abs tightened, easily lifting your body up as his tip spurted excessive amounts of cum, littering your pussy lips and falling to his pelvis.

“did you just…cum?” you’re holding his shoulder as satoru trembled underneath you. a bit out of breath, he can’t remember the last time he’s came so fast.

“shut up,” his jaw clenched as he slams your hips down, your eyes bulging out as your pussy swallowed his entire pulsing cock, feeling his cum trickle out.

“ahh! uh making me feel good,” you’re an absolute mess. his cock thrusting up at an unrelenting pace as he holds your body.

“fuck, you’re taking me so well, uh so deep inside ya—“ satoru was a babbling mess as he fucked up your tight pussy. your tits were bouncing so beautifully, he couldn’t help but latch his lips around your nipple to contain his whines. suckling on the erect bud as you whined.

“ahh, it’s so deep!” you’re eyes were rolling back as you clamped down, legs trembling as you felt a wave rush over you.

“oh.”

you’re panting, eyes half lidded as satoru manhandled your body to rest on the bed, as he moved over you.

“i think this cute pussy loves feeding me,” his voice was low, your fingers lazily petting his cheek, “now don’t give up on me, pretty,” he kissed your shoulder as his hand pumped his still very erect dick. “i still have a bit to go.” you felt him kiss your cheek as he turned you a bit more until you were on your tummy. his hand sliding down your back. “lift that pretty ass for me.”

“this…good?” you couldn’t think straight, as your back arched, pushing your ass up, giving it a cute shake as your pussy hole squeezes some more juices out, satoru bit his lip, groaning from the back of his throat at the image of your twitching hole.

“you’re so nice, baby,” he cooes, rubbing his fingers in your wet folds, as if he was petting you for listening to him. and you ate it up, whining as you pressed into him. “fuck, you’re so needy.”

your hips jerked at the harsh slap to your pussy, a whine coming out as you received another one. your nub was big and swollen and you couldn’t stop your juices from sliding down your thighs. even so, satoru was hypnotized.

“i think I might cum, just from seeing how much fun yer havin,” he bites his lip as he watches your tongue hang out, still obeying him as you kept your back arched and pussy and hole on full display. he could see everything.

“i wanna join the fun, cutie,” his cock felt unbelievably heavy, already knowing the build up inside his swollen length. “good girl,” he sighs rubbing his length in your juices again, slapping his tip on your oversensitive clit.

“good….fucking girl,” his moan was so loud as he slid back inside your pussy. your eyes roll back as you clawed at the sheets. why did he feel bigger! you couldn’t think anymore, cheeks bursting with heat as his hand grab at your hips pulling out, squelching oozing into your ear drums as he slammed back it, filling you to the brim.

“I’m so deep… mmh..kissing your womb,” satoru leans over your body, fucking you faster now. you were a crying mess.

“se…..sen…”

“can’t understand you, princess,” his arm wraps around you, lifting your body up, as he turns your face. “shit.” his abs clench at the fucked out look in your face.

“please….call me….ah y/n,” tears and drool stained your face as he held your jaw, cock pulsing inside you as a grin took over his flushed face.

“why?” he kisses your ear, licking at the lobe as his other hand pinched your sensitive nipples, making you squirm and clench around him. he suddenly grabs your hips, and snaps into you again, and again. “you just want to have sex so we can play lovers? is that it?” his jaw clenched as his blood was boiling. “letting your bully fuck your stupid pussy?” your moans were so loud he was desperate not to bust a load right now.

“do you even like me?” his body laid over yours, turning your jaw again to see your flushed face, tongue hanging as you whined.

“se..pai….”

“my name isn’t….senpai, now is it?” his jaw clenched, biting your shoulder as you cried.

“so….sorrryy!” you were a babbling mess, so fucking stupid you could barely think. yet…

“my name isn’t sorry either,” he doesn’t stop his pace, still fucking your squelching hole, pressing down on the bulge in your tummy making your back arch, tears bursting as your head fell on his shoulder.

