wc: ~10k (whoopsies) | cw: smut! cowboy gojo! mentions of murder, corruption kink, loss of virginity, praising, choking, oral sex (male and female receiving), cum swallowing, unprotected sex.
summary: the most wanted outlaw in town sets his eyes on the sheriff's innocent daughter.
author’s note: i literally may just write au gojo smut forever :’) also sorry for the different spacing format but i had to in order to fit everything! ( art by @404-mort )!
YOU PUSH OPEN the jailhouse door with the ledger tucked against your chest, expecting nothing more than a hot room and your father's raised voice.
Instead, the entire place falls silent.
Cards stop being shuffled. Chairs stop creaking. Someone coughs and chokes on it. The pen a deputy was using hits the desk and rolls off onto the floor.
Every pair of eyes swing toward you—the sheriff's daughter; young, pretty, innocent.
You can feel the weight of their stares. Not crude, not leering—but startled, softened, like a breeze just drifted in from somewhere kinder than this dusty, violent town.
"Afternoon, miss," One deputy says, standing a little straighter.
Another removes his hat awkwardly, cheeks reddening.
A third smooths his shirt as if it'll make a difference.
You blink, caught off guard by the collective shift. You're used to being recognized; Dry Creek isn't big, but you're not used to being stared at like you're something sacred in a place full of sinners.
Your father appears in the office doorway, scowl deepening the second he sees how the men are looking at you.
"That's enough," He snaps at them, "Back to work. Now."
They scatter instantly. You step forward, offering him the ledger, "Pa, you forgot this."
He softens, only for you, and reaches for it—up until a sound floats from the back cells.
A low whisper. Slow. Deliberate.
"Well...ain't this a sight."
Your father's body goes rigid. His hand drops the ledger entirely, hitting the floor with a dull thud. You flinch.
"Gojo," He growls, voice already shaking at the edges.
You don't know why the name feels familiar until you turn and look.
That's when everything clicks.
He sits behind the bars like the jail was built around him.
Satoru Gojo. A wanted outlaw.
His hat—weathered and dark brimmed is tipped lazily back on his head, shadowing his eyes just enough to make him look more dangerous.
The shape of it, battered and worn from long rides and even longer gunfights, fits him like it was molded to the curve of his skull.
It makes him look taller. Sharper.
He's all sleek lines and lethal ease; lean frame draped in a dusty coat, boots crossed, wrists bound tight but held like he chose the restraints.
The weak light catches the silver-white of his hair where it escapes from beneath the hat, brushing his forehead in unruly, defiant strands.
Bruises darken his jaw. A scar cuts along his forearm, another his cheekbone.
He should look beaten, but he doesn't.
He looks amused. Interested. Hungry.
And when his eyes find you under the brim of that hat, pale storm blue, wicked and watchful, it's like the world tilts.
You hear your father inhale sharply. The deputies in the room shift uneasily.
There are stories about this man. Stories your father tried to keep you from hearing.
Stories about shootouts, bodies, train robberies, impossible escapes. Stories that make grown men lower their voices.
And you finally understand why people fear him.
Because sitting there, relaxed, hat tipped back, smiling—Satoru Gojo looks like the kind of man who could burn down the whole world and laugh while doing it.
"Sheriff," He calls, gaze sliding over your father's shoulder to you again, "You didn't tell me your town kept angels in stock."
Several deputies exchange looks, your father steps in front of you like he's shielding you from a rattler.
"You look at her again," He warns quietly, "And I swear to God, Gojo...I'll kill you where you sit."
Gojo's smile widens, slow as sin, "Oh, I'm lookin' alright."
Your father lunges forward so fast the metal bars rattle, "You think this is funny? You think I won't plant you in the dirt myself? Try me."
Gojo tilts his head, the brim of his hat dipping just enough to cast his face in shadow, and his eyes never leave you.
"Nah," He murmurs, "I think the funny part is that you brought her here—like a gift."
You feel heat rush across your face; the deputies tense instantly, knowing exactly how dangerous those words are.
Your father nearly loses it, "You keep talkin' like that," He snarls, "And I'll drag you out back and—"
"Pa," You whisper, grabbing his sleeve.
The touch snaps him out of it, barely.
He doesn't look at you, he doesn't dare take his eyes off Gojo.
"Set the book down," He orders tightly, "And go home. Now."
You start to move, but you feel it—a prickle on the back of your neck.
You look once more, against your better judgment.
Gojo's already leaning forward, elbows on his knees, shackles clinking softly and the brim of his hat casts his grin in a dangerous, shadowed curve.
His gaze rakes over you slowly, too slowly, the corners crinkling with wicked delight.
"Sweetheart," He drawls, voice dropping into something dark, intimate, and wrong, "Least give me your name..."
Your heart thuds painfully, "...so I know what to moan while I'm dreamin' tonight."
The deputies gasp. Your father erupts, "That's it!" He roars, reaching for the keys, "You're dead, you hear me? Dead!"
You yank him back with both hands, voice breaking, "Pa, don't!"
He stops, only because he's afraid he might accidentally hurt you while reaching for the outlaw.
Gojo just laughs thrilled and wicked under the shadows of his hat, "You just saved my life, angel."
You flee the building before anyone can say another word.
But even in the glaring sunlight, even halfway down the dusty street, you can still feel his stare. Still hear his voice.
Still feel the way the entire jailhouse stopped when you walked in—including the man who shouldn't have noticed you at all.
And somehow, that's what both frightens and excites you most.
You don't go anywhere near the jailhouse for rest of the day. But you hear the shouting. Everyone in Dry Creek does.
It starts mid-afternoon, your father's voice echoing down the street, spilling out of the open windows like rising steam.
"...get him out of my town!"
"...sick of this damn outlaw walkin' in and out like it's a saloon!"
"...and you. Geto—you're no better!"
The name catches your attention just as you step onto your porch.
Suguru Geto. You've heard of him, too.
Another notorious member of Gojo's gang. Less reckless, more composed; dangerous in a quieter, colder way.
Curiosity pricks at you. You lean just far enough to see down the street.
Geto stands outside the jailhouse, silent as a shadow, arms crossed over his chest. His dark coat flutters in the hot breeze, long hair tied back neatly.
He looks like the kind of man who sees everything and says nothing unless he must.
Your father storms out, shoving a stack of paperwork into Geto's chest, "Take your damn friend," He snarls, "And don't bring him back."
Geto glances over at the papers as if they bore no urgency at all. Then he looks up, calm and polite, "No promises, sheriff."
Before he can say anything else, Gojo strolls out behind Geto—hat tipped low, coat slung over one shoulder, wrists freshly unbound.
