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oftenwantedafton · 2 months

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Maybe - Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - sexual content

Summary - Your coworker Steve Raglan hates you.

You’ve no idea why, only certain that he does, blatantly evident in his every word and gesture.

So when you find yourself locked in the mail room with him after hours one evening, you’re not expecting much to happen. Boredom. Silence.

Certainly not his body pressed against yours. His hands on you. Wanting.

Also available on AO3

Steve Raglan hates you.

You’re not sure what you’ve done to deserve it, precisely. The impression of that emotion had been apparent from the first moment you’d met him. There hadn’t even been a proper introduction, really. Just instructions to bring a client back to the career counselor’s office. Friendly enough towards the young man you guide through his open door, his nasally rusted voice beckoning the job hopeful further inside. The inviting smell of fresh brewed coffee permeating the interior of the room. The friendly smile on your own features wilting when you see him moving to close the door for privacy. The hard line of his mouth. His eyes dismissive. You could pass it off as your imagination except it happens again whenever you see him. The break room. The copy room. The parking lot. Wherever you happen to encounter one another. The weight of his disapproving stare makes your shoulders droop. You check your appearance in the restroom, lift an arm to make sure your deodorant is working. You even mention it to one of the other girls in the office, someone who’s worked there for a while. She shrugs. Says he’s always been polite. You try to nonchalantly inquire with a few other individuals and receive a similar response.

So, no. You have no idea why Steve Raglan hates your guts. You just know that he does. So you try to avoid him as much as possible. And that actually sort of works. You can even almost forget that the middle aged man despises you for absolutely no valid reason as the weeks pass into months.

***

It’s late.

The office officially closed an hour ago. But you’ve still got work to do. Things that you could leave for the morning, you suppose, but you dislike starting the workday behind schedule with cluttered backlog. So you don’t completely notice the lights getting dimmed, the reduced noise, the failing daylight outside the office windows. Your fingers continue to fly across the keyboard. You’ve finally finished the last of the mail correspondence. You print the page and fold it twice, sliding it inside a business size envelope and sealing it shut. The taste of the envelope makes you wince. Why can’t they make the adhesive more pleasant? Sweeter. Like a mint or hard candy. Anything would be preferable.

You switch off the monitor and tuck your chair beneath the desk. All you have left to do is put this batch of letters in the mailroom. You decide to leave your purse and jacket behind. You’ll grab them on your way out the door.

You can hear the hum of the fluorescent lights, louder than normal now that the office is devoid of the bustle of business activity. No conversations, no ringing phones, no sounds of typing or printing. Just stillness. You don’t think you’ve ever stayed here this late before. You think you might be one of the last ones left.

You’re not.

Steve Raglan is inside the mailroom. Standing beside the rows of cubbies for inter office mail. The copier behind him suddenly spitting out pages. You haven’t had to interact with him recently. You’d almost forgotten that haughty glare of his over the rims of his gold framed glasses.

“I’m just going to drop these in the outgoing box.”

The room is very small. The cubbies, the copier, a waste paper bin, a cabinet with a slot for putting materials to be shredded. That’s all. Narrow confines. The closest you’ve ever been to him. He’s wearing cologne, a pleasant fragrance that’s earthy yet almost sweet. Underlying notes of citrus. You have to press close to reach the correct box and the smell grows stronger. You should have just waited. But who knows how long he’d be there. The copy machine is still running.

In your attempt to be stealthy you trip and reach out for something to stabilize you. The edge of the open door. You manage not to fall. The door swings shut behind you and you hear a click.

A sound of disgust from the tall man. You turn and jerk on the door handle, shoving. You just want to retreat. No movement. You push harder, really wrenching on the brushed nickel fixture. Nothing. It’s sealed shut. You’re locked in.

Your bearded companion seems to realize what’s happened a heartbeat after you do. He shoves past you and tries the door handle himself. You’re pressed against the shredder bin, the uncomfortably sharp corners digging into you through your pencil skirt.

“You idiot. We’re locked in.”

“I…I’m sorry.” You don’t know what else to say.

He tries hammering on the door. His voice is louder than you’ve ever heard it. Confirming what you both already know. You’re the last two people in the office.

“Now we’re going to have to wait for the cleaning crew to come in. Which will probably be…” He glances at his wristwatch “…six hours from now, at least.”

Trapped in this confined space. You’re not strictly claustrophobic, but you think you could develop that condition rather quickly if you dwelled on the situation you’re currently trapped in for too long. Stuck in something marginally larger than a closet, with a man that loathes you.

And now he’s actually got a reason to. Nice going.

The copy machine goes silent. You move to stand across from the social worker, the most distance you can put between you. He leans against the door and folds his arms across his chest, scowling at you. The room is unpleasantly warm already. Or maybe that’s just your nerves, a little rush of adrenaline making the capillaries in your limbs have increased blood flow, your elevated metabolism generating more heat. You always get hot when you’re nervous. You feel your scalp prickle. Your palms are damp. You try to shrink back against the copier further.

You don’t know how much time passes but the awkward silence and staring contest are too much. Your lower back is burning already. You step out of your heels. Let your toes curl in the carpet. A little relief. Steve continues to glower.

You’re going to attempt to sit. It’s difficult, between the limited space and you wearing a narrow skirt. You ease down until your buttocks makes contact with the carpet. Keep your stockinged legs straight in front of you, maintaining your modesty. You fiddle with the charm bracelet on your wrist.

A sigh. The middle aged man joins you on the floor. His long legs bent. Head knocking back against the wood surface behind him with a soft thump. The hem of his pants slightly raised so you can see his socks. Dark purple, and are those little rabbits printed on them? You frown curiously. It’s so out of character for anything on this stern figure to be whimsical. Maybe they’d been a gag gift. Laundry day and nothing else to wear. You’d already checked on a previous occassion to see if he wore a wedding ring. Nothing. His forearms rest on his knees. His hands were massive.

“Can’t you find something else to stare at?”

You blink. Neither of you has spoken in awhile. “I’m not staring,” you protest defensively. “There just isn’t a lot to look at in this room.”

“Find something.”

You chew your bottom lip, your cheeks flushing. There is nothing. The walls are blank. The cubbies and shredder hardly warrant much attention. You know the logo on the reams of paper stacked on the floor by heart now. “I don’t know why you hate me so much. Aside from tonight I’ve never done anything to you.”

The man barks a short laugh. “Hate you? I have absolutely no emotion towards you at all. Nothing.”

Somehow this makes you feel much worse. Now you’re desperately looking anywhere but at the career counselor. You reach for one of the sealed stacks of copy paper, unfolding the end and sliding a blank page free. Begin folding it in random directions. Just something to keep your hands occupied. You notice Steve squirming a bit in your peripheral vision.

“I can move so you can stretch a bit,” you murmur. You fold your legs without waiting for a response, tucking them to one side. You see him hesitate, attempting to stretch but it’s impossible. His legs are too long. “You’re really tall.”

A grunt. You push yourself back into a standing position. Roll your shoulders. Bend and touch your toes. You don’t know why you’re trying to accommodate him but you see him relax. A little sigh of relief.

You kind of need to pee. You were going to hit the John before you left for work. You’re eyeing the wastebin and thinking if worse comes to worse... No. No way. You can wait six hours. Less than that, now. “What time is it?”

“Eight. Almost.”

So another four hours, then. Steve stands again and you sink back down. Your stomach growls. You’d only had a salad for lunch. You think about the steak and lo mein noodles and stir fry vegetables you had waiting for you at home. You’d been planning on curling up on the couch with a bowlful and relaxing in front of the television. Instead you’re stuck here. With him. The man who hates you.

***

Later now. The only conversation inquiries about the time until your coworker informs you you’re asking too frequently and making things worse. Requesting silence. Raglan removes his glasses at one point, folding them and tucking them into his shirt pocket. Massaging the reddened indents on the bridge of his nose.

You’re both sitting on the floor again. His legs sort of half folded, angled slightly. You attempt to stretch yours. Just a gentle easing that you misjudge, your stockinged foot sliding across the carpet, stroking against the inside of Steve’s leg.

You freeze. You hadn’t meant to touch him. You can feel his body heat through the nylon covered extremity. Your eyes meet and his hand curls over your foot, trapping you there.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. Now you know how those large hands feel. Strong. Warm. Vice grip. Unrelenting.

“Are you?” His voice is different. Soft. Almost a purr of sound. His eyes different, too. Darker. Pupils dilating.

The hand abandons you. He rises, and you struggle to stand, much less gracefully. Something’s happening. You don’t know what yet. A shift in the atmosphere. The rift of tension merging into something else. One of those strong hands now closing over your forearm. Snapping over it like a manacle. Dragging you towards him.

Your back is to him now. Against him. The hand on your arm moving now to the hidden zipper on the side of your skirt. Your heart is pounding. His breath rasps loudly. You don’t think yours is much shallower. The waistband of your skirt loosens. His fingers are splayed against your sternum, the pinky and lower edge of his palm pressing along the tops of your breasts. His other hand invades the charcoal material covering your lower half. Tucks beneath the pale pink panties that match your blouse. Dips right through the damp flesh of your sex and you whimper.

Steve heaves a heavy sigh when he makes that intimate first contact. Satisfaction. Lust. His fingertips feel calloused. You wonder what career he’d held previously, the thought dashed away when he begins circling your clit, using your arousal for lubricant. You’re on fire. How is this the same man that had told you hours before he had no feelings towards you whatsoever? Had he just been frustrated? Wanting you but thinking it was improper for some reason or—

One finger dips inside your entrance, his thumb now working your clit. You should have been embarrassed by the amount of fluid you’re spilling over his probing digits but you’re not. You just don’t want him to stop touching you. Maybe it’s because you hadn’t had a boyfriend in awhile. Maybe because you hadn’t masturbated recently, usually too tired by the time you make dinner and shower and go to bed. Or maybe it’s because it was Steve Raglan specifically. The man that loathes you taking you apart with expert precision. You’ve never been intimate without kissing, without cuddling, without some foreplay. To skip straight to this…

The sound of a pair of fingers invading your body is loud. They curl inside you. You can feel his erection digging against you. The breath coming in short pants. Yours, his. A cacophony of struggling air exchange. The perfect pressure of your partially hooded nub rolled against the bone beneath. The fingers tucked inside stroking curved tissue. Your full bladder making the sensations even more intense. Your nails dig into Steve’s forearm through his dress shirt. You’re on the brink of orgasm. You recognize the feeling building inside of you. That trapped pressure that needs release. His fingers increasing the pace. Pressing harder. There. You cry out and his grip on your torso tightens as your climax wracks your body. You feel dizzy. Spots in front of your eyes. Christ. The best one you’ve ever had, hands down. The aftershocks are still pulsing through you in tingling little bursts of pleasure.