“pretty y/nn… you’re already mine aren’t you?” his tongue played with yours as you moaned at the sound of your name on his lips. “can’t speak anymore?” he laughs feeling your pussy reply to his words. “it’s okay….I’ll take care of your dumb little head,” his own body is loosing control. his balls tighten as you held his arms, feeling one wrapped in front of your shoulder as the other held your head, in a headlock.

“shittt, you’re fucking….”

“cu…cummi—ahh!” was the only warning you gave as you creamed around him with a high pitched moan, your body was shaking as you gushed. satoru pressed his face to your head as he continued giving sloppy thrusts.

“fu-fucckk,” his body shook as he felt the first spurts of his cum squirt inside you.

your nails dug into his forearms as you looked over your shoulder. he felt his heart skip a beat, cock busting as you smiled…

“please…keep cumming inside me.” your tongue hanging out, eyes clouded over.

“mmfhh….damn you!” satoru cursed, turning you over. pushing your leg up. “you’re just too…cute!” his jaw clenched as his eyes rolled back, leaning over your body as he suddenly sank even deeper inside, a choked moan came from his chest.

“ahhh toru!” that was his final straw. the sound of your voice screaming his name immediately had his hefty cock, squirting creams of thick white cum inside you.

“shit y/n…s-say my name again—“ he’s practically whimpering; panting, body shuddering as he still manages to move inside you as he pushes more cum even deeper.

“toru…feels good…you’re so good, so good,” you’re hugging his head as he groans, thrusts so sloppy, as you bite your hand from how sensitive you’re feeling.

“give me all of it, toru,” you slur, eyes foggy as he whines, kissing you, but it was more like drooling in your mouth because his head was no longer there, he couldn’t stop cumming.

his tongue was hanging out as his big hand pressed down on your tummy, surging more cum to shot inside you.

“you’re uh…making me stupid,” he shudders as he sees your tummy swelling. he twitches as he carefully begins to pull out. “think you broke my dick.”

“toru…” his eyes glance up. “satoru?” it was like instinct, immediately leaning down for you to cup his flushed cheeks, leaning into your touch as you smile.

“what is it?” he whispers, heart beating fast as you continue to caress his cheeks.

“why do you need me?” the question catches him off guard. he swallows thickly, struggling to maintain eye contact. “answer me.”

“I’m…” scared? he can’t excuse the shit he made you feel before, the consequences for his own actions, he was a real piece of shit. and for what? all because he— “I’m jealous when you’re not with me.”

you’re silent, his eyes darting, trying to avoid your eyes, as he mumbles in shame. “i don’t like it when you talk to other people, or when you’re….” he stops himself. “im fucking shit.”

“you are,” you maintain your stern tone as you see something crack behind his eyes. “so tell me why.”

what did you want him to say? he didn’t want to fuck this up! he finally has you! after so long…he can’t loose you now!

“i…i was upset you rejected me,” he mumbles, cheek flaring. “but after that I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

“that’s kinda fucked up,” your hands still brush his cheek, pushing back the loose white strands that were stuck to his forehead. he bites his cheek.

“not that surprising, I’ve always been a piece of shit,” he shrugs, rolling his eyes. his heart suddenly skips a beat, looking back once he heard you laugh. his own lips curling into a smile.

“god you’re something else,” you can’t stop laughing, pulling him to your lips. “is this when you suddenly change for the better?” you mumble.

he smirks against your lips, “who knows? i did get what I wished for.”

istg this was supposed to be a quick little drabble but ig that’s impossible for me :p

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FUELED APOLOGY ☾

angry sex w mma toji, minutes before a match

tags — heavy nsfw, locker room sex, slight exhibitionism (they can def hear), angry toji, marked upp, dumbification, spit kink, cum dump, fingering, locker room sex, soft toji, apologetic toji, biting, unprotected,

the silent treatment was probably the single most annoying thing you could possibly do to toji. he’ll take anything else, yelling, screaming, hitting, kicking… just acknowledge him. but when you’re dead silent, blank stare; pretending he doesn’t even exist! now that makes him feel like shit…

he couldn’t even grasp the depths of your anger, until you began giving him the cold shoulder.