He whistles as he walks, blue eyes bright even in the blistering heat, "Well," He says, breathing in the afternoon air, "That was refreshin'."
Your father nearly explodes.
Geto grab's Gojo's arm, voice low, "Walk. Now."
But Gojo steps out of the hold with lazy ease, "Don't rush me. I'm takin' in the sights."
His gaze sweeps over the dusty street. Then finds you.
You're half-hidden behind a porch beam, laundry basket pressed against your ribs, breath catching the moment his eyes meet yours.
His smile curves, slow, knowing He tips two fingers off the brim of his hat in a smooth, teasing gesture for one person only.
Your pulse stumbles. Your father swivels like a man hit with a hammer, but you've already ducked inside, heart thumping in your chest.
After that, he's gone for two days.
Two days where you tell yourself it's good he's not around.
Good for the town. Good for your father. Good for you.
But you still check the jailhouse windows when you pass. You still listen for his voice in the noise of the saloon as you walk past.
You still catch yourself glancing at the dirt road leading out of town, looking for a white-haired silhouette that has no business being this close to your thoughts.
On the third morning, just as the sun finishes climbing over the ridge, you hear laughter spill out of the saloon—rough, startled laughter, like something unbelievable just happened.
Two deputies burst out onto the sand in a rush, "He let us catch him!" One says, hands thrown up.
"Caught him? Where?" The bartender calls from the doorway.
"In the middle of the damn road!"
"Standin' there! Hat tipped, waitin' like he had somewhere to be!"
The bartender whistles low. You stop walking. Your heartbeat stutters painfully, a tremor you try to hide with a steady breath.
They haul Gojo in half an hour later, and you hear the commotion long before you see it; clanking chains, deputies swearing under their breath, your father muttering prayers that are really just curses rearranged.
You shouldn't go in. You know that.
But your father forgot his lunch again and letting it sit on the counter feels worse than walking into that cell block knowing who's waiting for you.
When you step inside, the room changes the same way it always does—deputies scramble straight backed, someone tugs off his hat, someone else clears his throat like he just got caught lying.
"Don't tell me I imagined it," Gojo's voice is warm, lazy honey, "That's her walkin' in, ain't it?"
You stop dead. He's behind the bars again: hat low, shirt half-open, ropes tighter this time, dust clinging to his hair, and somehow he looks comfortable.
Settled, like he belongs exactly where he is.
Your father storms out, face scowling, voice shaking, “You think this a game, huh? You think this some joke?"
Gojo doesn't move, "A joke?" He repeats softly, eyes fixated on you the entire time, "Sheriff, it's the highlight of my week."
Heat crawls up your neck. Your father slams the cell door so violently the walls shake, "Geto'll fetch you. And then you both get the hell out of my town."
Gojo's lips curve, "Wouldn't be here if I didn't like the company."
Your face warms in a way that terrifies you.
Your father growls your name.
You flee before either man can see anything written on your face.
The sun has barely dipped when you hear footsteps outside—steady, unhurried.
He strides down the street quietly, the way storms roll in without sound.
Your father meets him at the porch, looking as though he aged five years in three days, "Why does he keep coming back?"
Geto doesn't blink. Doesn't look away, "You'd have to ask him."
"And I will," Your father snarls, "After I kill him."
Geto's mouth twitches—amusement or pity, you can't tell, "You won't."
Before your father can respond, Gojo steps out of the jailhouse behind him, stretching out sore muscles.
"You're so dramatic," He says to Geto, rolling his shoulders, "I wasn't even here a full day this time."
Geto gives him a withering look, "You shouldn't have been here at all."
Gojo shrugs, "Couldn't help myself."
Then his head lifts. His eyes drift lazily down the porch line. And find you. Again.
Light slides across his face, catching on bruises, on sweat, on the shadow of his crooked smile beneath the brim of his hat.
"Evenin', angel," He calls, voice warmer than the sun behind him.
You freeze in the doorway. Geto follows his line of sight and goes still—then exhales a slow, resigned breath.
"Oh," He says quietly, "Her."
Gojo doesn't even pretend otherwise.
And by his third arrest, you've developed a sense of for it.
A feeling in your chest before you hear a thing. A prickling heat behind your ribs. Like the desert's holding its breath.
When you hear the deputies shouting halfway down the street, you already know.
"I can walk myself," Gojo notes, voice as casual as a man discussing the weather, "Ain't like you boys could stop me if I didn't want to be here."
Chains clatter. Boots scrape. Someone groans.
You turn your head instinctively.
And sure enough, they're dragging him past the general store, dust coating his shoulders, shirt ripped at the collar, wrists bound so tight the rope digs into red skin.
He looks awful. He looks thrilled. But the moment his gaze sweeps and lands on you—he brightens like a sunrise.
"There you are," He says, breathless, but delighted.
A deputy scoffs, "Eyes forward, you bastard!"
Gojo smirks, leaning into the shove toward the jailhouse, "Can't help it if the lady's easy on the eyes."
Your heart jolts. Your father appears in the doorway of the jail, fury simmering in every line of his body, "Get him inside before I do something we'll regret."
Gojo tips his hat your way as he passes, "Don't worry now," He says, grin sharp as a blade, "I'll be back out in time for supper."
The words hit harder than they should.
You turn away before your father sees the way your breath hitches.
Later that evening, you're closing up the porch that evening when you hear low voices drifting up the street.
"...you're going to get yourself killed," Geto mutters.
Gojo's reply is a soft hum, "Not today."
"Why are you doing this?"
A pause, "You saw her," Geto says, not unkindly, "Didn't you?"
Another pause. A long one. Then Gojo's voice, quieter than you've heard it, "Yeah."
Your heartbeat kicks hard. Their footsteps slow.
You look up just as they pass under lamplight—Geto tall and shadowed, Gojo beside him, hat tipped back, bruises softened by the dusk.
Geto notices you first. His expression shifts—understanding flickering across his features.
Gojo notices a second later, and his lips curve into a smile that steals the breath straight from your lungs.
He tilts his hat, "Angel."
You slip inside before your father sees you lingering, pulse unsteady.
But the truth is already in your bones.
He keeps coming back. Again and again. And you're starting to understand exactly why.
The fourth time Gojo finds himself being jailed, you feel it before you hear anything.
A disturbance in the rhythm of Dry Creek—the murmurs rising, the uneven thud of boots on packed dirt, the tense hum that always settles over the town whenever he's near.
It's late afternoon when you reach the jailhouse with a stack of your father's records. The sun hangs low and golden, spilling long shadows across the street.