You begin to come down off your high, you body limp and liquid, still supported by the man behind you. His hand leaves your pussy, dragging the fabric of your skirt up. Something feverish and hard pressed against your buttocks. His cock, out of his pants. Dragging against your bare skin where the underwear doesn’t cover. Now tucked beneath the legband. Thrusting against you, constricted into that tight space, like fucking a virgin cunt. The arm still bracing your body against his shakes. A curse and a hot spill of fluid. A lot of cum, filling that pocket he’s created between your panties and your buttocks.

You eventually move apart. You can feel his semen seeping into the fabric. Adjust your skirt. You hear his fly being zipped back up.

The rough breathing subsides. Post nut clarity, isn’t that what men called it? The reality of what you’ve just allowed to happen washing over you. You let this man that’s old enough to be your father finger you to orgasm. Let him use your panties like a sex toy and dump a load against your body. And you’d liked it. Fuck. You shiver at the memory. You’re too shy to meet his gaze. Another stretch of silence.

***

A band of light beneath the door. Someone is in the office.

Steve sees your sharp gaze and turns to face the door. Banging loudly. Yelling. It takes a few moments for the custodian to unlock the door, looking very surprised to find a pair of workers trapped in the mailroom.

You make a beeline for the restroom and grab your things. Steve doesn’t say a word on your walk to the parking lot. So back to this, then. Radio silence. Whatever the hell his issue is with you. Whatever had just happened in the mailroom. A quickie. Boredom or what. Who fucking knows. You skip dinner, opting for a shower and bed.

***

The next morning you get ready for work at your usual time. Telling yourself you’re not being selective about the lingerie you’re wearing. Not choosing a flowing button front dress because it’s easier access. You’re not expecting anything to happen. You don’t want anything to happen. Do you? A throb between your legs at the memory. Okay, fuck. Yes you do. You’d barely slept. Remembering what he’d done. Gotten so worked up thinking about it you’d had to have another round just to take the edge off. Thinking about those big hands on your body. Imagining the feel of his beard abrading your thighs, those dark lustful eyes watching you as he goes down on you. What had felt like a very generously sized cock stretching you. Pumping you full of his cum. Nope. Not thinking about that in any great detail at all. Sure you weren’t. Another tingling pulse as you look at your reflection in the mirror. You really need to stop. This is the guy that hates you that you’re fantasizing about. Or is indifferent towards you, allegedly. Except you can’t reconcile that idea, the juxtaposition with your intimacy making no sense whatsoever. Maybe he just liked playing head games with people. You’re an easy target for that. Too sensitive. You cried over sappy Hallmark movies. Got sentimental on the holidays. Donated every time you saw one of those commercials pleading for funds for animals in need. A big softie. So yeah. You made for easy prey, you supposed.

You don’t even have to wait long to see him again. He’s got the first client of the morning. You have to pass the mailroom on your way to Steve’s office. You’re trying very hard not to think about what had happened in there. Trying to be professional.

Your resolve shatters the instant you see him. The way his hand looks when he reaches for the doorknob. That glare above his glasses. The slightest smirk, that brief twitch of lips so rapid you think you might have imagined it. It’s no good. He’s ruined your ability to concentrate. The paperwork piles up. It’s noon. Break time, the office closes for an hour. You have to pass by Raglan’s office to get to the break room. His door is open. You tell yourself you’re just going to check to see if he’s there, some bullshit excuse about the time his next client that’s a last minute add on is arriving at the ready. A perfectly valid reason for you to be there.

He is inside. Slouching slightly in the brown leather office chair. Thumb depressing the end of his pen, driving the nib from the barrel. Another click and it retracts. Watching you. Waiting. “I just came to tell you there’s been a last minute add on. You have someone coming in at one.”

“Shut the door.”

You hesitate, wondering if he intends for you to close it behind you when you leave. The faint smell of that morning’s coffee still lingers in the air.

A sigh. He straightens and stands and the chair creaks. He shuts the door himself. You’re still in the room. So he wanted you here. With him. Wants you. Something. You’re unsure.

He settles back behind the desk. A slight curve of fingers beckoning you. You stand beside his seated frame. Heart beating like mad. It was happening again. This time during the day. With people nearby. The blinds were open. Warm bands of sun across his desk, against your skin. “Kneel down.” You don’t even question it. Just let yourself descend. The carpet protector hard against your knees through the stockings and layer of your dress. Still waiting. Watching you. His eyes dark again, full of desire. Another little sigh of exasperation. You decide to take the initiative and rest your hands on his thighs. There’s so much of them. So much mileage to go before you reach your destination. You jerk on his belt and the metal releases from the leather. Button unfastened. Zipper peeled down. No reaction from Steve. You debate whether to use the flap of his boxer briefs or just shove the waistband down. Opt for the latter. He’s even bigger than you’d suspected. Long. Thick. Cut. Fat head dripping precum. Fuck. Your cunt is already responding. Pink nails against his dark pink skin as your hand curls around. Leaning forward, tongue swiping along the opening. A sharp inhale. A response at last. A faint musk. Soap tinged. Masculine. Clean. You take him further in.

A mouthful already and you’ve barely begun. You feel his body shifting positions, slouching a bit more, getting comfortable. Your stretched lips slide over him. In and out. Just shallow attempts for now. Getting accustomed to Raglan’s cock in your mouth. God that’s a sentence you’d never thought you’d utter. Think. Whatever.

The phone rings and the head slips from your mouth. Another sigh. “Don’t stop.” He leans a bit and lifts the phone off the cradle. Yellowing plastic thing that had maybe been light gray once like the computer monitor and mouse and keyboard. Very out of date. You have newer ones at the front end. You wonder why he hasn’t requested upgraded models.

“Steve Raglan, may I help you?” So polite. His timbre much lighter. Friendly. Jovial, even. He clears his throat. Fingers of his free hand patting his thigh to remind you to continue. You’re not expecting those fingers to knot in your hair and hold you in place. Your nostrils flare in protest at the limited air as his hips move, pistoning his cock into your maw until he’s touching your throat. You’re gagging, coughing. Feel saliva thickly pooling. He keeps you there. His voice above you so light and airy, so different from what’s happening beneath his desk. “We offer a variety of services. Yes, we’re used to working with candidates with less than ideal backgrounds. The success rate of our job placements…” You lose track of the conversation. He finally jerks your head back and you gasp for air. Your lips are tingling. So is your pussy. Fuck if he doesn’t have you wound up. Wetter than the cock you’ve just slicked up with your spit. Your throat is burning already.

“I’d be more than happy to take a look at the applicant’s job history. Our fax number…” You’re shoved onto his dick again mercilessly. Your nails dig into his thighs. “Sure, I’ll hold.” The fingers in your hair tightening. The chair creaking loudly in protest when he shoves himself back inside. You’re a little better prepared this time. Manage to work up and down his length without much guidance. Concentrate on resisting your gag reflex. Keeping your jaw loose, your lips tight. His fingers curl over the bottom of the phone, blocking the speaker. “You’re going to swallow every drop.” Your eyes widen and you attempt to nod your understanding. Rather difficult considering the position you’re currently in. The little smirk is back, lingering this time. “Hi, yes, I’m still here. Yes, it’s coming through right now. Another question? I’d be happy to help if I can.” You recognize the irritation underlying the false accommodation. He doesn’t really want to help. You hear the fax machine behind Steve’s chair. Dial tone and connection made and pages printed before a longer beep to announce it’s finished. Your head continues to work on as much of the career counselor’s prick as you can manage. Edging a bit more of the shaft inside. Testing the absolute limit. A momentary panicked gurgle before he eases up again. Another loud gasp. There’s no way the man or woman on the other end of the line isn’t hearing this. Steve’s breathing has gotten louder. His voice a lot coarser and lower pitched. “Yes, that’s right. Pleasure to assist. We’ll be in touch.” The phone slams down and he fucks deeply into your throat. Repeats. Again and again, hammering away until he withdraws and you suck in air. You can feel the saliva coating your face, smearing your cheeks and chin. You think your mascara might be running. The lip gloss you’d had on has certainly been chafed right off by now. “Look at me.” Your eyes lift. It’s exactly what he needs to send him over the edge. Your helpless captive mouth and throat around his cock. His taste filling those places. Bitter. Thin. Another great quantity, like the previous evening. The softest little moan of sound, stifled behind the fist he presses against his mouth. Something about that excites you to no end. The fact that you’d made him feel so much pleasure he’d had to stop himself from making too much noise.

You lean back on your heels. He’s still staring. You wipe at the spit coating your face.

“Panties off. Sit on my desk.” It never occurs to you to refuse. Rational thought beyond you. Just that one solid wood door between you and discovery. Maybe that was part of the enjoyment for him. A touch of exhibitionism. Like how he’d had you blow him while he was on the phone just now.

You grab handfuls of the material draped around your hips and tuck your fingers into your panties. Step out of them, leaving them on the floor at your feet. You still have your heels on. Your bare ass settles on the ink blotter, your dress bunched around your midsection.

His fingers hook underneath the edge of the desk and he drags his seated form closer to you, the wheels of the chair grinding along plastic. Those calloused fingers stroke your thighs. Another pair of thigh high stockings today, these ones a soft navy to coordinate with your dress. He strokes along the lace trim. Shoves at the draped fabric still concealing your sex. Another of your fantasies from late last night about to come true.