“you can’t answer a text anymore?” he’s leaning over the couch, eye bags dark and heavy, considering he stayed up all night waiting for you to come back home.

you don’t even look at him. you’re just taking off your shoes and padding your way to the bedroom. the door slamming shut. even when he slides under the covers, completely exhausted, his fingers grazing your arm filled with goosebumps, you slide further away.

“stop acting like a child—“ he honestly should’ve kept his mouth shut, next thing he knows, you were grabbing a pillow and dragging your feet down to the living room. he groans into the covers.

it didn’t matter that he’d come down after a few minutes. his fingers brushing your cheek before gently scooping you into his arms and carrying back into bed. his lips brushing your cheek in your deep sleep, so he can doze off beside you. finally able to sleep.

yet the morning would come and you’d be gone again, until he’s staying up again, waiting for you.

“seriously?” he immediately follows you into the bedroom as you ignore his greeting. “I fucking get it, now will you talk to me? I know you’re pissed, so just fucking give it to me!” his chest was boiling as he watched you pull off your clothes, stepping into the shower.

he sat quietly on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, resting his head back as he watched you shower through the steamed glass. his mind was shutting down, he didn’t like fighting with you. he knew he had a temper, and he could be stubborn, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t do anything for you!

his eyes fluttered open hearing you step out of the shower. rubbing his eyes, gaze set on your movements, his following the water droplets slide down the small of your back. the pretty way your nipples start to perk from the change in temperature.

you had to swallow your own love in order to walk past the tired man. he’s been overworking himself these past couple of weeks in order to get in shape for this upcoming match. you wanted to do your best to support him.

you hated seeing him so stressed all the time. but when you decided to try and help him when he was out training on the beach with his team, sprinting from one end to the other. you wanted him to know that you were there for him. even though you were busy with your uni classes and stressed from your own shit, you didn’t want toji to think he was alone.

so you brought your work to the beach, as he trained. was it really support when you’re laughing and chatting and letting every guy known to man, hit on you?! the emperor of mma wasn’t insecure. he knew you’d never do anything. yet, it still sent his blood sizzling, upset that you came here, all for you to start talking to these men—

“y/n!” the sudden shout of your name had your ears perking up, eyes shifting to the broad shouldered man, heaving by the ocean. you didn’t hesitate to grab the energy drink, happy that you can finally help as you sprinted to your boyfriend.

“how’s training? i was getting worried since you haven’t taken a break in so long—“

“what’re you doing?” the cut in his sentence had your brows pinching, still waiting for him to take the drink from your hands.

“nothing? was just waiting for yo—“

“nothing?” he repeats, his green eyes were as dark as the night forest.

“um…” you itch your cheek awkwardly. “i think you’re tired, I also brought some protein bars and sandwiches. just eat one—“

“go home,” he takes the drink from your hand. your eyes shift to his.

“I’ll leave in a couple minutes, I’m just—“

“I don’t wanna fucking see you right now. you’re distracting me, and it’s not helping!” he couldn’t make excuses. was it his fault? he was tired, and you were distracting, laughing and chatting away with these strangers—

“i didn’t mean to distract you. I came to—“

“I didn’t ask. so thanks, but you can leave now,” toji turns away from you, handing back the drink. “text me when you get ho—“ he glances over his shoulder to see you already grabbing your things and leaving.

he was praying that he didn’t fuck this up. especially when he didn’t get a text from you, of course he had to spam your phone with messages asking if you got home safely. was it a relief when he came home to see you already asleep?

“y/n?” his voice is low as he kneels beside the bed, palm gently holding your cute face. so soft. your eyes slowly open, brows pinched as you look at him. “why didn’t you text me?”

“didn’t wanna be a distraction,” your words laced with tired sarcasm.

toji drops his head, letting out a sigh. “seriously?”