You pause outside the door, debating whether you should even go in. But duty is duty, and your father will forget these papers forever if you don't place them directly in his hands.
You push open the door. The room snaps to attention instantly.
Deputies stop talking, straighten, look anywhere but you—a silent chorus of nervous guilt. As if your presence places them in the middle of something they don't want to be part of.
You hear chains shift in the back cell. Slow. Purposeful.
"Well," Gojo murmurs, voice slipping through the room like smoke from a match strike, "Now it's a good day."
You don't turn right away. It feels dangerous to.
Your father's office door slams open, "Not you again," He snaps, marching out.
Gojo doesn't rise to the bait. He doesn't even look at your father. He's watching you.
Hat low, shoulders relaxed, bruises blooming along his cheekbone, but eyes bright—too bright, under the brim. There's a quiet intensity to him today, something simmering beneath the lazy smirk.
"I swear," Your father mutters, "If you breathe one more breath in my daughter's direction, I will—"
"Sheriff," A deputy calls from outside, voice strained, urgent, "We got a situation with the Kamo brothers—"
"Handle it," Your father snaps without looking.
"We can't. They're demanding you."
Your father curses, torn in two directions—rage clawing to keep him here, duty dragging him out the door.
For a moment, he looks between you and the outlaw, jaw clenched, breath harsh, trying to decide which threat matters more.
"Don't talk to him," He tells you, "Don't even stand near him," And then, he rushes outside, slamming the door behind him.
The jailhouse swallows the sound whole. The deputies follow after him, scrambling, leaving the room abruptly—like they suddenly realized they don't want to be witnesses to whatever this is.
Within seconds, the building settles into an eerie, quiet stillness.
You grip your father's papers too tightly.
Gojo sits there, elbows resting on his knees, hat tipped back a fraction—just enough to see the small cut on his lip, the rise of his chest with each slow breath.
He looks at you not with amusement. Not with mischief. Something else.
Something deeper. Heavier.
He breaks the silence first, "Knew you'd come," He says, like he's been holding the words on his tongue all day, "I could feel it."
You huff, the sound small in the empty room, "You didn't know anything," You murmur, moving toward your father's desk, "I'm only here because he forgot these."
"Mm," He hums, "He forgets a lot more, now that I think about it. Convenient, ain't it?"
You set the papers down with a little more force than necessary, "My pa told me not to talk to you," You say, fingers smoothing the edges of a page, "Said I shouldn't even look at you."
Gojo's grin is slow, dangerous, "And yet," He drawls, "Here you are. Talkin'. Lookin'."
You swallow, "I'm just doin' my job."
He clicks his tongue softly, "Sweetheart, your job don't require you to answer me. But you did anyway."
You hate that he's right. You hate even more that it makes something flutter in your chest.
"You're the one who keeps gettin' arrested," You say, lifting your chin, finally meeting his gaze, "If you don't want me around, you could stop comin' back."
His eyes darken, heat flickering there like a struck match, "Oh, I want you around," He says, no hesitation at all, "That's the problem."
Your breath stutters and he leans forward, chains giving the smallest protest—the brim of his hat shadowing his gaze but not hiding the way it roams over you like he's memorizing every inch.
"Your daddy ain't wrong, though," He goes on, voice low, almost conversational, "I am exactly the kind of man you shouldn't talk to. Shouldn't look at. Shouldn't even think about."
A corner of his mouth lifts, "So tell me, angel...why you doin' all three?"
You feel your face go hot and lie through your teeth, "I don't think about you."
He laughs, soft and pleased, "Say that again. Maybe this time I'll believe you."
You take a shaky breath, "What do you want from me?"
He tilts his head, hat shadowing his eyes just enough to make him look more intimidating, "Want?" He echoes, "Sweetheart, I want—"
The door slams open so hard the hinge screech. Your father storms back in, face flushed, breathing hard.
"What did I tell you, (Y/N)?" He snaps, grabbing your arm and yanking you away from the cell, "I leave for five minutes and you're standin' here talkin' to him?"
Gojo leans back casually, but his eyes stay locked onto you, hunger filtering beneath the wicked grin, "Evenin', sheriff. We were just gettin' acquainted."
Your father nearly reaches for his gun, "Shut your damn mouth before I—"
"Don't, Pa!" You choke out.
Instead, he drags you towards the door, furious, muttering under his breath.
Behind you, Gojo calls lightly, "See you soon, angel."
And you know he means it.
By the time his fifth arrest happens, Dry Creek has learned to read the signs.
It starts with the horses shifting uneasily in the hitching posts. Then the deputies muttering as they spill out onto the boardwalk. Then your father's voice carrying through the open winds like distant thunder.
"I swear on every damn saint—get him in the cell!"
You don't intend to walk toward the noise. You don't intend to look. But your feet take you anyway.
The afternoon sun is sinking low, heat thick and shimmering on the street. Sheriff office, saloon doors, storefronts—all blurred by the dust kicked up in the chaos.
You round the corner just as two deputies drag Gojo inside.
He's a mess. Hat askew. Shirt half-open, sleeve torn at the seam. Bruises spackled across his ribs like spilled ink. A smear of dried blood at his temple.
But he's grinning. Of course he is.
He looks over his shoulder right as they shove him through the doorway—like he felt you before he saw you.
And when his eyes find you standing on the boardwalk, hands nervously knotted in your skirt; his grin softens into something devastating.
You stiffen. A deputy sighs, "Quit flirtin'!"
Inside, the jailhouse hums with the tension of men who know something terrible and ridiculous is happening at the same time.
Your father is livid—pacing the room, fingers pressed hard to his temples.
He spins when you enter, fury flickering into shock, "I told you to stay home today!"
"I—Pa, you forgot your key ring, so I—"
"You shouldn't be anywhere near this jail!"
You shrink under his tone, pulse beating in your throat. You know he's right. You shouldn't be here.
But Gojo laughs from the cell, satisfied, "She's here anyway, sheriff."
Your father slams the cell shut, "Shut the hell up you piece of shit!"
But Gojo only leans back against the wall, eyes still on you. Your father's rage keeps rising, "I swear, if Geto walks through that door again—"
"He will," Gojo says, almost gently, "He always does."
Your father grabs the bars so hard you thought they'd snap, "I don't know why he wastes his time with you."
Gojo tilts his head just lightly with the smallest smile—like he's choosing words with care, "Maybe he knows I got business in this town."
Your father bristles, "You have no business here."
Gojo chuckles under his breath, "Wouldn't say that."
Your father turns away, muttering curses, ordering deputies around, barking instructions that sound more panicked than controlled.