You’d suspected Steve was going to be a master at eating pussy and God were you right in that assumption. The tip of his tongue—this longer than average as well, it seems every feature of the man’s body ran to the extreme—curling and flicking across your clit. A needy whine escapes you. That muscular organ now dividing the petals of your pussy, driving into your entrance. A muffled moan at your taste. Your head rocks back. The mouth of your entrance waters in response to his jabbing tongue. He’s barely begun and you’re already about to explode. His nose digs into your mound as he slurps the sensitive pink flesh into his mouth. His beard not rough against your skin as you’d expected. Much silkier. Soft. Your bundle of nerve endings being sucked. Stroked. Teased. He brings you close then backs away. Each time the impending orgasm feels more intense. Even just his breath against your damp cunt is enough to stimulate you. You let your fingers sift through his graying hair. The glasses have been tossed aside. His hands are curled around your thighs. He continues to languidly sup at the place between them. Your lunch break must be nearly over now. A combination now of tongue flicks and sucking centered directly on your clit. This time he doesn’t hold back. You bite your lip hard, keening when your release finally washes over you. Someone has surely heard. You try to stifle the next moan of pleasure. He is unrelenting, persisting even when your trembling thighs attempt to close and you push at his head. Somehow your body survives the onslaught and the fire is kindled again. He’s going to make you cum again.

A second climax wracks through you. Steve finally moves away. His bearded face is damp from your juices. You let your legs drop over the edge of the desk, hands bracing yourself to remain sitting. You feel absolutely wrung out. And it’s amazing.

There’s that awkward silence again as you both recover. Adjusting clothing. Subtly removing body fluids from obvious places. At least there’s a restroom right across the hall. Your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. One hour exactly. Raglan remains silent. You don’t know what to say. You end up leaving his office, more conflicted than ever.

The afternoon passes. A few clients directed Steve’s way. Everything strictly professional between you. You’ve got to work double time to make up for your distracted performance earlier that day. The display on your computer monitor confirms what you already know. You’re late again.

This time you’re going to use the restroom before you leave work. Just in case. You never know what could happen. You pass the mailroom. It’s empty, the door open. Steve’s office door is shut. You don’t recall seeing him leave but you hadn’t exactly been watching the entrance the entire time.

You finish in the bathroom and head back down the hall. Car keys successfully withdrawn from purse, the strap of which now sits on your shoulder. Cardigan on. You turn to leave.

He’s there. Leaning against the open doorway that leads to the reception area. Those dark eyes watching you. You feel the strap of your handbag already sliding down.

“What happened to being indifferent?” You’re surprised when the words leave your mouth. Maybe he’d just expected you to keep going along with his sexual whims. Playing whatever game this was.

“Maybe that was a poor choice of words.” He pushes off of the molding covered frame, walking towards you. “Maybe I’ve changed my mind.”

You stand your ground. One of his big hands now rests on your cheek, rough thumb drawing an invisible line under your bottom lip. “Maybe…”

He doesn’t finish the thought with words, his face lowering to yours.

#william afton x reader #william afton x you #steve raglan x you #steve raglan x reader #steve raglan smut #william afton smut #dividers credit @saradika-graphics

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forest-hashira · 3 months

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'Til Death Do Us Part

hi everyone! this is my (first) entry for @kentopedia's "Love Through the Ages" collab/event! this is a retelling of the myth of Orpheus and Eurydice, but with Gojo/Reader. if you want to know the full vibes for this, i listened to Moon Song and I Know The End by Phoebe Bridgers on repeat while writing this.

read on ao3 here | wc: ~3.3k | cw: gn reader, satoru is a musician, major character death (reader), hurt no comfort, unhappy ending

Falling in love with you was easy. In fact, it was probably the easiest thing Satoru had ever done in his life; even easier than picking up the lyre as soon as he was strong enough to hold it; even easier than the singing lessons he’d outgrown the need for when he was still just a young boy; easier than charming every young woman he ever came across, leaving a long string of broken hearts in his wake.

But not you.

With you, he’d taken his time, had actually gotten to know you until it felt like he’d known you all his life; he knew your favorite season, what times you liked to take walks in the fields outside of town, even your favorite place to watch the sunset. He also knew that you were the one he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.

Falling in love with you was easy, and even after you’d fallen in love with him, too, asking you to marry him felt terrifying. But you said yes, and all that terror had melted into elation.

There was hardly any time at all between your engagement and your wedding, both of you eager to belong to each other forever, so in love it was almost painful. Though the wedding itself was small – and barely a month after Satoru proposed – it was the most joyful day in both of your lives. Being surrounded by the laughter of your loved ones, everyone dancing and enjoying good food and dancing had made you feel lighter than air, even long after the sun had set; for once, you weren’t even sad that you had missed watching it from your favorite spot.

Falling in love with you was easy. Loving you was easier. Losing you was the most painful thing Satoru had ever experienced.

It was only days after your wedding, after you had promised to be at one another’s side until the end, in the very field where you’d first told him you loved him, where you’d shared your first kiss.

You had cried out from a sharp pain in your ankle, and when both of you looked to see what it was, you watched a large snake disappear into the flowers. In a panic, Satoru had ripped the fabric of his tunic, wrapping it tightly around the wound, silently, desperately praying that the poison would move slow enough for him to get you back to the town, where he could only hope someone would know how to cure snake bites. He couldn’t lose you, not like this, not so soon after he’d made you his.

When he’d gone to carry you – to pick you up and rush back to town with you in his arms – he had seen your skin was already an unnaturally pale, ashen color, a sheen of sweat over your whole body.

“No,” he’d whispered, shaking his head, as if that would magically give him more time to save you. “No, no no no.”

You’d only smiled at him, though your eyes were already starting to go a little unfocused. “It’s too late, my love.” Your hands had tangled in the front of his tunic, the soft blue fabric crumpling so easily between your fingers. “But this isn’t such a bad place to die, is it? I’m with you, and the flowers are blooming, and the sun is shining.” With every word, you’d had to lean more and more of your weight into him, your legs losing strength by the second.

“Let’s just sit together for a moment, my love, and enjoy the breeze. I don’t want to be scared when I go.”

The words had nearly shattered Satoru, but he had nodded, easing both of you down to lay amongst the flowers, cradling you close to himself the whole time. He’d stared down at you without blinking, unwilling to miss a single heartbeat of the time he had left with you; the fact that you had looked up at him, too, was both a blessing and a curse.

“Don’t go,” he’d pleaded, throat tight with the tears he was fighting back. “I don’t want you to go. I love you.”

“I know,” you’d whispered back. “I don’t want to go, either. I love you, Satoru, and I wish we had more time, but we don’t.”

“It’s not fair.”

“No,” you’d agreed, a bittersweet smile on your lips. “It’s not fair. But neither is life. And I’m happy to have spent as much of mine with you as I got to.”

Words had failed him then, and he’d leaned down to press one last kiss to your lips, knowing deep down that this would be his last chance. And he had been right; you’d managed to return his kiss for a moment, before going completely still in his arms.

Satoru had stayed in that field with you and wept for hours after the warmth left your body, only forcing himself to stand and take both of you back to town when it began to grow dark and a chill drifted in on the breeze you had been so eager to feel in your last moments.

And so, he had carried you home, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen from crying, but his face otherwise blank, too numb to feel even grief at that moment. No one that saw him had tried to stop him, the sight of the typically lively musician so hollow, so quiet, had left everyone shaken.

The days after your death all blurred together; the only one that stuck out significantly from the others was the day of your funeral, because it was the only time he’d cleaned himself up and left the house, and even that was because Satoru knew he was expected to be there, the grieving husband to round out the picture of a Perfect Funeral. It had made him sick, and he’d excused himself as quickly as possible.

He spent much of his time crying, or staring at the wall, or ceiling, replaying that last afternoon with you, obsessing over how he could have done things differently, how he could have saved you, even if he knew logically it was pointless; what was done could not be undone, especially not death.

…Could it?

Once Satoru had the thought, he could not bring himself to abandon it, so he began instead to meticulously detail his plan.

The days were already growing colder, which meant that Lady Persephone had returned to her husband’s realm of the Underworld; perhaps he would be able to use that to his advantage.

Satoru had a purpose again, something to get him out of bed and moving; he had a goal to achieve, and no earthly force would stop him. He spent days polishing and tuning his instruments, and days longer composing and perfecting a song to play for the King and Queen of the Underworld; if he was going to convince the keepers of the dead to release one of their charges, everything needed to be perfect.

He was vaguely aware that a couple people – Suguru and Shoko, perhaps? Anything outside of his task was fuzzy at best – came to check on him occasionally, just as they had before he had manically begun to prepare to do the impossible. If they tried to talk him out of it, he can’t remember; even if they had tried, it wouldn’t have worked. His sole focus was on getting you back, and nothing would stand in his way.

By the time Satoru felt he had done everything he could to prepare for his journey, almost two weeks had passed since you’d died in his arms.

Your husband dressed warmly, both because he was unsure what to expect in the Underworld and because having your scarf wrapped around his neck gave him confidence that his plan would work; how could it not, when wearing the scarf wreathed him in your scent, as if you were already back with him again?

The sun was barely up when Satoru left your home, his lyre wrapped carefully in muslin and tucked into his bag. He knew the entrance to the Underworld was close enough to walk, but he didn’t know how long it would take him to get there, and he didn’t want to waste any time at all. Though he had left so early in the morning, there were still a few townspeople that saw him, asked him where he was going, but he ignored them all; conversation would only delay his journey, and he wouldn’t have that.

The musician made good time, all things considered, reaching the entrance to the Underworld about an hour past midday. He paused for a moment, took a deep breath to steel himself, then stepped forwards into the darkness.

He had no torch to light his way, but the path beneath his feet seemed to glow on its own, as if guiding him along; as if the Lord and Lady were expecting and didn’t want to be kept waiting because the foolish mortal lost his way. So, seeing no other option, he followed the soft, almost foggy glow as it led him deeper and deeper into the earth and – hopefully – to the throne room of Hades and Persephone.

Time didn’t quite feel the same below the surface – it felt thicker, somehow, and heavier, catching on his clothes and sticking to his skin like honey – which meant he had no idea how long he’d been walking. The only thing that kept him from panicking was the faintest scent of pomegranates, coming from the same direction the path seemed to lead.