“seriously, what?” you snap, sitting up on your elbow.

“it’s not a big deal. I was stressed,” toji’s hand drops on the mattress, as he rubs his eye.

“whatever,” you didn’t even want to bother anymore. you turn over, not wanting to talk to him, but the grip on your shoulder told you otherwise.

“you’re not done talking,” he looks at your pinched expression, clearly pissed off. “what do you want me to do? apologize?”

“you’re such a dick sometimes,” you push his hand away from you. “I was trying to support you, and you don’t even care.”

“I do care!” he groans, why is this so difficult for him? “I just don’t need every dude with a fucking dick, hitting on you—“

“do you not trust me?” you’re practically glaring, which toji hates.

“stupid ass question,” he huffs, standing up. “you don’t think I trust you?” he’s pulling off his dirty clothes, tossing them to the side.

“no I don’t think so,” you sit up, face hurting from how long you’ve been frowning.

“then you’re causing problems for no fucking reason!” he slams the bathroom door, causing the entire room to shake.

“dick,” you mutter, biting your cheek as you hug your legs.

the cold shower was honestly what he needed. once the freezing water hit his back, it ultimately cooled his heated mind. what the fuck did he just start?

“sweetheart?” toji dries his face as he steps out the bathroom. immediately noticing the empty bed. “fuck me.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” toji is pressing his face in your neck, big body hugging your small frame as the steam from the shower slowly slips out. you don’t answer, just twisting the knife even deeper. you were angry, still. “are you gonna come tomorrow?”

you squirt some moisturizer on your fingers, before rubbing it on your face. his chin rests on your shoulder as he watches you through the mirror. if only his fans saw how much of a baby he gets when you give him the silent treatment. he could almost cry right now.

“y/n, please,” his arm squeezes your middle tighter, his beefy arms completely latched onto you as you don’t even bother to meet his gaze. “i need you there.” he mutters quietly. he was so tired, so when you ignore him again he decides to pull himself away.

your heart clenched. were you being too mean? you crawl onto the bed after getting dressed, he’s already asleep. his chest rising and falling as he kept his arm outstretched, an unconscious habit once you started dating, the invitation for your body to snuggle into him, always there.

your fingers gently caress his cheek, sitting beside his chest as you watch the deep even breaths. he always looks so peaceful. his body exuded warmth, practically seducing you into his arms. you wondered if he’ll be alright. yes, you were giving him the cold shoulder, but that didn’t mean you didn’t care.

especially with his habit of fucking you. was he going to be alright. it wasn’t impossible for him not to fuck before a match, but if he didn’t, it usually made him more aggressive in the cage. a couple warnings from the referee was not uncommon.

your lips softly pressed against his, eyes closing as you felt his own lips push back. your heart skipped a beat…he always has this effect on you.

his arm snaked around your waist, laying you down as he immediately hugged your middle, letting your inviting arms hug his shoulders as you caressed his hair coaxing him to sleep.

the moment was so intimate. you almost forgot you were still angry with him. however, toji most certainly did not forget. especially as the stadium erupted in cheers and applause as the fans awaited their fighters.

you sat in the front row. of course you came, you knew how much he’s been training. this silent treatment shit was not going to stop you from still supporting him….but….you felt your heart ache for a moment….it still felt like shit. felt like shit when he wouldn’t acknowledge what you do for him—

“y/n,” tojis manager, shiu’s hand suddenly brought you back.

“what—“

“can you come with me?” shiu was already dragging you up, holding your shoulder as he escorted you.

“what’s wrong?”

“he won’t stop asking for you,” shiu was stressed, clearly. it was less than half an hour before the match, what could possible be wrong with toji?

“did something happen??” you’re suddenly panicking, moving quickly down the hallway. what’s wrong? is he injured? does he feel sick?

“I don’t know, he’s not answering anyone,” you’re bursting into the locker room, eyes immediately falling onto the fighter sitting on the bench, hunched over, face in his hands.