No one notices you take one step closer to the cell. Then another.
A slow, wolfish smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, "Y'know...I didn't ask you to come closer."
His voice is quiet—too quiet for a man like him, low enough that the words settle right under your skin.
The deputies keep arguing with your father, shuffling papers, swearing under their breath, but none of them realize what you're doing.
"But you did anyway," He continues, tipping his head slightly, brim of his hat casting a sharper shadow over those pale, wicked eyes, "Like somethin' in you couldn't help it."
Your breath stirs in your chest—too fast, too thin.
You should step back. You don't.
His gaze flicks down, tracking the distance you closed with a hunger that feels almost physical. When his eyes return to yours, they're darker. Focused. Intent.
"Careful, angel," He murmurs, voice slow as a match dragging across a strip of flint, "You keep walkin' toward a man like me..."
He leans in, elbows on his knees, chains whispering tight with the motion, "...and I'm liable to think you want somethin' from me."
The words hang there—heavy, intimate, wrong in a way that makes the floor feel unsteady beneath you.
And you don't even realize how close you've gotten until his fingers—bound and bruised, lift ever so slightly, like he's measuring the space between you
Close enough he could almost touch you. But not quite close enough that he can.
His voice dips, softer now, thoughtful, "Look at that," He says, eyes tracing the inches between his hand and your hip, "Couple more steps and I wouldn't even need these bars between us."
Heat rushes to your throat, your hands tightening around the keys without meaning to, "I'm not here wantin' anything from you."
His smile is instant—sharp, disbelieving, "No? Then what're you doin' standin' close enough that I can hear your heart racin'?"
"I—I'm just giving my father his keys."
He huffs a low laugh, "Sweetheart...you could've dropped those on the desk and walked right back out the door."
Your jaw sets, even as something inside you spirals tighter, "You don't know me."
"Mm," He hums, leaning in just enough that the chains creak again, "I know when a girl keeps comin' closer on her own."
His gaze lifts to yours, slow, deliberate, "And I know when she's lyin' to herself about why."
You freeze in your tracks. And before you can even respond, maybe step back, or step closer—the door creaks open behind you.
Your father stops dead when he sees how close you are to the bars. His face goes red—not the wild kind, but the tight, controlled kind. The kind that comes from fear disguised as fury.
"What—" He says, voice low and brittle, "—Did I just walk in on?"
You jump back a step, "Pa, I was only—"
"Only what?" He snaps, stepping in front of you like a shield, "Standin' close enough he could spit on you?" Close enough he could grab you if he weren't tied up?"
Gojo lets out a soft, delighted sound, "Sheriff, if I wanted her—"
"Shut your mouth," Your father's voice cracks like a whip, but his hands stay tight at his sides. Barely restrained, "You talk to her one more time and—"
The door swings open once more. Quiet. Purposeful. Like a knife sliding out of its sheath.
Suguru Geto steps inside.
His presence cuts straight through the tension—too calm for a man like him. His eyes sweep the room once, and in that moment you know he's understood everything.
The closeness. The tone. The danger.
He releases a slow, unimpressed breath, "Let me guess...he started runinn' his mouth again?"
Your father glares at him, "Get your damn friend and get him out of my jail, now."
Geto nods faintly, "Was plannin' on it."
Gojo tilts his head back, smirk widening, "You're late."
"I had to lose the men you stumbled into on that ridge," He says coolly, "You're welcome, by the way."
The cell door swings open, and Gojo rises with lazy ease, rolling his shoulders, hat tipping forward just enough to look at you beneath the brim.
"I'll be hopin' to chat with you some more another time, angel."
Your father nearly vibrates with anger, but Geto is already dragging him out by the collar of his shirt, "Walk. Before you make this worse."
But Gojo doesn't even look at him.
He looks at you. Only you.
The reason he keeps coming back at all.
By nightfall, the story of the outlaw Satoru Gojo's fifth arrest has already turned itself into something like a joke.
You hear it in snatches as you move through town—men laughing too loud, cards slapping against tables, the same lines repeated with growing exaggeration.
You tell yourself you're not thinking about him when you duck under the swinging saloon doors later that night.
You have reason to be here. A respectable one. Your father's ledger is clutched under your arm—old debts from the owner, few notes he asked you to collect because he was "too damn busy" to do it himself.
When you step inside, you're immediately swallowed by smoke and sound.
The piano in the corner plays something low and easy. Men crowd around tables, cards and coins scattered, voice overlapping.
Glasses clink. Laughter rises and breaks like waves. The air smells like whiskey, sweat, and the faint sweetness of cigar smoke.
A few heads turn when they see you—the sheriff's daughter. Conversations hitch mid sentence. The bartender straightens. A man at the nearest table stands halfway before thinking better of it.
You're used to attention in the quiet daylight of Dry Creek.
You are not used to being the only clean, bright thing in a place like this.
You keep your eyes forward, spine straight, heartbeat steady, and make your way toward the bar.
"Evenin', miss," The bartenders offers, suddenly very polite, "Wasn't expectin' to see you here."
You set the ledger down between you, "My pa said you were behind again."
He winces, wipes his hands on a rag, "He would say that."
He reaches for the book, flipping through pages, muttering under his breath as he looks for his name.
You're focused on the ink, the columns, the neatness of your father's handwriting—that familiar, safe order, right up until of a prickle crawls up the back of your neck.
"There she is..." A quiet, warm drawl slips behind you—soft enough to be secret, certain enough to be unmistakable, "...my angel."
Your hand tightens around the edge of the ledger as you turn.
He's leaned one elbow against the far end of the bar, body angled your way like he's been standing there waiting for you to catch the fact he's in the room.
Hat tipped, shirt open a button too far, bandage stark against his ribs where the sleeves gapes. Bruises have turned darker along his jaw, but somehow they only frame the curve of his mouth when he smiles.
Satoru Gojo. Not behind bars now.
Loose. At ease. Dangerous in a different way.
Suguru Geto stands beside him, glass in hand, posture relaxed but eyes alert. He looks between you and Gojo once, and that's all it takes for him to understand how this is going to go.
"Should've known," He mutters into his drink, "This is where you'd try your luck next."
Gojo doesn't look at him. His attention is fixed on you.
"Didn't think you'd step foot in a place like this, angel. Your daddy know you're slummin' it with the rest of us?"
You lift your chin, fingers smoothing the ledger's worn spine, "He knows. But he'd have a fit if he knew I was talkin' to you again."
He smiles like you've just given him a gift, "Again, huh? That makes it sound like you were missin' me."
Your pulse kicks once, too hard, "I'm here on business. That's all."