Eventually, Satoru did reach the throne room, though he couldn’t have recalled what it looked like later if his life depended on it. For as much as he looked around, the whole room could have been made of diamonds and liquid gold could have rained from the ceiling; none of that mattered to him, because it had nothing to do with you. His gaze went straight to the couple in their thrones, and he fought to keep his nerves under control; now was not the moment to get stage fright for the first time in his life.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing so low he felt the way his hair shifted to cooperate with gravity, the dusty purple of his undercut no longer hidden beneath the pale strands of his frosty hair, so white it practically glowed in the dusk of the throne room.

“What brings you to my realm, mortal?” Hades asked, his expression impassive, though his eyes simmered with something dangerous.

“I have come to play you a song,” Satoru answered simply, standing from his bow and removing his lyre from his bag, unwrapping the fabric from around it with great care. He adjusted his hold on the instrument until it sat nestled in his arms in the best position for him to play, then lifted his gaze back to the gods. “If it pleases my Lord and her Ladyship, of course.”

This was the one catch in his plan: if he was denied permission to play, he had no chance of returning home with you at his side.

“Oh, please?” Persephone turned to face her husband, a pleading expression on her face. “Let him play, my love. We never have mortal visitors, much less artists, and I want to hear what he’s prepared for us!”

The King of the Dead hesitated for a few moments, staring at his wife, but Satoru caught the way his smoldering eyes softened, the way the hard lines of his mouth eased, and the musician knew he would be allowed to play.

“My wife wishes to hear you play,” the god said, turning back to the man before him. “I hope you don’t disappoint her with your skills.”

With another, smaller bow, Satoru began to play, and soon thereafter began to sing. He sang about you: all the ways you loved him, and all the ways he loved you in return. He sang of his life before he met you: how he had played around, led people along and broken their hearts with his carelessness, simply because he was bored. He sang of your lives after you’d met: how you had brightened his mornings and sweetened his days and warmed his nights; how you had planned a future together you had never gotten to see. The harmonies from his lyre blended with the melodies of his voice, painting the image of you so vividly Satoru swore he could see your shape in front of him again.

It wasn’t until he finished his song that he realized he could see you there in front of him, though your form wavered around the edges, like you were a little less than solid. But you were there, and you were smiling, and he felt like falling to his knees and crawling to you right then and there; the only thing that stopped him was realizing that both Hades and Persephone were openly weeping.

He, Gojo Satoru, had brought gods to tears with his music, and with his love for you.

Emboldened by seeing your face again, Satoru spoke. “Please,” he begged, his voice eggshell-thin, cracking under the stress of his request. “Please don’t make me return home without my love. I cannot bear to make the journey alone again.”

At first he received only silence in response, and though he was not a patient man by nature, he forced himself to wait until he was spoken to, not wanting to risk upsetting the gods before him.

“Once a soul has entered the Underworld, it cannot be allowed to leave again,” Hades responded once he had composed himself, which felt like years after Satoru had made his plea. “I am very sorry.”

The musician felt his heart sink at the denial, and he began to consider begging to be allowed to stay, instead, if he couldn’t bring you back with him.

“Oh, please, my love,” Persephone cried, messily wiping the tears from her eyes as she gazed at her husband. “You let me go home again when my mother begged for my return. Why can’t you grant him this same mercy?”

“Because order must be maintained,” the Lord of the Underworld answered. “Rules must be followed, you know this. Your own return home has its own rules, after all.”

“Then give me rules I must abide by. I swear I will follow them as faithfully as possible.” Though he knew interrupting a conversation between gods could be dangerous, Satoru simply could not stop the words from tumbling from his lips.

“Please.” The goddess’s voice was petal-soft, a warm, hopefully breeze cutting through the chill of the Underworld.

The silence was heavy, crushing the air out of every part of the room, suffocating the musician where he stood. Despite the pain, Satoru only had eyes for you, your warm gaze giving him the strength to push through, to wait for Hades’s answer before completely giving up hope.

“If I let you both return to the surface world,” the god’s voice, though low and rough, rang out clear. “You must follow one rule.”

“Only one?” It seemed too good to be true.

“It is a difficult one.”

“Anything,” Satoru rushed out. “I’ll do anything.”

“You will lead the two of you out of the Underworld, but until you both are on the surface again, out of my domain, you are not to turn around. I promise you will not be alone, that you will return with your love, but you must not turn around before you leave this place. If you turn around, you will have to leave here alone, and you will never be allowed to return until your own death.”

“If I’m not allowed to turn around, are we at least allowed to speak to each other?”

“Yes, you can converse on the journey. Now, take your lover and go. Once you leave the throne room you must keep your back turned at all times until you reach the surface.”

Bowing deeply, Satoru thanked the god profusely for several moments, then straightened and stepped forward, reaching out and taking your hands, helping you from where you sat on the floor of the throne room.

“Let’s go home,” you said, smiling so sweetly at him it made his teeth ache. He nodded eagerly in agreement, taking just a moment longer to take in your features before guiding you to the entrance of the throne room.

“Are you ready?” he asks, turning to you one last time as the two of you stand in the threshold. “I’m not sure how long the journey back is, and if you grow tired we can’t stop.”

“I’m ready when you are,” was your answer, giving his hand a light squeeze to show you meant the words.

Satoru nodded back, once again pausing to admire your face, your smile, everything about you, before turning away, still holding your hand as he stepped out of the throne room and began the trek back to the surface, back home.

He was silent for a bit at first, feeling your hand in his enough to assure him you were there, but eventually both his nerves and his natural chattiness got the better of him. He said almost every thought that came to his mind, though he tried to make sure to ask as many questions as possible, eager to hear your answers, your sweet voice a soothing balm to his raw and frayed nerves.

The journey felt shorter this time around, though whether that was because he was retracing his footsteps, or some other strange property of time in the Underworld, Satoru couldn’t be sure. He wasn’t going to complain about it, either, because not turning to look at you was proving much more difficult than he had thought when he was first given the rule.

When he finally saw the entrance to the surface, sunlight still visible on the horizon, a beaming grin broke out across his face. “We’re nearly there,” he told you. “See? We’ve nearly made it.” Unable to help himself, he picked up his pace, still pulling you along behind him.

He didn’t notice your hand slipping from his own as he closed the last few paces to the entrance.

His joy was palpable as he practically leapt through the gates, back onto the surface, into the grass that waited for him as the sun began to set behind him.

“We did it!” Satoru cheered, spinning around to look at you. “Oh, my love, it feels so good to have you—” The sight of your sad smile had his gaze dropping to your feet.

You hadn’t yet crossed over the threshold.

And he had turned around and looked at you.

“No,” he begged, racing towards you, desperate for at least one last kiss, one last embrace, even if he could not keep you with him. “Please, my love, I’m so sorry.”

Before he could reach out and touch you, though, your shape had already begun to waver, rippling like the surface of a pool disturbed by the wind. You only shook your head, your smile never leaving your lips. “It’s okay,” you assured him. “I love you. I’ll see you again someday. Live well for me, okay?”

“I-I’ll try,” he choked out, tears thick in his voice even before they spilled from his eyes, though there was no stopping them as your form wavered more, then faded fully from sight.

He fell to his knees and wept, loud, heaving sobs, gripping handfuls of grass as he pressed his forehead to the ground, forced to mourn you a second time.

ok so this was baby's first sad ending/hurt no comfort so pls don't come for me if it was bad i'm so sorry idk how to do this i don't like sad endings but this is my favorite myth i couldn't bring myself to change the ending

tagging: @kentopedia @kentohours @mitsuristoleme

#gojo satoru x reader #gojo x reader #gojo jjk #jjk gojo #gojo satoru #satoru gojo #gojo angst #jjk au #jjk angst #jjk x reader #jjk fanfiction #jjk fanfic #jjk reader insert #orpheus and eurydice #orpheus & eurydice #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #dividers credit to saradika & cafe kitsune #fallon's fics

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taintandviolent · 2 months

Note

For the ask prompt game:

"Don't say that" w Kit Walker

tw: infertility, angst, brief smut.

Kit opened the door, setting his coat down on the chair nearest to it. You felt him searching for you, felt his eyes scanning over the small of your back and the curve of your ass. His heavy steps echoed in the small house as he made his way over to you. Wordlessly, your hand moved in circles, sudsing up a plate.

His warm chest pressed against your back and Kit began peppering little kisses along the nape of your neck. Knowing what was coming next, you immediately felt petulant and stiffened as you continued to meticulously scrub at the dishes. It wasn’t that you didn’t love Kit – you did, with everything you had. It was just that he wanted something you didn’t, and something that you’d never ever be able to give him. Still, he tried, thinking that his potent virility would puncture your insufferable, sterile womb.

“Miss me, baby?”

“Sure I did. I always miss you when you’re gone, Kit.”

“Mmmmfff –” His words disappeared into your skin.

His large, warm hands explored your plush hips, squeezing the flesh hard. Teeth clenched, you bit back your words. They continued to venture further, into the crease of your thigh, heading straight for your cunt. His middle and ring finger moved together, caressing the slit. His whisperings were hot on your ear, his breath rushing down over your neck. “I wanna’ fill you up, baby.”

“Oh, Kit - stop it!” You twisted your body away from him, furiously scrubbing at the pan.

Kit’s eyes softened, searching for a glimmer of sarcasm, of joviality. He found nothing but hardness. “Sugah’, don’t…”

“No! Kit!” You threw the pan down, the sound of it clattering in the sink startling him. “ I’m tired of ignoring the elephant in the room. It makes me sick!”

“Baby, listen,” he shushed, his hands clamping onto the sides of your arms. He rubbed the flesh there, trying to pacify you. He hadn’t meant anything by his casual remark, he was just trying to get you in the mood. After a long day, all he wanted was to have you to his own. As any man would.

Bracing yourself on the sink, you leaned over it, watching as the suds sloshed back and forth, tiny bubbles popping. Tears welled up in your eyes, stinging the corners. You hadn’t wanted to cry today, you were so tired of feeling this – every time he came onto you, the worry was in the back of your mind. Finally, you turned to him and spoke, struggling to keep your voice steady.

“Kit, you know damn well that filling me up isn’t going to do anything. And even if it did, you know how I feel about that. I’m broken. I’m broken and you know it.”

“You’re not broken, sugah’ - there ain’t a damn thing wrong with ya’.”