“toji?” you’re immediately leaning down, your hands carefully on top of his as you try to speak. “what’s wrong—“

“everyone out,” toji snaps, his team all looking at one another panicked.

“toji we need to get you ready—“

“everyone fucking out or I’m not doing this match!” he shouts, startling you, but you look over at shiu nodding your head. trying to give them some kind of reassurance.

“we’re waiting outside,” shiu rubs his face, as he closes the door behind the last person. your attention now shifting back to your boyfriend.

“is everything oka—“ his lips suddenly crash into you. fingers firmly holding your jaw as his tongue slips into your mouth. you’re completely caught off guard, hands holding his wrists, whining as he pushes you against the lockers, arm wrapping around your waist pressing you firmly into his chest—

“toji!” you gasp, breath heavy as you meet his gaze. “what’s going on—“

“I do need you,” he groans, aggressively shoving his shorts down to allow his very erect cock to spring out, pre cum leaking out of the tip as he kisses your lips. “don’t ignore me again, i fucking hate it!” he bites your bottom lip, causing your voice to crack, whining. “answer me—“

“toji, they’re outside—“ but he’s already pulling your panties off, lifting your skirt as he drags his fingers through your folds.

“I trained this pussy so well,” he groans, kissing your lips. “ya get so wet just from kissin’ me,” he smiles, knees kicking your legs further apart as you whine, trying to hold his shoulders for balance.

“you never apologized,” you turn your cheek away, disconnecting his lips from yours as you try and catch your breath. “I came here to support you, but that doesn’t mean I forgive you,” your jaw clenched, trying to hold your composure, only to yelp as you felt his teeth sink into your neck.

“you’re pissing me off,” his fingers pushed into your pussy, your walls sucking him as you let out a strangled moan, the squelching wasn’t helping you either. “still have something to say?” he snaps, sucking bruises along your neck and shoulder as he pumps his thick fingers in your pussy, proud of himself as he hears the squelching start to trickle down his fingers.

“toji—“ you’re biting your hand, muffling your moans as your face heats up. so embarrassed that this is happening and you couldn’t even push him away.

“did I cover your mouth?” his words echo as he pins your wrist over your head. “you like talking, so lemme hear you.”

“no—ah ah…they’ll hear me—“ your desperately trying to keep some dignity, but it all leaves the moment you feel your body being lifting in the air.

“you’re such a baby,” he laughs, eyes dark and lips curling, because this was not your toji, no. pre-match toji was a whole different person. he could not afford a single warning or a threat of disqualification in this match.

“I’m not, you’re just a dick—“

“what else?” he can’t help the heat rushing south as he hears your fueled words. suddenly pumping blood into his veins, and his dick.

“you’re mean, and you take me for granted. you don’t apologize unless I ignore you—“ toji groans, as he pumps his hefty cock to your words, still able to hold your up, as he aligns his pulsing cock with your dripping wet folds.

“how mad are you baby?” he’s practically panting.

“fuck you,” and that’s all he wants because he’s dropping you down, shoving his entire dick inside until your eyes burst with tears feeling his thick trimmed hair tickling your clit, completely bottoming out.

“fucking took out my eardrums, puppy,” he’s laughing in your face as he pulls his hips back and shoves his cock inside you again. you were completely dazed, that moment he sank his full length deep in your tummy, your brain automatically turned to mush. he usually took his time when it’s the night before a match, but there was no time now. so he couldn’t hold himself back as he let you take it full force.

you were an absolute mess, crying and letting out broken moans as he pumped his hot cock in your tight hole.

“can’t talk anymore? thought you had so much to say, pup?” he’s sucking your lips, smiling at how swollen and used they’ve gotten as he picks up the pace. the lewd echoes bounced off the walls, your body burning from embarrassment, but it didn’t matter—

“to-toji….do ah hahh you….uh uh..need me?” your eyes were filled with tears as you held his hair, fingers rubbing against his scalp, the other digging into his shoulders as you drooled. such a mess in such a small time.