He hums, amused, "Funny. Thought I was your business lately."
He pushes off the bar, and takes a single step closer—not enough to crowd you, just enough that the lamplight hits his eyes under his hat, bright and sharp.
"My pa would drag you back to that cell himself if he saw this," You mutter, mostly your yourself.
"Sweetheart," He says, low, pleased, "He's been draggin' me back there anyway. Might as well enjoy the view while I'm earnin' it."
Geto sets his glass down with a soft clink, "You're scarin' the poor girl."
"Am I?" Gojo asks, but he doesn't look away from you, "You scared, angel?"
Your heart is racing, but you shake your head, "No."
"Good. Be a shame if you were."
The bartender clears his throat nervously, holding out a few folded bills toward you, "Sheriff's cut. Got it all squared."
You take the money, tuck it into the ledger, and should leave.
But you don't. Gojo notices.
"Tell you what," He drawls, reaching back to snag an extra glass from the bar without looking, "Seems rude I haven't officially welcomed you to my favorite establishment in town."
"This isn't your establishment," You murmur.
He pours whiskey into the glass anyway, "Feels like it is," He says, "I spend enough time feedin' their gossip."
He nudges the drink across the counter toward you, slow enough that you could step away, but you don't.
"I don't drink," You tell him, even as your fingers brush the rim.
"I know," His gaze drops to your mouth—slow and hungry enough to make your breath catch, "That's 'cause no one's ever handed you the right thing to wrap those lips around."
Heat explodes up your neck. You choke—quiet, sharp, your breath hitching.
He smiles like he felt that stutter inside you, "Relax, sweetheart," He murmurs, voice a velvet drag, "I'm just talkin' whiskey."
There's a brief pause in his words, "...For now."
Your pulse leaps painfully. The heat in your chest is different now—thicker, tighter, tinged with something darker.
You know you shouldn't listen to a thing he says. Every fiber of your being says not to, but for some reason you can't walk away.
Instead, you lift the glass—barely, hesitantly, and his eyes darken with greedy satisfaction.
You bring it to your mouth, "One," You whisper, "Only one."
He smirks like you just agreed to far more than a sip, "One's all I need."
The whiskey touches your tongue and you nearly choke—not from taste, but from the way his eyes drop to your mouth; ravenous, slow, tracing the way your lips part around the brim.
You cough softly, heat climbing up your throat.
"Easy," He says, voice dipping low enough to crawl down your spine, "Didn't say you had to impress me."
"I wasn't—" Your voice breaks.
His smile widens, wicked and knowing, "Sweetheart...that little sound you made?" His gaze flicks to your lips again, "That impressed me just fine."
Your face burns. Your hand trembles around the glass.
Geto shifts beside him, clearing his throat—politely pretending he didn't hear what everyone with ears definitely heard.
But Gojo doesn't look away.
Not when your gaze flickers. Not when you swallow. Not when your thighs press together just slightly, subconsciously.
"Go on then," He murmurs, voice deepening, "Try that again."
Your breath snags, "Try what?"
He leans in—not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the pull of him, "Say you don't want me."
Your lungs stop working. The room, the music, the voices—all of it fades into something distant and far away.
He waits—smiling, certain, as if he already knows you can't.
Your lips part but nothing comes out, "Thought so," And the satisfaction in his tone makes your knees threaten to give.
"You keep lookin' at me like that, angel...and folks are gonna start wonderin' which side of town you belong to."
Your breath stutters—not because of what he said, but because of how he said it.
Low. Possessive. Like he's already claimed the answer.
"And which side is that?"
He doesn't hesitate, "Mine."
The word lands like a hand circling your waist—steady, deliberate, unshakable.
Heat spirals through you so fast you have to set the glass down before you drop it. He notices. Of course he notices.
"Maybe they'll just think I'm foolish," You murmur, "Talkin' to a man my pa keeps throwin' in a cell."
Gojo's smile twitches—sharper, more dangerous, "Your daddy throws me in a cell," He says quietly, "Because I let him. And you know I do."
His gaze wanders down your throat and back up again, "You think I can't outrun a few deputy boys who trip over their own boots?" His voice dips, rough with amusement, "Sweetheart...I ride circles around men twice as fast."
You shouldn't like hearing that. But you do.
He lowers his voice even more, "I walk into that jail 'cause I know you'll be close. Somewhere near enough to feel me lookin'."
The air leaves your lungs, "And every damn time," He mutters, eyes locked onto yours, "You prove me right."
"And why..." You whisper, warm all over, "...why does it have to be me?"
He grins—slow, sinful, unbearably sure, "You know why."
Before you can respond, the saloon doors creak.
Your father's voice cuts through the moment like a razor.
"Next round's on me—if the night's gonna be this long, I'm at least gonna drink through the end of it."
He strolls in with two deputies, shoulders tight, eyes scanning the room on instinct. The bartender straightens. A few men lift their glasses.
You move instantly—pull the ledger closer, body angled, pretending you're just here on business.
Gojo doesn't tense. He just smiles.
"Well," He says to you and Geto alone, "This complicates things."
Geto exhales, annoyance laced within his tone, "Told you this was a bad idea."
"When have I ever listened to that sentence?" Gojo asks, still watching you instead of the sheriff.
Your father hasn't spotted you yet. He leans on the far end of the bar, orders a drink, mumbles something about the Kamo brothers.
Gojo's attention flicks to Geto, mischief sparking, "Suguru," He says pleasantly, "Do me a favor."
Gojo raises a brow, "You haven't heard it yet."
"I don't need to," He replies, "You just haven't said it out loud."
Gojo tips his head toward the swinging doors, where a few rough men linger—the kind who'd start trouble just for the thrill, "Think those Kamo boys might be lookin' for round two."
Geto stares, stunned, exasperated, "You want a distraction."
"You're going to get shot one day."
"Probably," Gojo agrees lightly, "But not today."
Your father laughs at something the bartender says, still blissfully unaware.
Geto looks at you for one long moment—sees your stiff shoulders, your fingers brushing your empty glass, then sighs, "You owe me, Satoru."
He downs his drink, sets the glass aside, and strolls toward the doors like a man about to ruin everyone's night.
A heartbeat later—shouting erupts outside.
Metal clatters. Someone curses. A scuffle breaks out.
The deputies rush toward the noise.
Your father stands, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, "If those Kamo bastards think they're about to start somethin' twice in one damn day—"
He storms out, deputies following.
The saloon quiets. A low hum, a twitch of piano keys, murmured chatter—but no one looks at you.
Gojo does. He turns back, smile slow and triumphant, eyes gleaming, "Now," Voice fond and wicked, "Where were we?"