“Maybe I ought to go to Briarcliff. Maybe if they fry my brain long enough, it’ll fix me”

“Don’t say that.” He squared his shoulders. “Don’t say that.”

#Kit Walker #Kit Walker x reader #Kit Walker x you #mydrabbles #angst prompts #divider credit to saradika-graphics #questions answered #anonymous

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voxofthevoid · 3 months

Text

Shibuya Swap Wednesday #1. Let me start by putting on my clown makeup 🤡

My plan was a few chapters of fun, filthy porn, with the dimension travel adding a particular kind of spice. One chapter each for Canon!Satoru/Alt!Yuuji, Alt!Satoru/Canon!Yuuji, Alt!Satoru/Alt/Yuuji, and Canon!Satoru/Canon!Yuuji.

I'm 6.5k in, and not only has there not been a single dick in sight, but I've also somehow outlined a scene where Nanami, Shouko, Megumi, and Nobara meet alt!Yuuji. I haven't reached that scene either.

This is going to be more than four chapters. Titled this (this is also part of the story) how the story changes, and well, the story sure is changing on me.

But I'm having fun! Click through to find around 1.6k of SFW Yuuji porn, ft. all my favorite JJK characters—Yuuji, Gojou, and Kenjaku.

“Good night, Gojou Satoru. Let us meet again in the—”

The parasite in Suguru’s body falls abruptly quiet, familiar eyes widening in an expression that should be familiar, is familiar, except Satoru’s mind keeps rejecting it, desperate to divorce everything about the creature in front of him from the long-gone reality of his best friend.

It’s distracting.

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t notice the other person until there are hands on his shoulders and legs pressed against his back, somehow evading the uncomfortably warm, fleshy grip of the cursed object restraining him to bracket him in human warmth.

“What are you doing to my cute little student, Mum?” says a semi-familiar, impossible voice. “And why are you wearing Suguru-kun?”

The parasite’s face is frozen in an expression that’s half shock, half rapture.

“Oh?” they say, little of their evident shock showing in their voice. “What is this?”

“Why is the wrong question, I guess,” the newcomer says, and it’s there again, a pervasive sense of wrongness at the sound of that familiar–unfamiliar voice. “How? When, maybe.”

The parasite’s grin widens, exposing a revolting amount of teeth. It’s an expression of pure delight, utterly deranged.

Satoru’s self-aware enough to know he shouldn’t judge, but that’s never stopped him.

“Not quite,” the parasite tells the newcomer. “When isn’t enough either. Gojou Satoru is your student, you said? That doesn’t sound right to me.”

“That so?” the newcomer says mildly, their voice still making the insides of Satoru’s skull ache. One of the hands on Satoru’s shoulder slides along the slope of it, gently skimming up the side of his neck to fist tightly in his hair. His head is yanked back, the world briefly a blur. “He has grown a bit. What have you gotten yourself into now, Satoru?”

Even upside down, the newcomer’s face is distinctive, unmistakable, even as it makes Satoru’s mind writhe with the same eerie dissonance of his voice. Pink hair, warm eyes—familiar. Scarred flesh, four eyes—unfamiliar.

“Huh,” Satoru says intelligently.

The Six Eyes are just eyes now, the blockade on Satoru’s cursed energy stripping them of their extraordinary perception, but even with this disconcertingly pared-down vision, Satoru knows what he’s looking at—who he’s looking at.

Familiar lips with an unfamiliar scar on one corner curl into a kind smile. “You still get into the worst situations, don’t you? Some things just don’t change.”

That’s unfair. Satoru hasn’t been in situations in years. He is the situation.

But all that is stuck in his throat, every second he spends looking at this person cementing the reality of him in all of Satoru’s remaining senses.

“Yuuji,” he breathes.

It is and it isn’t. This is Yuuji’s face and Yuuji’s voice and Yuuji’s smile, but the man looking down at Satoru has unfamiliar scars and four active eyes on a face as old as his own, maybe older.

Man, not boy.

Yuuji, not his Yuuji.

“Me,” Yuuji agrees calmly. He’s still smiling, and it reaches his eyes too—all four of them, all that warm brown. “Don’t look so worried, Satoru. I’m here. Everything will be alright.”

No one’s said that to Satoru in a long time. No one’s needed to.

He’s not enjoying the role reversal.

The way this drastically different Yuuji is touching him doesn’t help. The hand fisted in Satoru’s hair is still there, pulling at his scalp as it keeps his head tilted back. An experimental attempt to straighten his head yields nothing. If Yuuji notices the resistance, he doesn’t show it, continuing to hold Satoru by the hair and peer down at him with that eerily serene smile.

And his other hand has crept from Satoru’s shoulder to his face, cupping the side of it. The fingers are curled under his chin, digging delicately into the underside of his jaw. The thumb is moving, butterfly-soft strokes along Satoru’s cheekbone. There’s an unconscious ease to the motions that makes Satoru’s skin grow hot and electric under them.

It’s not a reassuring touch. It’s possessive.

It’s certainly not the way his Yuuji has ever touched him.

This one looks and acts like he’s never known anything else.

“I hate to interrupt this…moment,” the parasite says, not a hint of apology in their dry voice—Suguru’s voice, even his tone, and it strikes Satoru that their desecration of his friend’s corpse, while revolting, doesn’t make his head hurt the way this older, darker Yuuji does. “But would you terribly mind telling me precisely how you got here, Itadori Yuuji? You’re making a bit of a mess, you see.”

There’s a low thud from the side, and another voice calls out, “Getou?”

Yuuji’s eyes shift to the left, all four narrowed. “Oh. It’s still alive here.”

The patchwork curse steps into Satoru’s limited line of vision—normal enough, human enough, he’s sure, but his eyes have been more since he was born.

It says, “Hey, what’s this? Itadori—”

It dies.

One moment, it’s there, tall and manic. The next, there’s just blood splatter on the floor, unusually red for a curse.

“Now I’ve made a mess,” Yuuji says. “In my view, it’s a cleanup, but I’m pretty sure you won’t agree, Mum.”

Mum.

Yuuji called them that earlier too. Satoru didn’t not notice, but he was understandably preoccupied with cute little student and Suguru-kun and the fucking dissonant voice.

“Why are you calling them that?” Satoru asks, and the angle of his throat doesn’t allow for easy speaking, his voice coming out strained, but Yuuji makes no move to release his grip on Satoru’s hair, and another attempt to wrench free of that grasp only earns him a tighter, differently angled grip and a frown that looks more confused than anything.

“Because—”

“Years of planning,” the parasite cuts in, and their voice is quiet, even soft, but Satoru recognizes very well the way Suguru’s voice would get when he was furious. “Centuries. Do you know what you’ve done?”

Two of Yuuji’s eyes flicker up; the others stay on Satoru.

And Satoru’s eyes are immeasurably weaker in this state, but he’s dead certain he’s not imagining the flash of red in the eyes Yuuji’s trained on the parasite.

“You used to say a wrench in the plans was an opportunity,” Yuuji says, and his smile is finally gone, but the considering expression on his face is just as alien. “You can’t have changed that much. What year is it anyway?”

“Twenty-eighteen,” Satoru answers, an automatic response. It’s not even the grip on his hair that’s keeping him staring at Yuuji now; he can’t look away.

“Thank you, Satoru,” Yuuji says warmly. His voice is far less warm when he adds, “You’ve lived too long, Mum.”

“What a cruel thing to hear from one’s son.”

That’s what snaps Satoru out of it.

He wrenches his head to the side, a hell of a lot more violent than the half-hearted attempts earlier, and Yuuji’s fingers do tighten at first, sending sharp pain shuddering through Satoru’s scalp, but then he lets go, even the hand on Satoru’s face falling away. Satoru still struggles to look away, strangely mesmerized by how Yuuji’s familiar face has been shaped into alien lines by the passage of time, but he manages, glaring at Yuuji and then at the parasite.

“Either get this over with or explain yourself. I’m not in the mood for games.”

It takes the parasite a long moment to pry their eyes away from Yuuji to look at Satoru, but Satoru’s briefly disgusted by how well he understands that reluctance.

“I have no explanations for you, Gojou Satoru,” they tell him. “Why don’t you ask your student—except he’s no longer that, is he?”

“Oh.” It comes from behind Satoru. He doesn’t look up. “Is that what I am here? I never thought you’d be a teacher, Satoru.”

“I hear he’s not very good at it,” the parasite provides helpfully. The earlier anger is entirely gone from their demeanor, both their voice and expression sporting the same faux-friendliness with which they were talking to Satoru before Yuuji showed up, but Satoru’s spent a lifetime living in the details, and he doesn’t miss how the whites of their eyes show a little too much, the edges shot with thin red veins. There’s a fervid edge to the way they look at Yuuji—a fascination that borders on hunger.

It flares again, that perverse understanding.

“I’m sure he’s trying,” Yuuji says. He pats Satoru, a light touch at the top of his head like he’s a puppy. It stuns him silent. “You always work hard when it matters, don’t you, Satoru?”

“Of course I do,” Satoru says without thinking.

Yuuji fucking ruffles his hair. “I’m not sure I’d like to be your student though.”

“Hey!”

Yuuji laughs.

And that—

Satoru knows that laugh. It’s Yuuji’s laugh—loud and full-bodied and real.

It’s no revelation. Satoru has seen and accepted a myriad of miracles and horrors over the course of his life. And there have been no explanations yet, no answers, but this surreal conversation has revealed enough.

This isn’t his Yuuji, but it is Yuuji, from a world where Satoru’s the student. And it’s not jujutsu theory that flies through his head, but pure science fiction—the multiverse, mirrored souls in worlds that splinter further and further apart.

The hunger in the parasite’s eyes says they also know.

Satoru hates how they look at Yuuji.

“What did you do to him?” they ask suddenly, in the resounding silence following Yuuji’s laughter. “I can’t sense him at all, but that was his technique you used.”

The hand in Satoru’s hair flexes, nails digging into his scalp. For a moment, they feel unnaturally sharp.

“I ate him,” Yuuji murmurs, barely loud enough to be audible. “Everything he was now belongs to me.”