“of course I—ungh do,” his teeth pull at your bottom lip. kissing you over and over as he draws near his climax. your nails can’t help but dig into his shoulders, pulling at the skin as you feel bite at your neck. “you’re my biggest fucking fan, and I’ll always need you,” his jaw is clenching as he feels your pussy spasming around him. “you cummin’ pup?”

“mhm? ahh— mm oji!” he grips your ass, fucking you faster as he feels his balls tighten. you’re drooling into his lips as he opens his mouth, sticking his tongue out, groaning as he feels your spit rub inside his mouth. such a filthy girl. you were creaming so fast, squeezing the hell out of his cock as your eyes grew.

“too much…ahhh—wait!” the lockers were shaking as he drove his cock, balls slapping your wet pussy as your legs shook.

“you’re everything, y/n,” your cheeks flare, you loved when he called you nicknames. but when he moans out your name, you can’t help the butterflies that break out. “I love you, so much,” his head tilts back as he shoves his hips deeper in, releasing warm globs of white cum into your warm pussy.

“don’t….ignore…me,” he sighs, thrusting more as you bite your lip, tears sliding down your cheeks as you feel the last bit of his heavy load finally come out as he pulls out. he still holds you up, pumping his cock to release the excess amount of cum on your nasty pussy.

“goes both ways,” you cup his cheeks, bringing him to your lips, smiling as he caresses your ass, giving it a firm slap.

you stumble on your feet, going over to the sink to rinse yourself down there. grabbing a towel—

“keep it in,” his lips nibble at your neck as he runs a hand down between your legs cupping your pussy. your cheeks sting, feeling his big fingers scoop at his cum and shoving it back in, your hand falling to his thick forearm as he pats your cute tummy with his other hand. “you’re my good luck charm, sweetheart,” he licks the bruise on your neck, dropping to his knees to kiss your pussy.

you almost whine, watching him smile up at you, desperate to hold in your composure, especially when he gives you a wink covering your cute little pussy with your panties, and giving it a cute kiss again.

your face was red as he called the team back in. no one said a word about what they obviously heard, especially with the way they avoided looking at you, specifically since toji was staring daggers at them for even asking you if you needed some water….I mean considering what they heard…

once they finished wrapping his gloves, shiu was escorting you back to your seat—

“y/n,” the soft call, immediately had your head turning. eyes so bright as he smiled…a gentle tug, that had your heart skipping a beat. “I am sorry.”

you can only nod, trying to keep your smile from taking over. “i know,” and so does he. all you wanted to know is that he felt remorseful, something that will acknowledge what he did and that he’ll do better, because that’s all you can ask for.

you definitely were a good luck charm. the moment the bell rang, announcing his win, the audience was going batshit crazy. people screaming, and cheering as flashes from photographers blinded the stadium.

everyone already knew his routine. it was even more gossip and cheers when they noticed the marks on his back—

pushing past the cameras and the annoying speakers, until he was jumping down from the cage and letting you leap into his arms, lips latching onto his as he held you up. the matching bruises was definitely something for twitter to run with.

“you liked it?” he muttered against your lips, only for your ears.

“ya! you always look so cool!” you gush, your cute smile sending his heart swelling, your words always hitting him. “I love seeing you fight! but you can be so mean.”

“how so?” he raises a brow.

“some rounds they can’t even catch a break,” you empathize.

“that’s the point, baby,” his hand unconsciously rubs your back, settling you down as you talk to him. your fingers unconsciously caressing the nape of his neck, careful of his own bruises.

“nuh-uh, the point is to have fun….and win—but like you know what I mean,” you roll your eyes, only to look back at toji hearing him laugh. your own lips curling into a smile.

“I guess so,” he dips his head, lips pressing to your warm cheek. “i just need you here to remind me.”

his arms wrap around you, lips brushing yours. “just stay with me…” his kiss was soft. “I’ll be better…just for you.”

he will. unless he wants to loose you. he can change for a princess.

just smt ab mma toji😫 so toxic but so sweet🥹

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