Your blood is still humming when he says it. Too warm. Too loud. Too tangled.
And he takes one step toward you, "We were..." Your voice falters.
He waits. You swallow hard, "...finishin' a conversation."
His smile curves, "That so?" He drawls, "'Cause from where I'm standin', sweetheart...we were startin' one."
His knuckles brush the bar. Not you—but close enough you feel the heat rolling off him. Close enough your knees threaten to give.
"You know," He coos, gaze dropping to your mouth again, "You didn't even try to walk away."
He huffs out a quiet, prideful sound, "No," Stepping closer again—just an inch, but it feels like a mile, "You couldn't."
Your back hits the bar. You hadn't noticed you were moving. He had.
"Y'know what I think?" His voice lowers, sinks into something sinful, "I think you came in here wonderin' what I'd do if I got you alone."
Your stomach flips, "That's not—"
"It is," He interrupts softly, "And you wanna know somethin' filthy, angel?"
The air leaves your lungs. He leans down—slow, bringing his mouth near your ear, close enough his breath skims your cheek.
He pauses. It's short, but it feels like eternity.
"...I wouldn't have to guess at that little sound you make when somethin' feels too good."
Your thighs press together before you can stop yourself. A soft gasp escapes you.
He sees it. He hears it. His smirk sharpens.
"Yeah," He whispers, "That one."
"And you're shakin' again," He teases, gaze dragging down your throat, "Just like you were when you put your lips on that glass."
You grip the bar behind you, "This is—this is not proper."
"Proper?' He echoes, amused, "Sweetheart, you've been starin' at my mouth for ten minutes. You sure proper is your biggest worry right now?"
Your eyes widen, "I wasn't—"
"You were," He steps closer, "Still are."
His knees brushes yours. Accidentally. Not accidentally at all, "Look at me."
You do. He inhales softly, like your gaze is a touch, "You keep lookin' at me like that," He murmurs, blue eyes darkening, "And I'm gonna put this whole saloon behind us."
Your breath hitches, "How?" You whisper, barely audible.
His smile turns downright evil, "There's rooms upstairs. Doors that lock. Floors that creak real quiet if you're pressed up against the wall instead of walkin' on 'em. And I got one."
Heat crashes through you so fast it weakens your legs. You've never once in your life been spoken to before like this.
"And angel?" He leans in, lips a breath from your cheeks, "You make one of those little sounds again, and I swear on every saint this town's ever prayed to...I'll take you up those stairs so fast your daddy won't hear a damn thing but the wind."
Your chest rises too quickly, breath trembling, "That's—that's indecent."
He grins, "So's the way you're lookin' at me."
Your hands clutch the bar for balance.
Outside, another shout erupts—Geto's stall tactic working perfectly.
Inside, the world narrows to your heartbeat and his breath.
"Tell me no," His voice is low enough to be a sin on its own.
You should. You need to. But you can't.
There's only silence out of you.
His smirk turns—slow, victorious, tender in the filthiest way, "That's what I thought."
His fingers brush yours on the bar—feather-light, testing, waiting, "Come upstairs with me, angel."
The room fades around you—smoke, piano, voices turning into sound without shape.
You breathe out his name, "Satoru..."
And that seals it for him.
He straightens, eyes blazing, and offers you his hand like a promise you both know you shouldn't take.
No one looks when you walk away from the bar.
No one hears when he guides you toward the stairs.
No one stops you when his hand settles at the small of your back—barely there, heat searing fabric.
The steps creak softly under your feet. His footsteps follow, steady, certain.
Halfway up, you glance back.
He's looking at you like you're something he's been hunting for weeks. Maybe longer.
The lamplight cuts across his jaw, across those blue eyes, starving and reverent all at once.
"Don't be scared, angel," He soothes, "I'll be real gentle at first."
Your body floods with heat as you reach the top step. He closes the distance behind you—breath warm against your neck, hand brushing your hip.
The door to his rented room clicks softly.
The key turns in the lock. The sound echoes in the space between your ribs.
There's only a bed, a chair, a small table, and moonlight spilling through the window, making dust dance in the pale light.
"Okay, now," He murmurs, advancing on you slowly, "Let's talk about all those things I'm not supposed to do to the sheriff's daughter."
Your heart stumbles, "Satoru, I—"
He stops an inch from you, "Shh," His thumbs brush your cheekbones, and you swear he can feel the way you tremble.
"Look at you," He whispers, "All lit up like you're tryin' not to break."
His head dips, and his breath ghosts over the skin of your throat, "Tell me, angel...has anyone ever kissed you here?"
You gasp softly as his lips press against the sensitive skin behind your ear, a slow, deliberate kiss that sends shivers down your spine. Your knees feel weak, and you instinctively grab onto the front of his shirt.
"No," You breathe out, "Never."
"Never," He repeats, a low hum vibrating against your skin, "Such a waste."
His lips trail down your neck, leaving a path of fire in their wake. He pauses at the pulse point in your throat, feeling the frantic thrumming against his mouth.
"You're still shakin'," He murmurs against your skin, "Are you afraid of me, angel?"
"A little," You whisper, your fingers tightening in his shirt, "But...I don't want you to stop."
A soft chuckle rumbles in his chest, "Good girl," He nips at your collarbone gently, and you make a soft, desperate sound, "I like that honesty."
His hands slide from your cheeks down to your shoulders, then down your arms, leaving goosebumps. He grips your waist, pulling you flush against him. You can feel the hard lines of his body, the strength coiled in his frame.
"Your pa would have a fit if he saw this," He mutters, breath hot against your ear, "His innocent little girl, pressed up against the town's most wanted outlaw."
He presses a series of open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, "What would he say, I wonder, if he knew how badly you wanted this?"
"I—I don't know," You manage to say, your head falling back as his lips find that sensitive spot on your neck again.
"I do," He says, his voice dark with satisfaction, "He'd say he failed," One of his hands comes up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just resting there—a heavy, possessive weight.
"He'd say he let some no-good criminal corrupt his sweet little girl. Turn her into somethin' filthy."
His thumb strokes the side of your neck, and you can feel your pulse racing beneath it. He tightens his grip slightly, just enough to make you gasp.
A moan escapes your lips, and he chuckles again, the sound vibrating through you, "That's the sound I was waitin' for, angel."
He releases your throat, only to spin you around so your back is pressed against his chest. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you in place as he bends his head to your neck.
"I knew you had it in you," He murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear, "That good girl act...it's just for show, isn't it? Deep down, you're just as wicked as I am."