#goyuu #jjk snippets #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #wip wednesday #my fic #fic: how the story changes #divider credit: saradika-graphics

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bangtanhoneys · 11 months

Text

MASTER LIST

BTS 8th Member - Grace Chu Moments,

BTS 8th Member - Grace Chu Main Masterlist (career)

BTS Wedding Moodboards

Namjoon / Seokjin / Yoongi / Hoseok / Jimin / Taehyung / Jungkook

BTS Wedding Series (updated January 5th )

The Bangtan Baby

Bangtan Baby 25 Prompts

REQUESTS: ARE OPEN!

Kofi - support with tea or coffee!

Anons

🪻⏳🌊💖💜

#bts fanfiction #bts scenarios #bts 8th member #bts reactions #bts fic #bts fanfic #bts fanfic masterlist #bts masterlist #credit to @saradika-graphics for dividers & header

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moonlit-midnight · 5 months

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𝙏𝙬𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙒𝙤𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩!

Take my hand, dear readers. Let’s walk through enchanted mirrors and tumble down rabbit holes to a realm of madness where the strangest dreams and reality collide.

★ NRC: imagines and short fics “Follow me through the magical door in the woods.”

★ Octavinelle “My heart yearns for grand adventures down in the deepest blue seas.”

★ Diasomnia “Where the most beautiful roses bloom amongst thorns and briars.”

#* Dividers credit to @saradika #masterlist #twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst fanfic #twst scenarios #twst imagines #twst headcanons #twst fanfiction #twisted wonderland fanfic #twst drabble

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lyn-js · 2 months

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Welcome beautiful people!!

Hello, if you come across my page. First off thank you, and welcome. My name is Lyndsey, and I love writing, so I thought I would come on here and share my work with you all. I'm currently writing an Outer Range story, with our most lovable and reckless cowboy Rhett Abbott. But in the future, I will write more TGM fics. But in the meantime, sit back relax and enjoy the crazy ride. message me with new ideas, they are always welcome. I hope you all enjoy.

Masterlist:

Top Gun Maverick:

Dancing under the Moonlight

Outer Range:

Home Sweet Home

Lessons in Chemistry:

One Step at a Time

This blog is 18+, minors please do not interact! Ageless and/or underage blogs will be blocked without warning.

#navigation #masterlist #divider credit @saradika #rhett abbott #rhett abbot x reader #outer range #lewis pullman #rhett abbott fic #rhett abbott imagine

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perlelune · 11 months

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Tag, You’re It | Ethan Landry | Masterlist

Happy, carefree college days meet their abrupt end when every guy who approaches you mysteriously turns up dead.

Warnings: NON-CON, Stalking, Bimbo!Reader, Clueless Reader, Loss of Virginity, Incel Ethan, Cheerleader Reader, Skin Carving (w/knife), Canon Typical Slashing, Voyeurism, Kidnapping, Forced Masturbation, Filming, Blackmail

𝔦.

𝔦𝔦.

𝔦𝔦𝔦.

𝔦𝔳.

𝔳.

𝔳𝔦.

𝔳𝔦𝔦.

𝔳𝔦𝔦𝔦.

𝔦𝔵.

𝔵.

𝔈𝔭𝔦𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔲𝔢

#scream #scream 6 #scream vi #scream vi fanfic #ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #dark!ethan landry #ethan landry x you #series masterlist #floral divider credit: @saradika #masterlist #tw blood #ethan landry x bimbo!reader

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cecedownbad · 11 months

Text

Hello

ABOUT ME:

↠ Call me Cece, I'm 19 at the moment. (I'm spiritually 50, let's leave it at that) They/ Them

I write Fics and occasionally draw art.

↠ So far I've been focusing more on writing fluff, smut is on the menu but I need more practice so do forgive me on that.

↠ Bear with me as I come to realise I have multiple Special Interests / random momentary fixations and will not shut up about it.

↠ Now this blog can be random cause I can't decide on one topic for the life of me so I'll write, talk maybe even shit post about anything that flies by, don't sweat it if that doesn't work for you.

↠ I have ADHD and my mental stability is on a high way but I'm still slow, so apologies for that in advance.

RECENT WORKS:

Resi.Evil [Leon × GN reader] · Fluff

Unexpected

Not Alone

From Afar

Touch · suggestive

CM [Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader] . Fluff

Hold On [part 1] . Hurt/Comfort

Hold On [part 2]

Warmth . CM meet cute challenge

Short stories

You Think you're Funny? · Leon (Resi.Evil)

CURRENTLY WORKING ON:

Resident evil × Reader · Isekai

Ada × reader · Fluff · suggestive

Clair × reader · Fluff

Spencer Reid (CM) x reader · Fluff

Fem V (cyberpunk 2077) x reader · 18+ · fluff

Leon × reader . 18+

ABOUT ASKS AND REQUESTS:

Status: Open

Do feel free to ask and/or talk to me about either the blog or any questions you have, I'll do my best to answer. Also it would really help if I could get requests cause my brain is fried.

I do have conditions: (just personal things)

↠ please don't take this as a chance to pick a fight, this isn't a place for that, I'll take on valid criticism and arguments.

↠ i will answer when I can and if I can, don't be upset that I haven't answered anything yet, it takes time for me to process things.

↠ if your request contains the following I will not be responding: Bigotry, Underage anything, beastiality, homophobia/racism, degradation.

↠ this is a safe space so if you wanna talk do feel free, I take on random questions too, be it about theories or speculations or possible facts, I'm not the smartest but I'll do my best.

↠regarding which characters from which fandom that I'll write for, please drop in and ask me and I'll respond accordingly.

Thank you for taking your time reading this, I hope you have a wonderful day!

#credits for the dividers used: @benekeibear @newlips @saradika #nav #navigation

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oftenwantedafton · 3 months

Text

A New Afton - Stepfather Steve Raglan/William Afton x Stepdaughter Reader

Chapter 3

Rating - Explicit

Warnings - sexual content, daddy kink, praise kink, food kink

Also available on AO3

taglist @yellowbunnydreams

You glance at the digital display on the alarm clock beside your bed and groan internally. You haven’t slept a wink and it’s time to get up for school.

A quick shower. You’d forgotten to iron your uniform. The pleats of the skirt don’t lie flat. Your blouse is rumpled. You frown at your reflection in the bathroom mirror. Your sclera are bloodshot, the fragile skin beneath your eyes smudged. You can hear your stepfather making coffee in the kitchen.

“Good morning, Princess.”

Steve has transformed back into the geeky social worker version of himself. Striped shirt, matching tie with a small diamond pattern. Gold framed aviators dominating much of his face.

“Hi,” you greet him. You don’t really feel like eating. You start to sit across from him but he clucks his tongue.

“Too far away. Why don’t you sit here,” he begins to drag out the chair your mother usually occupies, then stops. “Or better yet right here.” He pats one long stretch of thigh invitingly.

You stand uncertainly. The chair legs scrape across the floor. Last night, there had been a kind of aura around you. A moment when you’d just surrendered and enjoyed it. The sunlight spilling through the kitchen window this morning feels too bright, too cheerful. It contradicts the dark secret you’d shared with your stepfather last night.

You approach the seated man and sit gingerly on the offered perch. His arm slides around your waist, holding you against him. How neatly he’d just shoved your mother’s place aside to make room for you.

“How are you feeling? You look tired.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Did you?”

“Like a rock.” He grins wolfishly at you and you wonder how his conscience is so clear and carefree. Did he feel any remorse at all for cheating on his wife with her daughter? “Stay home today, if you want. I’ll call the school office and write you a note for tomorrow.”

“I…I think I’d like to stay home, yes.” You can’t process sitting through classes today. Trying to concentrate on schoolwork. The image of Steve looking up at you as you’d climaxed in his mouth won’t leave your mind, playing on an endless loop. You’d halfway been expecting him to come to your room in the middle of the night. Hoping for another taste of that mouth. Wishing he’d put some part of his body on yours. Inside yours. Your eyes stray to your mother’s reading glasses tucked into the basket on the table and guilt wrenches your stomach.

“Alright then. Consider it done. I’ll make us dinner when I get home tonight, okay? Whatever you want.”

You nod. You stare at his lips. You wish he’d kiss you. You’re not brave enough to make a move yourself.

The older man glances at the clock on the stove and sighs. “I have to leave now. Let me get that note written before I forget and I’ll give the school a call.” He pats your knee and you leave the warmth of his lap. One last sip of coffee and then he withdraws one of the notebooks out of your backpack resting on the counter, tearing out a blank page near the back. He has a pen in his shirt pocket: silver, slender, heavy looking. His handwriting is precise cursive. He folds the note and tucks it into the folder on the inside of the front cover, then slips it back into your bag. He retrieves the number for your school from the fridge. It’s there among a list of emergency contact numbers, important sequences like your physician and the office your parents work at.

You pick up Steve’s coffee cup and rinse it, setting it on the sink mat. His voice on the phone is warm, concerned, convincing. He folds his jacket over his arm and lifts his briefcase, reserving one hand to lift your chin. His thumb presses on the shallow divot below your bottom lip. You will him to kiss you, pleased when your desire is fulfilled. He tastes like hazelnut coffee.

“Have a good day, sweet girl.”

The front door closes behind him.

***

The phone rings around noon. Your stepfather is on his lunch break.

“How are you feeling? Did you get any rest?”

“Yes.” You had. You’d undressed and closed the blinds and gone right back to bed. You have an appetite again. For food. For him.

“That’s great. Have you given any thought to what you want for supper?”

You want something sweet. The breakfast meal you’d missed this morning. “Pancakes.”

He hums in amusement. You love his voice in your ear. “Pancakes, huh? I can manage that.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Not at all.” You can hear him grinning from here. “I’ll try to be home as soon as I can. Maybe wrap things up a little early. My afternoon client load looks a little sparse today.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

He huffs into the receiver, a pleased sound. “That’s my good girl. See you soon.”

The lustful ache within you flares to life once more.

***

William Afton returns home three hours later to find you on the living room couch. You’re wearing seersucker pajamas with a small strawberry print and lettuce edge ruffles. He likes these dainty, feminine things you wear. Better than something overtly adult like lace or satin. They still retain a sense of innocence and youth that arouses him.