You shake your head, but it's a weak denial, and you both know it, "No, I'm not—"
"Shh," He hushes, one of his hands coming up to cup your breast through your dress, "Don't lie to me, angel. Not when I can feel how much you like this," He rolls his thumb over your nipple, and it hardens instantly beneath his touch, "See? Your body doesn't lie."
You arch into his touch, a silent plea for more, "Satoru..."
"I know," He says, his voice dropping lower, "I know what you need."
His other hand finds the buttons of your dress, undoing them with practiced ease. The fabric falls away, pooling around your feet, leaving you in just your thin chemise and underwear.
"God," He breathes, turning you to face him again. His eyes sweep over your exposed skin, and the raw hunger in them makes your stomach churn, "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
He hooks a finger under your chin, tilting your head up, "And I've imagined this a lot, angel. Every damn night since I first laid eyes on you in that jailhouse."
His lips crash against yours, and it's nothing like the gentle, teasing kisses from before. This kiss is demanding, possessive, a claiming. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, and you meet it with your own, a desperate, starved dance.
You've never been kissed before. And you couldn't believe that this is what it could be like.
His hands roam over your body, learning every curve, every hollow. One slides up your back, untying the ribbon of your chemise, while the other cups your ass, pulling you even closer.
You can feel the hard ridge of his cock pressing against your stomach, and a fresh wave of desire washes over you.
He pulls back, his lips swollen from the kiss, his breathing ragged, "Already fallin' apart, and we've barely even started."
He drops to his knees in front of you, looking up at you with those piercing blue eyes, "I'm goin' to ruin you, angel," He says, his hands gripping your hips, "I'm goin' to ruin you for every other man."
His lips find the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, and you gasp, your fingers tangling in his hair, "Satoru, please..."
"Please what?" He asks, teeth nipping at your skin, "Please stop? Or please don't?"
"Please don't," You whisper, your head falling back as he presses open-mouthed kisses higher and higher up your thigh.
"Good girl," He praises, and the words send a fresh jolt of desire through you. His fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, slowly pulling them down, "Let's see what other pretty sounds you can make for me."
His mouth finds your core, and you cry out, your knees buckling. His arms wrap around your thighs, holding you up as he devours you, his tongue working magic you never knew existed.
Your hips buck against his face, and he chuckles, the vibrations sending shivers through you, "That's it, angel," He coos, pulling back for just a moment, "Ride my face. Show me how much you want this."
And you do. You grind against his mouth, lost in the pleasure, in the filth of it all.
This is wrong—you know it is, but it's the most right you've ever felt.
He brings you to the brink, then pulls back, over and over, until you're a whimpering, begging mess.
"Satoru, please," You cry, your fingers tightening in his hair, "Please, I need..."
"What do you need, angel?" He asks, looking up at you, his chin glistening with your arousal, "Use your words."
"I need...I need you to make me cum," You manage to say, your cheeks burning with embarrassment and desire.
A slow grin spreads across his face, "Well, since you asked so nicely," His mouth returns to your core, and this time, he doesn't hold back.
He sucks on your clit, his tongue flicking against it, and you finish with a cry, your body shaking with the force of it all.
He stays with you through it, lapping at your juices, drawing out your pleasure until you're spent, quivering in his arms.
When he finally pulls away, he looks up at you, a triumphant gleam in his eyes, "There's that sound again," He notes, his voice husky with satisfaction, "My new favorite song."
He rises to his feet, his hands coming up to frame your face, "Now," He says, his lips brushing against yours, "It's my turn."
The kiss that follows tastes of you, a filthy, claiming act that has you pressing against him again, wanting more. His hands roam your body, relearning every curve as if he hadn't just been worshiping it with his mouth.
One slides around your waist, the other tangles in your hair, tilting your head back to give him better access to your neck.
"Look at you," He mumbles against your skin, "All flushed and tremblin' for me. The sheriff's daughter, beggin' an outlaw to make her cum," He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, "If your daddy could see you now..."
"Don't," You whisper, your hands clutching at his shoulders.
"Don't what?" He presses, a wicked glint in his eyes. "Don't remind you that you're supposed to be good? That you're supposed to be pure?" His thumb traces your lower lip, "'Cause angel, the way you're lookin' at me right now—ain't nothin' pure about it."
You can't deny it. You're looking at him like he's your salvation and your damnation, rolled into one.
"That's what I thought," He says, satisfaction dripping from his words, "Now," He adds, his hands moving to the buttons of his shirt, "I think it's only fair you return the favor."
He watches you as he unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall open to reveal a lean, muscular chest marred with scars and bruises. There's a raw power to him that calls to something deep inside you, something you never knew existed.
"Go on," He says, taking your hand and placing it on his chest, "Touch me."
Your fingers trace the hard planes of his chest, the ridges of his abdomen. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm—a rhythm that seems to match your own.
"Lower," He commands, voice rough with desire.
Your hand drifts down, over the hard ridge of his cock straining against the fabric of his pants. He sucks in a breath, his hips jerking forward.
"Yeah," He soothes, his hands coming to rest on your shoulders, "Just like that."
His gaze is heavy on you as you sink to your knees in front of him, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his pants. When you finally free him, you can't help but stare. He's long and thick, head flushed a bright red, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip.
His hands come to rest on your head, his fingers tangle in your hair, "Show me what that pretty mouth can do besides drink whiskey."
You lean forward, your tongue tentatively flicking out to taste him. He groans, his fingers tightening in your hair as you take him into your mouth; slowly, carefully, adjusting to the unfamiliar stretch of him.
"That's it, angel," He says, through gritted teeth, "Take it all."
You do. Taking him deeper, your tongue swirling around him, your cheeks hollowing as you suck. You can feel his control slipping, the way his hips start to move, thrusting into your mouth.
"God, what a sight," He says, pulling back slightly, so you can see the starvation in his eyes, "The good sheriff's daughter, on her knees, sucking off the man he hates."
He thrusts back into your mouth, and you moan around him, "I knew it," He boasts, a delighted shine in his eyes.
"I knew you had it in you. All this innocence..." He pulls back, then thrusts in again, deeper this time, "Just waitin' for the right man to corrupt it."
His words are filthy, but they only fuel your desire. You want to be corrupted by him. You want him to ruin you.
He starts to move faster, his grip on your hair tightening, his hips thrusting harder, "Fuck—," He curses, voice strained, "Such a good girl, takin' all of me."
You can feel him getting closer, the way his thrusts become more erratic, the way his breathing becomes more ragged, "Gonna cum," He warns, his hips stilling, "Gonna cum down that pretty throat."
And then he does, with a groan, spilling himself into your mouth. You swallow, the taste of him salty and bitter, and when he's done, you pull back, licking your lips.
"Christ," He breathes, pulling you to your feet, "You did so well, angel."
His lips crash against yours, a hungry, desperate kiss that tastes of him and you. He walks you backward until your knees hit the bed, and you fall onto it, him following, covering your body with his.
"You drive me insane," He admits, his hands roaming your body, "I've been thinkin' about this since the moment I saw you in that jailhouse. Thinkin' about what I'd do to you if I got you alone."
"And what—what are you going to do?" You ask, your voice trembling with anticipation.
He grins, a wicked, predatory glint in his eyes, "Ruin you," He says, his hand sliding between your legs, his fingers finding your slick heat.
"I'm goin' to fuck you so good, you'll never think of another man again."
He positions himself between your legs, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, "Last chance to back out, angel," He warns, his eyes locked on yours, "Once I start, I won't be able to stop."
"I don't want you to stop," You whisper, your hips rising to meet his.
"Good girl," He coos, and then he's pushing into you, a slow, steady stretch that burns and pleases in equal measure.
You cry out, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he fills you, inch by inch. He's bigger than you expected, the stretch almost too much, but there's a pleasure in it, a rightness that settles deep in your bones.
"Shit, you're so tight," He seethes, his hips stilling, giving you a moment to adjust, "Like you were made for me."
He starts to move, slow, shallow thrusts that gradually become deeper, harder. Each thrust sends a fresh wave of pleasure through you, building upon the last until you're a whimpering, begging mess.
"Satoru," You sob, your hips rising to meet his, your body moving with an instinct you didn't know you possessed, "Please...harder—"
He chuckles, a low, satisfied sound, "That's right, angel. Beg for it."
He gives you what you want, his hips snapping forward, each thrust driving him deeper, hitting a spot inside you that makes you see stars. Your nails dig into his back, your legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him even closer.
"God—fuck," He curses, his lips brushing against your ear, "What would your daddy say if he could see you now?"
"He'd—he'd be disgusted," You manage to say, your breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Disgusted?" Gojo's hips slow, pulling a whimper from your throat. He props himself up on his elbows, his hair falling into those storm-blue eyes.
"No, angel," He rolls his hips, a slow, grinding motion that has you arching off the bed, "He'd be broken."
His breath is hot against your cheek, the scent of sweat and whiskey and something uniquely him filling your senses.
"He'd see that the innocence he tried so hard to lock up...it's already gone. I stole it," He punctuates the claim with a sharp thrust that steals your breath, "I'm the one who taught his little girl how to beg. I'm the one whose name she's screamin'."
One of his hands leaves your hip, sliding up your body to wrap around your throat again. Not tight enough to hurt, just a firm, possessive weight that makes your head spin.
"And these hands..." He utters, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse in your neck," He knows what these hands can do. He's heard the stories. But he doesn't know they're wrapped around his daughter's pretty throat right now."
You choke on a moan, your body tightening around him at the thought. The danger of it, the sheer taboo, sends you spiraling closer to the edge.
"You like that, don't you?" He murmurs, a dark, knowing smile playing on his lips, "You like knowin' that the same hands that have sent men to their graves are the ones making you feel so good."
He tightens his grip just a fraction, and the world narrows to the sensation of him inside you, the pressure on your throat, the promise in his eyes.
"Satoru..." You gasp, your hands clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.
"Tell me," He demands, his hips stilling, leaving you desperate for more, "Tell me you like it."
"I like it," You whisper, the admission shameless and liberating.
"I like—I like your hands on me," You say, your cheeks burning, "I like knowin' who you are. What you've done."
A slow, triumphant grin spreads across his face, "I thought so."
He releases your throat, only to flip you over onto your stomach in one smooth motion. He pulls your hips up, positioning you on your hands and knees, and enters you from behind in one deep, hard thrust that has you crying out.
This new angle allows him to go deeper, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His hands grip your hips, pulling you back to meet each of his thrusts, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room.
"Fuck, angel—takin' my cock like you were made for it," One of his hands leaves your hip, sliding up your back to wrap around your hair, pulling your head back gently, “Tell me, angel...what's your daddy's name?"
You're too lost in pleasure to understand the question at first, "What?"
"What's your daddy's name?" He repeats, his hips slowing.
"John," He repeats, and then he's thrusting into you again, hard and fast, each thrust punctuated by a word, "John—would...be...so—disappointed."
The words are filthier than any touch, a corruption so complete it sends you over the edge. You cum with a cry, your body shaking with the force of it, your vision blurring at the edges.
He rides you through it, his thrusts becoming sloppier, "I'm gonna fill you up, angel," He promises, "Gonna leave so much inside you, you'll be carryin' me around for days."
The idea is obscene, but it sends a thrill of desire through you.
And then he does, with a groan, spilling himself inside you. The sensation is overwhelming, a final claiming that leaves you numb, trembling, and utterly his.
He collapses on top of you, his weight a comforting, grounding presence. For a moment, you both just lie there, breathing heavily, the only sounds in the room the pounding of your hearts and the distant creak of the old building.
Finally, he rolls off of you, pulling you into his arms. You're both sticky with sweat and other fluids, but you don't care.
You feel safe in a way you never have before, protected by the very man your father has been trying to protect you from.
"I knew you had it in you," He mutters against your hair, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your back, "All that innocence...was for me to take."
You snuggle closer, your head resting on his chest, "I never knew..." You say, your voice barely a whisper, "I never knew it could be like this."
"So...good—so right, even when it feels wrong."
He chuckles, a low, satisfied sound, "That's because it is right, angel. You were always meant to be mine. Your pa just ain't know it."
You look up at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, "And what happens now?" You ask, your heart pounding, "When he finds out?"
Gojo's expression darkens, a flicker of something dangerous in his eyes, "He won't," He says, his tone leaving no room for argument, "I'll kill him before I let him take you from me."
You should be scared. You should be horrified by the casual way he talks about killing your father.
But instead, you feel a thrill, a dark, forbidden pleasure in knowing that he'd do anything to keep you.
"Besides," He adds, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face, "Who says he has to find out? This can be our little secret—our dirty, little secret."
His hands roam your body, reawakening desires you thought were sated, "And believe me, angel," His lips brush against yours, "I have a lot more dirty little secrets I want to share with you."
You can't help but smile, a newfound boldness taking hold, "Is that a promise?"
His grin widens, a predatory gleam in his eyes, "Oh, it's more than a promise, angel. It's a threat."
And as he rolls you onto your back, spreading your legs and entering you again, you realize you truly don't want to think of another man again.
You want this. You want him.
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