He enjoys how your gaze is always heavy on him, as if you’re mesmerized, captivated. You can’t seem to look away. You can’t conceal the want.

He bends to kiss your mouth, threads his fingers through your hair. A weaker man would surrender right then and ravage you. But he’s not a weak man. He takes his time removing his work clothes and steps into the shower. A few quick lazy strokes of his erection, just a little tease of the pleasure he’ll be receiving from you later. Loose pajamas that don’t entirely conceal his firm cock, this material thinner than what he’d worn last night.

He returns to the kitchen and begins preparing the meal. You hover in the doorway, watching him gather ingredients and utensils.

“You really can cook,” you say.

He glances at you mid leveling off a measuring cup and smiles. “They’re only pancakes.”

“But you know what you’re doing. Like, you’ve got practice. The way you’re handling things. I don’t know how to phrase it.” You frown at him. “You owned a restaurant once, right?”

William nods. “I did.” The flour spills into the batter bowl. “Actually, I’ll let you in on a little secret if you promise not to tell anyone. I mean anyone,” he emphasizes.

“Okay, I promise.”

“I still own it. It’s been closed for years, but I just couldn’t bring myself to let it go.”

He dusts his hands off and walks over to you. “You should visit with me some time. It’s not an ordinary restaurant. There’s an arcade. Animatronics. A lot of very interesting things I could show you.” He plants a kiss on your jaw and nibbles your ear lobe. He feels you shiver.

***

You stare at the array of toppings available before you. Steve had stopped at the store on the way home and had gotten some groceries. Whipped cream, strawberries, blueberries. There’s also powdered sugar and butter and chocolate and maple syrup.

“Wow. You really went all out.”

“If you’re going to do something, you should commit one hundred percent to the task at hand.”

He picks up one of the strawberries freshly rinsed in the colander and walks over to you. “Open your mouth,” he instructs gently. The texture from the external seeds is rough against your bottom lip as he sits the fruit there. Your lips part and he pushes it forward, your teeth sinking into it. A burst of sweetness and tartness sparks along your taste buds as the offering moves over your tongue.

Your stepfather makes a little satisfied humming sound, his eyes transfixed by the movement of your mouth as he consumes the remainder. There’s a slight red stain from the juice you notice tucked into the nail bed of his index finger and your mouth waters.

You sit at the kitchen table, in your mother’s usual seat, this time without any prompting. Your bare foot touches Steve’s as he settles into the chair beside you, setting plates with a stack of the griddlecakes before each of you. It’s just a gentle brush of skin against skin but you feel it strike you like a matchstick scraping red phosphorus, igniting your core.

The pancakes are delicious—light, fluffy. You chew around a forkful smothered in chocolate syrup and whipped cream and strawberries and your eyes stray to the older man’s bare scarred forearms, the sleeves he’d shoved up to his elbows when he’d started preparing the meal still gathered around the crease of his arms. Your stepfather has opted for the more traditional butter and maple syrup—the real kind, not that synthetic chemical laden variety—and you watch fascinated as he swallows in large bites, making short work of what’s in front of him. You wonder if he’s starving, or if it’s simply the way a man consumes things, because everything with a man is larger, stronger, more aggressive…

“Is it good?” His eyes haven’t moved from your face.

“Yes, Daddy. Thank you.”

His lips twitch. “You’re welcome, baby girl. Do you want more?”

“I’m full.”

“Are you?” A full on smirk and your stomach flutters. “I’m not.” He stands, offering a hand to you. You let him pull you to your feet. He slides his fingers into the hair at the nape of your neck, tugging your head back gently. “Did you miss me today, Princess?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you say softly. Your pussy is absolutely throbbing. Just like flicking a light switch, he’s got you instantly worked up.

“Good girl. I missed you, too.” He releases his hold of you, arm sweeping across the island still dotted with ingredients and cookware and utensils to clear a space for you, some of the items falling to the linoleum. “Let’s get you up here, hmmm? Take everything off.”

Your heart thuds in your chest. You pull your pajama top off, hearing the whistle of air sucked into Steve’s lungs. The bottoms and your panties follow. You leave everything in a pile on the floor. Calloused hands wrap around your waist and he lifts you easily, sitting you on the end of the counter. The surface is cool against your heated skin.

“Lie back, sweet girl.” You obey, gasping slightly when the granite touches your bare shoulder blades as you recline supine along the length of the island, your legs dangling off the end of the counter.

Steve’s warm hand drags over your naked body admiringly, caressing you from knee to hip, kneading the curve of one breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers and tugging slightly.

“Where to even begin…” The bearded man sighs heavily, as if the dilemma is a weighty one. You hear him lift something from the counter above your head.

It’s the maple syrup.

He unscrews the cap then tips the glass bottle at an angle. The amber liquid within begins to spill out and he drizzles it over your torso, the first drops pattering against your collarbone, then across one breast, trailing a stripe down your abdomen, letting it pool in your umbilicus.

His eyes are lidded. He looks drunk off the sight of you, completely intoxicated by your naked body lying there sticky sweet beside him. When his face descends for that first kiss along the stretch of bone near your throat you think you’ve rocketed straight to heaven; try to mentally prepare yourself for the torment of hell your sin warrants.

You feel the rasp of that muscular organ stroke along the liquid nectar he’s just poured there, a slow, incessant drag. He lingers over your breast, sucking on your nipple and your back arches, your hand reaching to thread through his hair. You’re whimpering already and he’s barely begun.

Your stepfather moves from the side of the island to the end, dipping down once again to lav at the sweetness gathered in the divot above your mound, one hand caressing the back of your knee. You’re torn between craning your neck to watch what he’s doing and letting your head flop back against the hard surface, staring at the ceiling sightlessly while the man continues to lick you.

He kisses your abdomen and then he hooks his arms around your thighs, dragging you closer to him. You hear the scrape of one of the kitchen chairs as it’s pulled from its place beneath the table nearby and the older man settles into it, his fingers stroking your hips.

Then his mouth is finally there, where you need him most. You both moan together at that first taste. His tongue swirls around the bundle of nerves. Strokes between your lips and thrusts against your entrance, meeting resistance as the interior of that sacred place is still shielded with the skin that protects your virginity.

“Please…Daddy…I need…”

“What do you need, baby girl?” His breath is warm against the crook of your leg.

“I want…I want your fingers inside…”

Another gentle kiss. “It’s going to hurt.”

“I know,” you say softly. You’re afraid, but your desire for that forbidden destruction into your hollow is too strong.

“You’re sure you’re ready?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He’s right. It does hurt.

It burns when that index finger—maybe the same strawberry juice stained one from earlier—thrusts forward. You can feel your body resisting the intrusion. His mouth covers your clit and it distracts you from the discomfort a little. He advances a bit further, and then abandons the gentle motion abruptly to finish stretching, tearing, driving his finger forward until it’s completely sheathed inside you. Like ripping a bandaid off, just getting it over with. You cry out. All of that supply of moisture from arousal seems to have been depleted, replaced now with hot, sticky blood. Steve extracts that digit and then shoves it right back in. Repeats the process. His tongue strokes along your lips. You feel saliva dripping down and it makes the passage of his finger easier. It burns and aches but beneath it, there’s something. An ease of tension. It feels better when you relax, when you let him fuck into you. You weave your fingers between the ones resting on your abdomen and he squeezes your hand.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

You want to be a good girl. His good girl.

***

You never cease to surprise him.

William had thought he’d merely be eating you out on the kitchen counter but here you are, asking him to violate you. You’re so tight. It’s going to take a lot to work you open and grant him better access for more fingers and his fat prick in the future. That knowledge excites him.

He withdraws his finger and sucks the blood off of it. Metallic, musky, bitter. Eases the wet phalange back inside your canal. Sucks your clit and feels your body responding, relaxing. Curls the finger when he violates you again, seeking that sensitive spongy tissue. Your thighs tremor violently against his cheeks. A series of moans, whimpers, cries, as if you cannot decide on which sound to make. He loves pulling them out of you.

“Daddy…”

God, does that turn him on. His cock lurches at the title and he redoubles his efforts, letting his mouth grow more slack, letting saliva ooze over your cunt. He can tell you’re enjoying it again, the pain fading beneath the waves of pleasure. His tongue strokes outside and his finger plucks along your g spot and you cum, the hand holding his squeezing painfully but he enjoys it, tasting and feeling you come apart, lost in the haze of the feeling he creates deep within you.

William allows you time to recover, rising from his seat and walking to the side of the counter, bending to kiss you. Your mouth is slack, open, ready for him. He steals the breaths you gasp. Assists you down from the slab of granite and hugs you against him, his erection pressing along your lower spine. Your hands brace against the edge of the counter. He shoves the waistband of his pajama pants and briefs down, stroking that impatient rosy flesh. Wipes a smear of precum against the curve of your buttocks.

“You’re such a good girl for Daddy. Such a good daughter…” The words seem to come from a distant place, as if he is lost in the echos of a past memory.

He tugs until the pressure building within finally releases, a thick spray of hot seed painting your ass cheek. You turn in his arms and he kisses your mouth and that is how the meal concludes.

#william afton x you #william afton x reader #steve raglan x you #steve raglan x reader #william afton #steve raglan #fnaf fanfic #fnaf movie #dividers credit @saradika-graphics

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forest-hashira · 4 months

Text

Noble Blood Masterlist

now that there are multiple chapters of this fic for you guys to read, i figured it was about time to have a masterlist for this fic. it will, of course, be updated as more chapters are published. you can read the whole fic on ao3 here, and you can find the masterlist for other things for the au here.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Timestamps & Extras

Better than Sake (Shokohime first kiss)

#dividers credit to cafekitsune & saradika #noble blood #dragon rider au #mlists

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taintandviolent · 2 months

Note

Tate Langdon and "don't ignore me" please

warnings: angst, underage reader.

“Don’t ignore me.” Tate whimpered, sounding like he was on the verge of tears. Again. He’d been crying a lot this week. He sensed a change in you, a change of heart. He wasn’t wrong; your heart had changed -- it had been ripped to shreds, corroded and decayed all in a matter of days. Information was deadly.

He looked so desperate, so desolate when he cried, and it killed you inside. But what he’d done…

“Don’t ignore me…” he said again.

But you did. You did. Even though it took every ounce of self control you had, you did. You had promised to have no secrets between the two of you, yet he had plenty. You wondered how he carried them all with such a stoic, couldn’t be bothered attitude. Was he truly not remorseful? At all? Everything he did?

“Hey. Look at me.”

Frustrated, you scooped your hair behind your ears, focusing hard on the paper in front of you. The words were blurring together because honestly the last thing on your mind was homework. Of any kind.

“LOOK AT ME!”

Tate grabbed your chair, spinning it around to face you, and you cast your eyes to the floor, still avoiding him. You heard him grunt before reaching for your chin, yanking it up.

“I said don’t ignore me. You can’t do that.”

When your eyes still didn’t move to his, Tate frowned, his bottom lip jutting out slightly. The pout that usually worked, the pout that usually had you wrapping your arms around him, petting his hair. It wasn't working. He moved into your line of vision, forcing you to look at him. His eyes were welling up with big, fat tears.

“Please…” He sniffed. “Please don’t ignore me.”

“Fine,” you whispered, before clearing your throat to find your voice. You yanked your chin away from his grasp, craning your neck to get away from him. With a sullen gaze, you focused on his dark eyes. “Fine, then… Tate. Tell me about Violet Harmon and her mother.”

The way his face changed terrified you. He went from sad to sadder to a dark, roiling anger that you felt in the pit of your stomach. He set his jaw, wiped the tears with the back of his hand and said nothing.

“Who is ignoring who now?”

#mydrabbles #angst prompts #tate langdon #tate langdon x you #tate langdon x reader #divider credit to saradika #questions answered #anonymous

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voxofthevoid · 2 months

Text

Time for Shibuya Swap Wednesday #5!

Good news: Part 1 is finished. Bad news: That alone was 44k.

Sure, Parts 2 to 4 won't be as long, but at this point, I have no clue how big the fic will be. Last week, I tentatively predicted it would probably end with less than 10 chapters. That's, uh, not gonna be the case. I give up.

Onto Part 2, featuring alt!Satoru/canon!Yuuji!

Yuuji’s foot slams into the tracks—

I’ll save you, Gojou-sensei.

—and goes right through, the ground under him vanishing.

He plunges into darkness, the whole world blinking out. There’s a dizzying rush of sensation, sight and smell and sound all merging into a single, screaming mass, and then Yuuji’s prone on a hardwood floor, unharmed but stunned.

His body refuses to move, but his mind’s running a mile a minute, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened. He was at the station, leaving Mei Mei and her little brother to fight so he could let the others know what had happened to Gojou, and then—

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the way the world twisted into nonsense around him. Yuuji felt that a lot in the last few months, especially in those days his teacher was his only company. Gojou liked to warp Yuuji to places without warning him, and Yuuji got used to it, learning to land on his feet without needing Gojou to support him, but that first shock of vertigo never really went away, made bearable only by the familiar, prickling cursed energy ballooning out from Gojou’s touch to envelop his whole body. It kinda felt like a hug, lingering on Yuuji’s skin for several seconds after the landing.

But what just happened is different. The sense of violent displacement is the same, but there’s no foreign cursed energy cloaking him, and there was something…unsettling about the way he was moved. It didn’t feel like he was teleporting somewhere, but like he fell through the fabric of the world.

That’s stupid, right?

Yuuji’s trying to make his body cooperate when he hears it—a high, insistent noise, close but muffled. And Yuuji’s seen enough movies to recognize the sound of someone trying to yell through a gag.

There’s someone here, someone hurt.

That gives him the spark needed to force his leaden limbs to move. Palms flat on the floor, one leg bent. His joints take his weight without protesting. Nothing hurts, but there’s a strange numbness everywhere. The more Yuuji moves, the more it retreats, like his body’s coming alive piece by piece.

He pushes himself up on all fours, looking in the direction of the voice—

“Gojou…sensei?”

That guy—Mechamaru—said Gojou’s been sealed.

Yuuji was imagining…well, he didn’t really get time to imagine much, but he realizes now that he had an image of something eerie and ancient, like that dimly lit, seal-papered room he woke up in after he swallowing the first finger. Something like a movie except distressingly real, like most things in this world are.

This isn’t that. This is—

Gojou’s gagged, sure, but it’s a bright red ball secured to his face with black straps. He’s on a bed. A large, plush bed with gleaming black sheets that seem to make Gojou’s pale skin glow.

And there’s a lot of skin showing. All of it. Gojou’s naked.

He’s lying in a really weird position, arms stretched behind him and his chin propped on the mattress, but Yuuji can still see his bare shoulders and back. He can see the bare ass sticking up in the air. Gojou’s very, very naked.

On a bed, gagged and bound. Not sealed in a station.

Yuuji blinks, hard enough that his vision’s blurred when he opens his eyes.

Nothing’s changed.

“Gojou-sensei?” Yuuji calls weakly.

There’s a sudden, loud silence, and Yuuji abruptly realizes that Gojou was making muffled noises this entire time, his jaw working uselessly around that thick gag. The dark straps seem to be digging into his skin, stretching from the corners of his mouth to the back of his neck. It doesn’t look comfortable. The way Gojou’s lying, his chin and shoulders supporting the bulk of his weight, doesn’t seem comfortable either.

And the bright blue eyes boring into Yuuji are even louder than the noises Gojou was making.

Right. Yuuji needs to—

He staggers to his feet. The numbness is all gone now, but Yuuji still stumbles when he walks, a whole other kind of shock weakening his limbs. He still makes it to the bed in a matter of seconds, scanning the rest of his surroundings in that short time. It’s half deliberate, training and habit kicking in, but it’s half desperate too; Yuuji can’t bring himself to look at Gojou and his exposed…everything.

It’s not good, right? A person trapped like this, kept like this. It’s not good.

Yuuji just can’t reconcile that logic to the fact that this is Gojou.

But he can’t keep looking away once he’s near the bed.

Gojou’s still in the same position, now looking up at Yuuji. His face looks sharper like this, cuttingly angular. His eyes are somehow brighter, seeming to glow under snow-pale lashes. For a moment, Yuuji just stares, his vision filling up with the blue of those eyes and the white of those lashes.

Gojou makes another noise, snapping Yuuji out of it. He jolts in place, dropping to his knees so he’s at level with Gojou’s face.

“I’ll help you, sensei,” Yuuji tells him, surprised and relieved when his voice comes out even. “Let me just…”

He has to touch Gojou, no way around it, and Yuuji’s done that plenty, but not in a situation like this. But he steels himself and reaches out, wincing at how his arms tremble. He tries not to touch Gojou’s skin as he fumbles with the gag’s buckle. It’s nothing complicated, just like a belt buckle, but Yuuji keeps fumbling, and it’s not until he delicately extracts the prong, still careful not to let the insides of his arms brush Gojou’s face, that he realizes he could’ve just snapped the thing.

And then the gag’s loose, the straps falling away from the sides of Gojou’s face.

Gojou spits the gag out.

“What,” he rasps, “the fuck happened to you?”

The swearing catches Yuuji off guard. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard Gojou swear; he even chided Yuuji a few times for it, except it always sounded like a joke, as if Gojou was just playing the part of the teacher.

Then everything else hits—the voice, the face.

Gojou looks eerily young with his face bared. Yuuji knows that. He even said it once, mouth moving before his mind could catch up with it, but Gojou just preened like a peacock, tossing his hair and crowing something about not even needing a skincare routine.

He looks young, but young the way some adults do.

This guy looks like he’s Yuuji’s age.

It’s a good thing he’s already on his knees or he’d have collapsed.

“What happened to you?” Yuuji echoes in pure confusion. “Sensei, you’ve…shrunk.”

“Did you hit your head or something?” Gojou retorts. “Sensei, you’ve shrunk.”

“Eh?”

Gojou grunts, straightening up in a heaving motion. There’s a ripple of muscle.

Yuuji doesn’t look away in time.

There aren’t any more straps on Gojou, though Yuuji got a clear look at his arms earlier and saw they were bound at his back with a pair of black handcuffs—not the steel kind the police use but comfortable-looking things, sleek and padded. His chest is bare, just a little flushed. It’s also smaller.

Yuuji’s seen Gojou shirtless a few times in the aftermath of sparring matches. He didn’t need to strip off torn, bloody clothes the way Yuuji often did after a spar or a mission, but he’d work up a sweat sometimes, engaging Yuuji until he was an exhausted puddle on the ground. Even then, Gojou wouldn’t have more than a thin sheen of sweat on him, and all the times he even bothered stripping, it was to take a dip in the large river that ran beside one of their usual sparring spots.

Yuuji stopped finding everything about Gojou unfair after the first week, but he still couldn’t help staring when Gojou stripped. There was just so much of him, more than his uniform showed. A broad chest with swollen pecs, biceps nearly the size of Yuuji’s head, a tapered waist taut with muscle, hipbones you could cut yourself on—just a lot.

This Gojou doesn’t have that bulk. He’s still muscled, complete with a six-pack, but there’s so much less of him all over.

But that isn’t what’s fucking with Yuuji. Gojou’s naked. His thighs are fully exposed—the space between them too. And instead of a cock, there’s a steel contraption that makes Yuuji’s balls shrivel to look at.

Rings, Yuuji registers after a long moment of mindless staring. Those are metal rings around Gojou’s soft cock, with thin bars caging even the head. A larger circle is wound around it and his balls both.

There’s a lock.

Yuuji stares at that for a long moment, caught off guard by how innocuous it looks. He’s seen locks like that a hundred times, on suitcases and even that one diary his grandfather kept, the key lost but the lock left untouched in Yuuji’s room at the dorms. It feels strange to see it flush to a plump pink cock. But he can’t not look at the rest of the spectacle, squirming in place as he takes in the metal circles one by one.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” he blurts out.

“Yeah,” Gojou says, and Yuuji thinks it’s an answer to his question until he adds, “you’re definitely not my Yuuji. But you’re still a goddamn pervert, so I guess you are Yuuji.”

#goyuu #jjk snippets #jujutsu kaisen #jjk #wip wednesday #my fic #fic: how the story changes #divider credit: saradika-graphics

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